The Sun Will Still Shine Tomorrow (22 page)

Ashley noticed the dog collar of a stout, red-faced gentlemen at the end of the bar. He raised a hand in Ashley’s direction. He’d been facing Claire and the collar hadn’t been visible.

“Sorry, Father, no offence I’d–”

“None taken, young man, it’s something I have to live with these days. Better than all the cursing and effing and blinding on television, I suppose.”

“Still, Father, I do apologise.”

Father Thompson raised a glass, gave a smile and turned back to face Claire, apparently uninterested in the history lesson. Ashley focused on Claire, a smile and a sparkle in those beautiful green eyes every time she made eye contact with him.

He quickly changed the subject.

“So I guess you guys don’t like the Freemasons too much.”

Jacob Moor shrugged his shoulders.

“Not at all, the Masons’ principles mirror our own: good clean Christian living, we both believe that a divine intelligence governs the working of the universe.”

“God.”

“Exactly, Mr Fox…God. Both organisations are founded on principles of morality, truthfulness and tolerance and a desire for self-improvement, looking after our fellow Brothers especially in times of need.”

Father Thompson spoke. “And every Freemason Lodge in England has a chaplain to ensure,” he pointed at the ceiling, “we don’t forget about the big man.” Father Thompson laughed and the rest of the group joined in.

Another half a dozen men had joined the little entourage and two more were also walking through the door. Jacob Moor looked at his watch.

“Is everybody here, Father? We’d better be making our way downstairs soon.”

“Everyone present and correct, Worshipful Master,” the priest replied as he took a quick headcount. Jacob Moor threw back the rest of his whisky and Ashley took in the peaty aroma of his breath as he spoke.

“We’ll be busy for a couple of hours, Mr Fox, but if you’re still around I’d be delighted to buy you a drink.”

“Thanks, that would be good. We can carry on where we left off.”

Ashley was feeling quite pleased with himself; he couldn’t really have hoped to achieve anymore than he had within the first hour of being on Holy Island. He’d arrived at the hotel where Tom Wilkinson had spent his last night, (he was convinced), worked his disguise very well, and it appeared that half the island knew of the author David Fox. He would poke around tomorrow without hesitation, safe in the knowledge that at least thirteen members of a secret society would be off home later in the evening to gossip to their wives and girlfriends about a certain American.

Ashley found himself alone with Claire and didn’t mind in the slightest.

“So how come they know so much about me?” he asked.

Claire blushed. “I’m sorry, I guess that’s my fault. It’s not often we get a famous American author staying at The Ship. I guess I must have blabbed off a bit. You mentioned on the phone when you made your booking that you were researching a book and I’d read your second novel last summer. I slipped David Fox into a search engine and found you on a few dozen sites.”

“But hardly famous.”

She laughed.”Believe me, on Holy Island you’re famous.”

A few locals had begun to drift into the bar, they’d ordered drinks and slipped away into the dark recesses of the old inn. Ashley could picture the old sailors and fishermen of bygone years doing likewise. The old inn was steeped in history and intrigue; Ashley could smell it.

After Claire had served each customer she returned to the spot where Ashley sat on a high bar stool. Over the next two hours they became well acquainted, Claire asking question after question about the author’s books and what inspired him and Ashley thanking his lucky stars he’d taken time out to read Fox’s books.

Ashley answered the questions but each time tried to turn them around. He asked about the characters and especially the Brothers. Claire gossiped freely and, though he hated to admit it to himself, he flirted outrageously.

Just after ten the small door opposite the entrance of the inn opened and the Brotherhood spilled into the bar area laughing and joking and slapping each other on the back. Father Thompson was the first to acknowledge Ashley as they all made their way to the bar area. No chance now of a private conversation with Claire.

“Quite taken with our Claire, are you, Mr Author?”

“David, Father, you can call me David, and, yes, Claire is good company.”

Claire blushed, not for the first time, and Ashley became aware of a stare from Jacob Moor that he was none too comfortable with. The permanent almost plastic smile he’d worn earlier in the evening was gone and instead a grimace replaced it. Claire caught the look too, turned to Ashley then quickly looked away. Ashley stared back at Jacob Moor determined not to be intimidated. It was a look he’d seen a hundred times before… jealousy

Jacob Moor was jealous.

Ashley awoke as the first rays of the sun penetrated the small single bedroom above the street in Marygate. He pulled the curtain aside and looked out over the calm sea that was just visible through the buildings opposite. Dawn had painted the sky a dusky shade of red.

He reached across to the bedside cabinet and strained his eyes to focus on the notes he’d written the night before.

There had been the odd murder on his patch in the West End of London, normally alcohol or drug related, occasionally a gang revenge attack, but then the investigation was generally handed over to the murder squad. Ashley hadn’t the experience, hadn’t had the training, and looked down at the book to see what he had written.

It amounted to very little, but he’d noted in the corner of the page the look that Jacob Moor had given him. What on earth had that to do with anything? he thought to himself before taking a pencil and striking it out.

One thing gnawed at him: if it was murder, generally the police or whoever it was looking for the murderer would be looking for one person and one person only. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred the victim would have been killed by one person. And even though the pathologist’s statement suggested a savage beating, a savage beating could have been inflicted by one person.

But something told him that wasn’t the case here. Why else would the islanders be covering up the fact that Tom had even visited the island? Why had The Ship Inn denied he’d ever been there, and why did two different policemen’s enquiry draw a convenient blank each time.

He thought about confronting Claire about her e-mail but then that would cause the island to clam up even more. His disguise would be blown. No. He’d play it cool, act the part of a nosy American author and see what he could shake loose.

Claire greeted him at reception, black glasses this time, a more subdued morning look and was he imagining it or had she applied just a little more make-up and lip gloss than she had yesterday. Her striking red hair hung loose around her shoulders, and just for a fleeting second she bore an uncanny resemblance to Alexis. Then the moment passed.

“Morning, David,” she said cheerfully.”Sleep well?”

“Wonderful, Claire, must be the sea air.” It would have been even better with you lying naked beside me, he thought to himself, and realised that she was the last thing on his mind when he went to sleep and the first when he woke up.

She pointed. “Breakfast room’s over there, just help yourself. Bacon, egg, sausage, some black pudding if you like.”

Ashley shook his head; the fry-up would lie uncomfortably in his stomach for most of the day. He had a knot there; it had mysteriously appeared the moment he set eyes on Claire, that smile, her hair, her ability to change the atmosphere of a room with a look.

“Sounds great but a little coffee and toast will do. I’m not used to these big English breakfasts.”

Claire grinned. “Suit yourself. What are you up to today then, David?” she asked.”Where does your research take you? What is it you’re looking for?”

He had prepared his answer meticulously, the same answer he would give to anyone on the island and a statement that would give him carte blanche to pry and quiz and question every islander he came into contact with, without arousing any suspicions… he hoped.

He took a deep breath, smiled at Claire as he replied.

“I’m looking to try and feel a part of this island, Claire. I want to find out about the history of the place, I want to explore every nook and cranny. I want to know what it is that makes people live on a small island cut off from the outside world twice a day and I’m looking for some gossip.”

“Gossip?” She grinned. “On Holy Island? Good luck to you. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

“I want to know about the local characters; they might just find their way into the book. Under a different name, of course. Remember, I write fiction.” He held his breath, looked Claire in the eye.”And I’m looking for mystery, intrigue, maybe a murder or two from the past and legend, people disappearing from the island without trace.”

Claire’s expression never flickered as she burst out laughing.

“You’ve been watching too many movies, David Fox. I think you’d need to travel back to the dark ages before you find the last killing on Holy Island.”

“Ah… so you see we do have a Holy Island murderer. Fantastic.”

“A murderess actually, but not exactly your average serial killer. She stabbed her husband in the chest in a fit of rage after he complained about the beef stew she’d cooked for him. She was hung in Berwick-upon-Tweed a month later. That’s the last one, I’m afraid, not that mysterious really.”

Ashley spied an opportunity, an opportunity for an island guide and perhaps a little romance.

“You seem to know a fair bit about the island, Claire. Care to give me a guided tour?”

He waited for the reaction, looked at her body language as she spoke. She ran her hand through her hair, the basic mating instinct of the animal kingdom… grooming.

“I’d love to, David.” She looked at her watch, “I can only spare you a couple of hours though, say about ten.”

Ashley looked at his watch.”Great… it’s a date then.”

He felt dizzy, light-headed even, as he made his way through to the dining room. He settled for a small helping of bacon and eggs after all. He returned to his room, grabbed a sweatshirt, his camera and the notebook. He made a point of turning over the page of the notes he’d written last night.

Claire had lost the receptionist look once more and had on a pair of Levi’s tucked into a pair of black leather boots. She also wore a baggy black rollneck sweater and her hair was once again hanging freely. And that smile, that smile as she looked up and noticed him standing motionless a few feet from the reception desk. He only hoped he hadn’t been standing there with his mouth wide open because that’s what he felt like he’d been doing. Surely on this small island a girl as stunningly beautiful as Claire would have been snapped up long ago. He didn’t think she was married, no ring, no engagement ring either, but surely Mr Lucky Bastard would turn up at some point over the next few hours. Jacob Moor… that look last night. Surely not.

Claire broke his train of thought.

“I thought we’d start with the legend of Saint Cuthbert. You can’t come to research the island and not know about our Saint.”

Ashley shrugged his shoulders, held out his hands. “Fine. Where do we start?”

They walked for no longer than five minutes and stood outside the ruins of Lindisfarne Priory. Claire explained it was the spot of the original church that St Cuthbert spent his final years before sailing to Farne Island to die.

She continued. “He was Bishop of Lindisfarne and the monks brought him back home, so to speak, though his body is officially entombed in Durham Cathedral. Legend has it that the Island Keepers in fact switched the corpse and St Cuthbert’s body is secretly hidden on Holy Island.”

“Legend, Claire?”

“Yes, David. Legend states that his body is entombed in this church somewhere and the secret is handed down to only one Island Keeper from each generation.”

“So one of our friends in the bar last night knows where the remains of Saint Cuthbert are?”

Claire beckoned him forward and they turned right towards the picturesque church in the grounds of the Priory. They walked towards the open door. Claire made the sign of the cross as she breached the threshold of the ancient church building. Ashley followed her, sniffed long and hard at the stale air inside. The church was steeped in history, soaked in sunlight and had been battered by the harsh elements of the North Sea for generations.

Claire turned and grinned, wagged a finger at Ashley. “Not remains, David, his body.”

“I’m not with you.” Ashley frowned.

“Legend has it that Saint Cuthbert’s body never ever rotted away. Ten years after his body was buried, his remains were to be moved, protecting him from the Viking invasions. The monks that opened his coffin found the body incorrupt.”

“Incorrupt?”

“As fresh as the day he was buried, David.”

Ashley wanted to laugh, but somehow the atmosphere of the old church stifled him.

“They sealed the coffin and fled. The monks of Lindisfarne wandered the north of England for seven years until they housed his body in a Durham church. His body briefly returned to Lindisfarne. In 1104 it was decided his coffin would be moved once and for all to the new Durham Cathedral.”