“Is it absolutely necessary, your lairdship?” asked Pastor Ferguson, his brow knitting.
“My dear pastor,” said Sir Percy, “my friends are convinced that Erinskil is a den of iniquity inhabited by ruthless felons. Surely it is better for them to learn the truth than to cling to such a grievous misapprehension. Consider the difficulties that would arise if they took their spurious accusations to the police.”
“What about the youngsters?” growled Mick.
“They’re harmless,” Damian said quickly. “They don’t know about the money. They may have suspicions, but they have no proof.”
“Will they go looking for it?” Mick pressed.
“With Fleet Street nipping at their heels and Cupid harassing their hearts?” Sir Percy tossed his head derisively. “I sincerely doubt it.”
Pastor Ferguson turned to us. “I would like it to be understood that what is said within these walls stays within these walls.”
“I’ll tell my husband,” I confessed, with a sheepish shrug. I knew I’d tell Aunt Dimity as well, but I had no intention of trying to explain her to the elders. “I can’t help it. I tell Bill everything.”
“We’ll make an exception for Lori’s husband,” Sir Percy pronounced. “I will vouch for Bill Willis, gentlemen, for he is the rarest of hybrids—a lawyer and an honorable man. He won’t betray us.”
The elders exchanged grave glances, then nodded, one by one. Pastor Ferguson, who seemed to be the chief elder, was the last to nod. He turned to Cal Maconinch.
“Cal?” he said. “Will you begin?”
“Only right that I should,” said the harbormaster, “since it began with my father.” He shifted slightly in his chair, as if settling down to tell a story he’d told a hundred times before. “My father was for thirty years the sexton at St. Andrew’s.”
“The church in Stoneywell,” Damian put in, for my benefit.
“Aye,” said Cal. “A sexton has many jobs, but the only one that need concern us is the job of gravedigger. When the tenth earl died, my father rowed out to Cieran’s Chapel to dig the grave. He brought his sturdiest picks with him, because he knew he’d be doing more rock-breaking than digging, and he set to work at the spot James Robert had chosen.When he’d finished clearing away the thin layer of topsoil, he brought his pick down on the bare rock.The next thing he knew,” Cal continued, “he was lying at the bottom of a crater, all bruised and battered and wondering if there’d been an earthquake, because the ground had given way beneath his feet.”
“Had there been an earthquake?” I inquired, enthralled.
“Only the one my father started.” Cal smiled wryly. “He was a big man, and he swung a heavy pick.”
Pastor Ferguson took up the story. “Once the dust had settled, old Mr. Maconinch noticed a gold gleam among the rocks that had come down with him.The gleam came from a chalice, as fine and rich as anything he’d ever seen, and there was more to come—gold plates, reliquaries, jewelry, coins—”
“The sort of thing Damian and I found in the twelfth container,” I put in.
Pastor Ferguson nodded. “Old Mr. Maconinch realized at once that he had, purely by chance, discovered a treasure trove.”
“Whose treasure was it?” I asked.
Neil MacAllen cleared his throat. “Since all of the objects date back to the eighth century or earlier, and since most are religious in nature, we believe that they belonged to the monks of Erinskil.”
The elders had obviously had plenty of time to analyze the find. Each contributed a segment to the fantastic story that followed.
“During the course of the monastery’s existence,” Pastor Ferguson theorized, “Erinskil’s monks must have acquired a hoard of valuable objects.”
“Wealthy patrons may have sought to buy indulgences with gold,” said George Muggoch, “or a monk from a well-to-do family may have donated priceless personal possessions upon taking holy orders.”
“Either way,” said Alasdair Murdoch, “the monks ended up with a problem to solve: How would they keep their precious treasures safe when Vikings came to call?”
“Cieran’s Chapel was the logical solution,” Neil MacAllen offered. “They chose the islet as their hiding place and with pick and shovel created a cache they hoped would fool the Viking raiders. At the first sign of an invasion, a monk would load the church’s treasures into a boat and row it out to the islet for safekeeping. The rest would seek shelter in the caves below the monastery.”
“How long have you known about the caves beneath the monastery?” Damian asked. “The entrance was pretty cleverly hidden.”
George Muggoch shrugged. “Our families have lived on Erinskil from time out of mind. It’s impossible to say who discovered what, when. It’s just something we’ve always known.”