Murder on the Moor - C. S. Challinor [15]
Beneath the shelter of a huge golf umbrella, he took an armful of bedding out to the stable, where he found Donnie already asleep on the trundle bed, and covered the boy with a woolen rug. In a nearby stall, the Shetland pony snuffled contentedly, her nose buried inside a bucket of oats. Rain lashed the stone building, but in here reigned a reassuring aroma of dry hay and old leather. A cast-iron Victorian conservatory heater emitted radiant warmth from its coals. Satisfied that the boy was comfortably settled in for the night, Rex tiptoed out of the stable and charged back through the deluge.
At the house, the party was breaking up, the guests yawning and stretching. Estelle was searching for her shoes, which she had discarded for the dancing. Cuthbert mopped his brow with a paper napkin.
“Donnie is dead to the world. It’s warm and dry in the stable,” Rex assured the boy’s parents. “And there’s a bit of light from the heater.”
“We’re sorry to put you out like this,” Shona apologized.
“Not at all.”
“If we stay much longer, we’ll eat you out of house and home. That was a delicious buffet, Helen.”
“Aye,” Hamish agreed. “Fancy a job at the hotel?”
Helen beamed. “I’m glad you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed preparing it—in Rex’s fantastic new kitchen.” She put an arm around his waist.
“Well, we had better let these two lovebirds get to bed,” Hamish said in a suggestive way that Rex did not appreciate in the least.
“Aye, well there’s some tidying up to do first,” his wife replied.
“Oh, leave that, Shona,” Helen insisted as Mrs. Allerdice stacked the cups and saucers. “I’ll see to it.”
“Och, nonsense. I’m used to it.”
Moira announced she wanted to take a bath and effusively bid everyone good night, saying she needed her beauty sleep.
“You’re quite beautiful enough, my dear,” Cuthbert said gallantly, taking her hand and kissing it. “Have you ever seen such tiny hands?” he asked his wife.
“You are incorrigible, Bertie. Just ignore him,” Estelle told Moira. “That’s what I do.”
Rex offered the Farquharsons the use of his en-suite bathroom while he and Helen finished clearing up downstairs with Shona and Flora’s help.
“Hopefully we’ll make it back to the hotel before our guests get up,” Mrs. Allerdice remarked. “We only have six of them, none of them particularly early risers, fortunately.”
“Where did Hamish disappear to?” Rex asked her.
“I don’t know. Do you need him?”
“Och, I can manage myself.” He started to put the living room furniture back in its place. Alistair had retired to the library.
“I’ll give you a hand,” Beardsley offered.
“Aye, thanks. Will you be okay on this sofa?”
“No problem. I’ll just use this throw rug.”
Rex hesitated. The throw rug was mohair, and he wasn’t sure Helen would approve of anyone using it as a blanket. He decided to let it go. There were few enough blankets in the house.
As he went to check under the stairs for more pillows for the guests, he heard Hamish’s voice on the upstairs landing.
“Off for a nice bath, then? Can I scrub your back for ye?”
A tinkle of laughter floated down the stairs. “What would your wife say?” Moira’s voice responded.
Rex placed his foot on the first step and listened.
“Och, she’d never have to know.”
Moira said primly, “I don’t go for married men.”
Since when? Rex asked himself. That Aussie photographer was married. Probably had three kids too!
“You dinna ken what you’re missing,” Hamish said. “We’re desperate and easy to please.”
“Ta, but no. Please remove your foot from the door so I can have my bath.”
“Show me what’s beneath your dressing gown and I’ll leave you alone, I promise.”
“Go away before I scream.” Of a sudden, Moira sounded alarmed.
Rex was about to rush up the stairs when he heard, “Tsh, tsh, I didna mean no harm. There you go.”
The bathroom door closed, followed by the click of the brass bolt. Heavy footsteps made their way across the landing. “Wee tease,” he heard Hamish mutter. Rex ducked out of sight as his guest opened the bedroom