Death on Lindisfarne by Fay Sampson

was there with David. She had changed her heels for more sensible shoes, with a green raincoat and a headscarf. He watched them heading for the car park in front of the guesthouse. To his surprise, they climbed into a red Honda CR-V. It had not occurred to him that such a suburban-seeming couple would drive a 4x4.
    Nearly everyone seemed to be setting out for the village or the shore. Only Peter and Lucy were missing. Aidan guessed they might already be out looking for Rachel.
    As he and Melangell turned their faces towards the castle there was rain on the wind. But the sky showed bright blue in the gaps between the clouds. Light danced across puddles. The walk to the castle took them out of the village. The path past the curve of the harbour was less than a mile. They could have covered the ground quickly if Aidan had not kept lifting his camera to catch the bright reflections in standing water. Along the sandy ridge beside them, upturned boats, converted to sheds, were irresistibly photogenic. Their keels made sharp-edged roof ridges against the sky. They passed the blue-painted doors of the Coastguard Service hut.
    The Castle Rock reared ahead of them. Turrets rose above the curtain wall, which ran diagonally down its ridge like a dragon’s back.The house within was almost hidden.
    A storm of rain caught them when they were out in the open, on the grassy flat between the village and the rock. They pulled up their hoods and ran to shelter in the lee of the boatsheds. As they stood panting, with their backs against the planks, Aidan wondered where Rachel was now. Lindisfarne was almost treeless, except for the avenue planted along the road from the car park to the village. Buildings elsewhere were few. Most of the island was either fields or the long spit of sand dunes to the east that stretched towards the causeway and beyond. There was little shelter.
    The shower swept over and the sun broke through again.
    â€œWe’re in luck,” Aidan said. “They’re flying the National Trust flag from the castle. That means it’s open for visitors.”
    â€œIsn’t it always?”
    â€œDepends on the tide. Everything does on Holy Island. They open when visitors can get across the causeway.”
    â€œOr the sands. Like us.”
    â€œOf course.”
    They climbed the ramp to the gate and bought their tickets. From the lower battery they stepped down into the massively pillared entrance hall. Aidan knew that, to Melangell, Lutyens’ Edwardian renovation must look satisfyingly medieval.
    He followed her eager steps through successive rooms, letting her choose which displays to linger over. But he couldn’t let her miss the little scullery, which still had the pulleys and weights to raise the portcullis.
    â€œSo it is a real castle, isn’t it?”
    She ran down the long shallow steps to the Ship Room, where a model of a three-masted merchantman hung from the ceiling. They climbed the stairs to the Long Gallery and found the bedroom whose painted door revealed that it had once been used as a gunpowder store.
    At last they came out onto the roof and the upper battery. High up, the wind caught them and blew Melangell several steps backwards. Light hit them. Brilliant sun illuminated the North Sea. It made theapproaching bank of cloud even blacker. Once more, Aidan had his camera out, trying to capture that dramatic contrast.
    At last he put it away reluctantly. “I don’t know about you, but I think it’s time we were heading back, or we’ll get a soaking.”
    â€œIt’s a good job Lucy’s doing her next story indoors, isn’t it?”
    Aidan paused to look over the parapet. Not far away, he could see the walled garden Gertrude Jekyll had designed. It seemed to be deserted.
    They had turned to begin their descent when a voice Aidan recognized rose from the steep grassy slopes immediately below them.
    â€œI was not pursuing her. For heaven’s sake,