The Book of Souls (Inspector McLean #2)(108)
Skye in June was sunny, the evenings long. He’d wanted to do this a couple of days earlier, but as was inevitable, wedding preparations had conspired with a particularly unpleasant investigation to mean he’d only arrived at the hotel late last night. At least he had the map that DC MacBride had printed off for him. With luck he might just find the place.
The road turned to track, and then finally ended at a rickety wooden gate in a dry stone wall. McLean stopped the engine and stared through the windscreen out to sea for a while. It was certainly a beautiful place, a perfect retreat.
But bleak. Outside the car, the wind whipped at his kilt and tugged his hair. Now it was warm, but in the winter it wouldn’t be half so accommodating. He clambered over the gate and followed the slight indentation in the grass that suggested where once the track had continued, heading towards the cliff edge where the gulls soared and screamed.
A pair of gnarled and ancient rowans marked the edge of the old monastery compound. It had taken nature very little time indeed to reclaim the place after it had burned down. A few sheep eyed him suspiciously as he peered into the rubble-remains of old buildings, finally ending up at the hulk of the church.
Its roof was long gone, along with the east wall and most of the south. The north and west walls still stood against the battering weather of the Atlantic Ocean, but they probably wouldn’t last long. McLean tried to imagine the place still intact, with a dozen elderly monks going about their daily worship. There were times, he felt, particularly in the last six months, when the idea of giving it all up and coming somewhere like this was very tempting. There was something about having a simple routine to fill each day, unchanging and reliable. But he knew that he would only get bored after a month or so. Itchy feet would drive him away. And there was the whole God thing, too.
Leaving the ruined church, he walked through the graveyard. Headstones tilted this way and that, as if the monks buried beneath them were struggling to rise up and take back what had once been theirs. Some were old, their inscriptions worn away to illegibility; others still bore the names of those they commemorated. They were simple inscriptions, no flowery sentiment here. Just a name, a date, a prayer. A few told of what part the dead had played in the tiny community – beekeeper, fisherman, herbsman. The last one caught McLean’s attention, though not in surprise. More it was as if everything finally made sense.
Fr Noam Anton
1897–1979
Librarian
He stood in front of the grave for long minutes, just staring as the breeze whistled past. Then he turned and walked away. He could be back at the wedding reception in half an hour.
With luck, nobody would notice he’d been gone.
Without whom ...
Like Natural Causes before it, The Book of Souls was first published as an ebook, under my own publishing imprint, DevilDog Publishing. It’s impossible to spot all your own mistakes, so I am indebted to Heather Bain and Keir Allen for pre-publication proof-reading, and to Lisa McShine, Ellen Grogan, John Burrell, Scott M. Ryan and Malcolm Gray for pointing out errors further down the line. Any mistakes are mine; their lack entirely due to the keen eyes of others.
Many thanks to Alex Clarke and the rest of the team at Michael Joseph, for taking me on and for honing these books into even better shape. Thanks, too, to my agent, the irrepressible Juliet Mushens.
Observant readers may have noticed a certain Detective Constable Stuart MacBride gracing these stories. This is no coincidence; Stuart has been a good friend and given me support for many years. His in-depth critique of early drafts of both Natural Causes and The Book of Souls played no small part in them being short-listed for the CWA Debut Dagger, I am sure. If you haven’t read Stuart’s books, then you must. No, right now.
An honourable mention goes to Sandra Ruttan (pronounced Roo Tan) and all the crew at Spinetingler Magazine, for publishing my stories long before anyone else took me seriously. Thanks also to Phillip Patterson and Dorothy Lumley.
There are innumerable others who’ve given me support and deserve a thank you; the Harrogate Irregulars and my Twitter and Facebook friends in particular. I know if I try to list them individually I’ll forget someone, so best to avoid that embarrassment and give you all a collective hug. You know who you are.
And finally, because you should always keep the best for last, there’s Barbara, whose surname I stole for my hero, and who has put up with me for too many years to admit.