Cold Vengeance - Lincoln Child [9]
“Hullo, Cromarty,” he said, extending an easy hand as Cromarty bustled over. They huddled at the far end of the hall, speaking in low tones, occasionally glancing in Esterhazy’s direction.
Then the officer came over and took the wing chair next to Esterhazy. “Chief Inspector Balfour of the Northern Constabulary,” he said quietly, not offering his hand, but leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “And you are Judson Esterhazy?”
“That’s right.”
He slipped out a small steno pad. “All right, Dr. Esterhazy. Tell me what happened.”
Esterhazy went through the story from beginning to end, pausing frequently to collect himself or choke back tears, while Balfour took notes. When he was done, Balfour shut the pad. “We’re going to the scene of the accident. You’re coming with us.”
“I’m not sure…” Esterhazy swallowed. “… that I’m up to it.”
“I’m quite sure you are,” said Balfour crisply. “We’ve two bloodhounds. And Mr. Grant will be coming with us as well. He knows the byways of the Mire.” He stood up, consulting a large marine watch. “We’ve five hours of daylight left.”
Esterhazy got up with a long, mournful face and a show of reluctance. Outside, the team was gearing up with packs, ropes, and other equipment. At the end of the graveled drive, a dog handler was exercising two leashed bloodhounds around the greensward.
An hour later, they had tramped over the side of Beinn Dearg and arrived at the edge of the Foulmire, the boggy ground marked by a ragged line of boulders. A mist lay over the moors. The sun was already sinking in the sky, the endless landscape disappearing into gray nothingness, the dark pools lying motionless in the heavy air. There was a faint smell of vegetal decay.
“Dr. Esterhazy?” Balfour looked at him, frowning, arms folded over his chest. “Which way?”
Esterhazy glanced around, his face a blank. “It all looks the same.” No point in giving them too much help.
Balfour shook his head sadly.
“The dogs have a scent over here, Inspector.” The thick brogue of the gamekeeper drifted through the mist. “And I see a bit of sign.”
“Is that where you went into the Mire?” Balfour asked.
“I think so.”
“All right. The dogs will lead the way. Mr. Grant, you stay with them up front. The rest of you follow. Dr. Esterhazy and I will come last. Mr. Grant knows the good ground; follow in his footsteps at all times.” The inspector took a moment to remove a pipe, which had been pre-packed, and lit it. “If anyone gets mired, don’t the rest of you rush in like damn fools and get mired yourself. The team has ropes, lifesaver rings, and telescoping hooks for retrieving any who get stuck in quicksand.”
He puffed away, looking around. “Mr. Grant, do you have anything to add?”
“I do,” said the small, wizened man, leaning on his walking stick, his voice almost as high as a girl’s. “If you do get caught in it, don’t struggle. Lean back into it gently, let your body float up.” He fixed a bushy eye on Esterhazy, glaring. “I’ve got a question for Dr. Esterhazy: when you were traipsing over the Mire after that stag, did ye see any landmarks?”
“Like what?” Esterhazy said, his voice confused and uncertain. “It seemed awfully empty to me.”
“There’s ruins, cairns, and standing stones.”
“Ruins… yes, it seems we passed by some ruins.”
“What’d they look like?”
“If I remember correctly—” Esterhazy frowned in mock recollection—“they appeared to be a stone corral and a shelter on a sort of hill, with the marshes beyond and to the left.”
“Aye. The old Coombe Hut.” Without another word the gamekeeper turned and began tramping through the grass, moss, and heather, the bloodhounds with their handler hurrying to keep up. He walked fast with his head down, his short legs churning, walking stick swinging, his shaggy hair like a white halo around a tweed cap perched on top.
For a quarter of an hour they moved in silence, interrupted only by the