Free Aunt Dimity and the Deep Blue Sea by Nancy Atherton

collect islands,” Sir Percy translated. “They have to be jolly intrepid to collect Erinskil. The interisland ferry can’t land here, you see. Visitors have to take a launch from the ferry to the concrete jetty—a bit of a challenge in rough seas. Apart from that, there aren’t many places for them to stay. They can either pitch a tent—an unpleasantly damp choice—or use one of the two guest rooms at the pub. No, Erinskil will never play host to a horde of tourists, and we can easily keep watch over the few that do come.”
    “No tourists?” I said, surprised. “I would have expected the place to be crawling with them. The island looked amazing from the air. Don’t people come here just for the scenery?”
    “Other islands have dramatic scenery and more besides,” said Sir Percy. “Stately homes, gardens, distilleries, stone circles . . .” He shrugged. “We have a ruined monastery, of course, but otherwise it’s just birds, sheep, and rocks.”
    “If there’s no tourism,” I said, “how do the islanders make a living?”
    “Now, that’s a most interesting subject.” Sir Percy the businessman waxed enthusiastic. “Feel the sleeve of this jacket,” he said, holding his arm out to me. “The fabric was woven right here on Erinskil. Supple as cashmere and tough as nails.”
    “It’s beautiful as well,” I said, admiring the tweed’s heathery shades.
    Sir Percy planted his elbows on the table and tented his fingers. “The islanders formed a cooperative some sixty years ago, to make tweed.They raise the sheep, process the wool, and weave it in Stoneywell, using traditional tools and techniques. It’s terribly exclusive and therefore frightfully expensive.They sell it via the Internet these days. As Erinskil’s laird, I’m pleased to say that it all seems to tick along quite happily.”
    I looked up from my salmon. “Did I hear you right, Percy? Did you call yourself the laird of Erinskil?”
    “Indeed I did,” said Sir Percy proudly. “Bought the title off the Earl of Strathcairn when I bought the island from him. Dundrillin was originally known as Strathcairn Castle. It was built by the ninth earl, a chap who took the role of laird to heart. He was a bit of a loon, if truth be told. He constructed the castle and armed it with cannons to protect his people from marauding Norsemen, blithely disregarding the fact that he was some eleven hundred years too late.”
    I smiled inwardly. My first impression of the castle had been more accurate than I’d realized. “Why did the Earl of Strathcairn decide to sell the island?”
    “He was strapped for cash,” Sir Percy replied. “Couldn’t maintain his ancestral seat, let alone a castle that had seen better days. Dundrillin took a bit of a battering during the Second World War, you see, when the island was evacuated and used by the Royal Navy for target practice. A bomb-disposal unit was stationed here for several years after the war, to rid Erinskil of the unexploded ordnance that kept popping up in odd places.”
    I glanced at the crimson-clad walls and the deep embrasures surrounding the windows. Everything seemed to be intact. “Why wasn’t the castle pulverized?”
    “The navy was ordered to avoid direct hits on Dundrillin,” Sir Percy explained. “There were a few unfortunate mistakes, naturally, but Dundrillin was made to last. It rests on solid bedrock, and the walls are twelve feet thick at their base. The ninth earl may have been daft as a badger, but he knew how to build a castle.”
    “I feel sorry for the people who were forced to leave the island,” I said, with sincere fellow feeling. “The evacuation must have been wrenching for them.”
    “Needs must in times of war,” Sir Percy said breezily. “Erinskil’s families returned to rebuild their homes shortly after the war, but the castle was left to rot. The Strathcairns couldn’t afford to repair it, but I could.” He winked. “The oil business was very kind to