Chapter Thirty-seven

 

 

Two human shapes, standing very close together, stepped out onto the porch. Blinking frantically against the darkness, Jean made out Donal’s colorless hair and pasty complexion. Tucked in beside his cheek, Tara’s chin-length russet hair framed red, swollen eyes now devoid of all expression.

Her wrists were hidden behind her back—he must have tied them. His arms pressed her body tightly against his, his hands holding the shotgun upright and pointed at her chin. An awkward posture, that, requiring him to stand in a half-crouch if he wanted to keep his fingers on the trigger. Triggers, maybe. To fire, he’d have to press them down rather than pull them up. His body was off-balance. But then, he’d always been off-balance, and was all the more dangerous for it.

Maggie rocked back against Hector. The white knuckles of her hand clutching the knife looked like old bone. Beneath her breath she murmured a litany of distress. “Oh my little lass. I’m so sorry. I should never have brought you here. I should have left well alone and never found you, never sucked you into all this. You were free. Without me, you were free.”

Clyde’s bellow shattered the silence. “Where’s Lance?”

“Having himself a bit of a kip,” replied Donal. “Niamh’s looking after him. Angel of mercy, that’s a good girl.”

Hector said under his breath, “Dang it, Niamh. Why?”

From the darkness, Darling replied, his tone bleak, “She’s his daughter, that’s why.”

“Seriously? Crap-tastic.”

Instead of speculating how the romantic chain seemed to have acquired another link, Jean told herself that Donal’s saying Lance was napping meant he was unconscious. Hopefully he was no more than unconscious, although a concussion bad enough to cause unconsciousness tended to be serious.

A shape, an image sketched in shadow on twilight, moved in the window to the left of the door. A slender female shape. Niamh. Yes, she must be helping him. All the years of seeing other girls with fathers but having none, that would build more than curiosity, that would build resentment, maybe even a desire for revenge.

Alasdair looked at Webber. Webber made a slight gesture. It’s all yours. Tucking the gun into the pocket of his coat, Alasdair stepped forward, hands raised. But before he could speak, a tall, lanky figure pushed through the crowd and stepped in front of him.

Crawford. He’d broken out of detention . . . That’s right, Alasdair had said something about relieving him of duty when Berwick arrived. Berwick had duly arrived, but Webber had either been in a forgiving mood or realized the occasion demanded all hands on deck.

“Crawford!” Alasdair hissed, an impressive feat when the name had no sibilants.

Ignoring him, the constable lifted his hands into the air and took several more steps toward the house. A convulsive movement on the porch stopped him an arm’s length from the gate. Had Tara tried to pull away and Donal jerked her back? Or had Donal deliberately shaken her as a warning? They were no more than a double bulk against the faintly illuminated rectangle of the doorway.

All Jean could see was Crawford standing solitary as a prehistoric megalith in the moonlight, his uniform the color of ebony, his face shadowed by the bill of his cap. “Best you be releasing the lass now,” he said.

“Chance would be a fine thing,” Donal replied.

No one seemed to be emitting a steamy breath any longer. Everyone had either stopped breathing or was so chilled their breaths were no longer warm. Alasdair dropped back to stand beside Webber, their faces positive and negative images of the same grim expression.

“What are you wanting, then?” Crawford’s voice seemed even deeper than usual, a well of patience.

“What do you think, numpty? Safe passage off the island to the mainland. A fast boat. That little police boat in the harbor, that’s yours, eh? That’ll do. And a car waiting ashore.”

“You’re only putting off the inevitable, Donal. Best you be cooperating.”

“I shan’t be going back to prison. I know what’s waiting for me inside.”

Crawford shifted his weight. The tiny movement made the insignia on his uniform brighten and darken. “It’s not your fault, is it, Donal? If Grinsell had left well alone, Maggie would have been freed and you as well. No fault. No foul. No harm done.”

The Phillips family would have another opinion on that, Jean thought.

“Grinsell.” Donal spat the name. “He cost me my marriage. He cost me my daughter. Like Oliver Phillips, he deserved what he got. As for Maggie, the bitch—it’s on her head, isn’t it? Are you there, Maggie? Are you hearing this?”

Maggie’s head fell forward on a long sigh, but for once she was wise enough not to respond.

Crawford wisely did not ask who made Donal judge, jury, and executioner. He said, “Tara there, she’s your daughter as well.”

“Niamh’s telling me that. She’s saying the pair of them, they have the same father.”

“You wouldn’t harm your own daughter, would you now?”

“No matter. They were both taken from me. I don’t know them at all, do I?”

Jean had thought Alasdair’s voice in the old book shop had been cold. Compared to Donal’s hard, cold callousness, it had been positively tropical.

Far away, a sheep bleated. The dark shapes in the cemetery crept even closer. The leaves of the herbaceous border at the far side of the garden moved against the wind. “Didn’t know I’d be wanting sharpshooters,” whispered Webber.

“No one’s getting in a good shot,” Alasdair whispered back. “Not in the dark, with her held so close.”

Again Donal jerked Tara up and back, a dog with a rat in its jaws. Her gasp of terror was loud as a scream. “Enough chin-wagging. You’d best be organizing the boat and the car, Constable Numpty.”

“I’ve got lads seeing to it,” Crawford said. “Till then, no harm in us having a chat.”

Crawford sure had a glib tongue on him. Who knew?

A movement in the doorway behind Donal. A shape lurching inside the darkened house. A halo atop its head—a mane of blond hair. Lance.

Beside Jean, Maggie inhaled sharply and struggled against Hector’s grasp. A quickly suppressed murmur ran through the crowd. Alasdair tensed, Webber clenched his fists, Darling crouched. Crawford’s voice grew louder and yet calmer at the same time. “We’re moving the boat next the steps, Donal. We’ve got a car coming to the ferry landing near Beal—the tide’s in. You’ll be away quicker, going past Lindisfarne.”

A human body plunged out of the doorway and collided with the double shape that was Donal and Tara, pushing it a long step across the porch. The watchers swirled—some people leaping forward, some back, some—like Jean—dancing up and down in place.

But no one moved as fast as Crawford. He didn’t open the gate. He vaulted over it, landing halfway up the sidewalk, his feet running as they hit the ground.

Alasdair jumped forward. So did Darling. The gate opened. The two men jammed together briefly in the opening, then popped out into the garden and ran.

On the porch the now triple shape staggered to the side. Light glanced off the barrel of the shotgun, angled now . . . Lance fell with a sickening crump against a supporting post and slid down it.

Crawford threw himself onto the porch, making another triple shape, which heaved right, then heaved left. And an explosion lit up the night.

The flash glared off two different faces, mouths gaping, eyes staring. Then it was gone, leaving the shadow darker than before. The report rolled away across the island, echoed off the back of the village houses, disappeared over the sea.

Dogs barked. Seabirds screeched. People seethed across the parking lot. The Berwick cops spilled over the walls and out of the shrubbery and formed a perimeter. Someone switched on the lights in the house and on the porch.

Maggie threw Hector to one side, dropped the knife, and sprinted toward the house screaming. “Tara! Tara!”

Jean ran after her, every pulse in her body palpitating, bracing herself for what she’d see in the glare of the light.

Blood, and more than blood, splattered the porch and the walls, Tara’s sweater and jeans and her face. Maggie clutched her close, sobbing, scrabbling at the rope, curtain pull, bathrobe cord—the strip of fabric binding her wrists. Released, Tara clutched Maggie close and sobbed like a lost child.

Crawford held the shotgun up in the air, playing keep-away. Gesturing in victory. Frozen in horror. The red blotches didn’t show up as well on the dark fabric of his uniform, except where they obscured the insignia. His dour gaze was fixed on the stock of the gun.

Lance sat propped against the post, fresh blood sprinkled on his clothing, old brown blood matted in his hair. Clyde heaved the wicker basket into the yard and threw himself down beside his son. Hector pushed in. “Look at me, Lance. Try to focus.” And, under his breath, “I was so not intending a busman’s holiday.”

Donal’s body lay on the other side of the porch. The mutilated face was, thankfully, draped in shadow.

Niamh stood in the doorway. She swayed in one direction, bounced off the door frame, swayed back again. Her complexion brought new meaning to the word “fair,” so white it seemed faintly green, a shade that clashed with her red hair.

Darling waded through the others to take her in a firm embrace. At first she stood stiffly in his arms, then relaxed against his chest. Okay, Jean thought, so she wasn’t trying to make a break for it. But . . .

Tara sniffed. “Coming here. Worst. Decision. Ever.”

Maggie sniffed. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Okay, Mags. S’okay.” The two women rocked each other back and forth on the edge of the porch.

One of the Berwick cops appeared with a thin thermal blanket, which he laid over Donal’s body. Webber stood surveying the battleground. Alasdair looked around, saw Jean, reached back for her. “What are you going to do with that?”

“What?” She saw she still grasped the poker. “I don’t know. Made me feel better.”

“Ah, Bonny Jean.” He pried her fingers from the handle and let it fall to the earth, making a dull thud. His hand engulfed hers. It was cold, but seemed warm by comparison to the icy chills trickling through her body. She leaned against his side.

Something poked her rib cage. Oh. What was that old joke? Something about are you glad to see me or are you carrying a gun? She couldn’t remember.

She could have sworn she heard Michael’s voice, and James’s, and Hugh’s, and Rosalie Banks’s, clashing notes in the distance. Up close, a female voice spoke, tones soft and dull. Niamh, peering out from Darling’s chest toward the shrouded corpse. “He saw me when he came here for Maggie’s press conference. He recognized me. Guess my mum sending all those photos wasn’t wasted at all, was it?” Her laugh was more of a gulping sob.

Darling made soothing noises into the top of her head. Hector glanced up, shrugged, turned his attention back to Lance. “No, don’t try to stand up. We’ve gotta get you to a hospital.”

Niamh swallowed and said, “He stopped me in the garden late last night. Scared the living daylights out of me. I gave him some sandwiches and a torch, hoping he’d go away. When I saw Inspector Grinsell this morning, when you were talking about him being bashed with a torch—I didn’t want to believe it. I couldn’t.”

“You saw Donal sitting in the audience at the concert,” Alasdair stated.

“Yes. I’d hoped he’d gone away, but with the fret he was stranded here. He stopped me outside the school, insisted I give him the key to the church from Maggie’s ring—I’m so sorry, Maggie, if I’d cut and run just then . . .”

“You were curious about him,” said Maggie over Tara’s head. “You never knew him. You thought it was all right to talk.”

“Yes. He almost had me convinced he hadn’t bashed Grinsell at all—though he kept saying you’d done it, and I knew that wasn’t right. Then I caught sight of the rash on his arm. He had to have gotten it rolling Inspector Grinsell through the nettles into the trench. But when I asked—the proper little nurse, mind you, always caring—he told me a cat had rubbed against him outside the pub and he was allergic to cats.”

Dang, Jean thought. If only Parkinson’s story at the concert of Hildy and the bacon had tipped off her loup of logic earlier. If only she’d seen the rash on his arm rather than his aimless scratching. But even her Byzantine thought processes only went so far.

If only I had known.

Lance quietly vomited over the edge of the porch, Hector steadying his shoulders.

“By then I was right scared of him,” Niamh went on. “I decided better to let him play me for a fool. I spent all evening chatting with him. He said Grinsell had mistreated Mum all these years ago. He was right about that. But why was Mum there for the mistreating? Because of Donal’s—he’s never Dad—Donal’s own bad decisions.”

Maggie said dryly—and her voice was probably the only dry thing about her, “He claimed he never stepped forward at my trial to protect you and your mum.”

“He said that, yes. He said if not for you, I’d have had a dad.”

Alasdair asked, “Did he say anything about Grinsell at all?”

“No. Even though he knew I knew—allergic to a cat, my left foot.” She inhaled shakily. “I kept thinking I was making him see reason. I kept thinking I was talking him into turning himself in. I even gave him my word I’d not try to escape, that I’d not work against him, if he’d not hurt Maggie.”

“Niamh . . .” Maggie began.

Niamh held up her hand, palm forward. Don’t say it. “I felt sorry for him. He was pitiful. But then he made me let him into the kitchen door of the house. He opened the door behind Lance and hit him with a stone dragon from the curio cabinet and took the gun away. He threw Tara down and tied her up. It’s as though every time he saw her he saw you, Maggie. He was saying ugly, spiteful, loony things. I hated him then. I had to do something. But unlike him, I keep my word.”

“You brought me round,” said Lance thickly as he settled back against the post. “You helped me up. You got me to the door.”

“And I prayed. I didn’t know I knew so many prayers. Blessed Saint Mary. Blessed Saint Hilda. Blessed Saint Genevieve. All the holy women associated with Farnaby.”

“They listened,” said Hector.

Webber looked over at Crawford, who had by now lowered the gun but hadn’t otherwise moved. “Constable, are you all right?”

With a sigh that seemed to come from his toes and a desolate look in his eye, Crawford extended the shotgun toward Alasdair. “Look at this, sir.”

Squeezing Jean’s hand, Alasdair released it and accepted the shotgun. He held it horizontally between him and Webber, the porch light gleaming equally on his straight blond hair stroked with frost and Webber’s curly black hair flecked with snow. “Aye, Constable?”

“On the stock, sir.”

As Alasdair tilted the gun, two initials leaped into resolution. A and C. “What?” Jean asked, and then realized they didn’t stand for Alasdair Cameron. They stood for Athelstan Crawford.

Clyde pulled himself to his feet and took an unsteady step forward. “I was thinking that was the one Lance took from the safe. Aye, it’s been hidden away all these years. We found it in Athelstan’s boat, my father and me. Seemed only right we should be finding the boat, when we were guiding the trek that ended so badly. Though someone said now—it was Athelstan . . .” His voice died away at the look on Crawford’s face, mirroring the look on Maggie’s. The wheel of fate had rolled over them, crushed them, and moved on, leaving them still standing.

Alasdair extended his hand to Crawford. “Well done.”

“Begging your pardon, sir.” Crawford looked down at his own hands stained with crimson darkening to rust.

“Ah.” Nodding, Alasdair desisted.

Webber considered Hector in his kilt. He looked Alasdair up and down, from epaulettes to kilt to tall stockings. “Mr. Cameron. Are you and your lads always wearing your glad rags whilst on duty?”

Alasdair’s glance downward was annotated by an upward lift to his brows and a tilt of his head toward Jean. “I cannot speak for Mr. Cruz, but I only started in the last year or so. I have a bad influence now. Women are like that, you ken.”

“Well then,” said Darling over Niamh’s head. “It’s done and dusted.”

Jean followed the direction of Maggie’s gaze, from the lighted porch past the darkened cemetery to the shadowed walls of the priory, and said, “Not yet. Not quite yet.”