Murder on the Moor - C. S. Challinor [10]
“Jilted? You ran off with that photographer in Baghdad!”
“I tried to apologize. I even went all the way to Florida to see you.”
“Aye, well I’m not looking for a repeat performance.” What on earth did she hope to achieve by turning up here? he asked himself.
“I wasna well in the spring. I was still traumatized by the bombing, but I’m better now and I want to try again. I’m sorry aboot what I put you through.” Moira shivered. “Will ye no let me in out of the rain?”
“This is right awkward,” he told her, moving aside so she could pass into the hall. “Helen’s here.”
“You’re still with her?”
“I bought this place for the two of us.”
“I see. Well, it’s high time I met my rival, don’t you think? Don’t worry—I’ll be all sweetness and light. Who else is here? I saw a van, a Land Rover, and a couple of other vehicles in the driveway.”
Standing with Moira under the light from the teardrop chandelier, Rex noticed that she had made up her face. This came as a surprise since Moira, a self-professed feminist, had eschewed such tactics to attract men in the past. And she wore what he took to be an expensive perfume.
“What happened to your lift?” he asked, recalling the departing taillights.
“I came by taxi. I sent it away once I saw you were home.”
“You came all the way from Edinburgh in a taxi?”
“I don’t drive, remember, and I didna expect you’d come and pick me up from the station in Spean Bridge, or if I’d find a cab service there. The driver almost couldna find this place. I suppose I’ll have to stay the night.” She brushed her hand down her wet coat. “It’s no weather to be oot looking for a hotel.”
“The owners of the Loch Lochy Hotel are here. I’m sure they could put you up. That’s their van outside.”
“They’ll never get out wi’ that van. It’ll get stuck in the mud. The cabbie almost refused to bring me down here. There’s no sign of any letup. The rain’ll only get worse.”
Rex slowly banged the back of his head against the wall. “You’ll have to promise to leave first thing in the morning.”
“Now, now, Rex,” Moira said. “Don’t let’s start all that again. Remember what happened last time.”
“Rex?” Helen’s voice came at him from down the hall. “Is everything okay?”
“Helen, meet Moira.”
“Nice to make your acquaintance, Helen,” Moira said sweetly, as promised, holding out her hand. “Sorry I’m late. There was an accident on the M90 and traffic was backed up for miles.”
“Oh, I didn’t know we were expecting you,” Helen faltered, taking the proffered hand. She stood a couple of inches taller than Moira, who gazed up at her with calculating eyes.
“It must have slipped Rex’s mind.” Moira skirted around Helen and made toward the sounds of voices and music emanating from the living room.
Rex listened in trepidation.
“Hello, everyone, I’m Moira, an old flame of Rex’s. Oh, what a lovely spread. I’m starving! And I could do wi’ a drink. The roads are a nightmare what wi’ all this rain …”
Rex knew from experience that Moira and drink did not mix well. The daughter of an alcoholic, she was a lifetime teetotaler before she went to Iraq. Rex had first seen her drink in Florida. The result had been disastrous.
“Rex?” Helen asked beside him. “What’s going on?”
He jammed his hands into the pockets of his corduroys. “I have no idea, except that the housekeeper told her I was here.”
“Is she sane?”
“Who? Miss Bird? Apparently not.”
“No—Moira. Is she still under psychiatric care?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen her in months. In fact, no one has. She no longer attends the church meetings. The Charitable Ladies of Morningside were trying to get her interested in social work again, but … Oh, I suppose I should have visited her to see how she was getting on.” Rex slumped against the wall.
“She seems a bit hyper,” Helen said. “Her eyes are glittery. Not a good sign.”
Laughter spilled from the living room as the voices grew more animated.
“What do you think we should do?” he asked Helen.
“Better try not to antagonize her. Don’t show me any affection.”