Murder on the Moor - C. S. Challinor [4]
“A hummel, eh?” Cuthbert questioned. “Those are pretty rare. They don’t grow antlers,” he told Rex. “I wouldn’t mind taking a look. Could you show me?” he asked the boy.
Rex reached out for the rifle. “Before you go, could you leave this? I’ll put it in the house.”
Cuthbert reluctantly handed it over. A military-looking telescopic lens was mounted on the gun. Rex reflected that a deer would never stand a chance against such a state-of-the-art example of ruthless weaponry.
He had better put it somewhere safe.
Rex felt glad to be rid of Cuthbert for a while and hoped the hummel would lead him on a wild goose chase. He deposited the rifle upstairs in a cupboard in the bedroom with the leaky radiator and went to see how Helen was getting on in the kitchen. He was very proud of his kitchen, which retained its flagstone floor and Victorian tile-work, but where he had updated the cabinetry and installed a vintage Aga stove re-enameled in red.
Helen and Estelle were whisking up a storm at the granite island countertop. A bottle of sherry stood open before them.
“Are you making sherry trifle?” he asked.
“The sherry is for us,” Helen explained. “The cooks’ prerogative. Would you like a glass?”
“I’ll hold off for now, thanks. Having fun?”
“Oh, Helen and I are getting on like a house on fire,” Estelle enthused. “She was just telling me how you two met in Sussex two Christmases ago when you were solving your first private case. How absolutely thrilling!” Mrs. Farquharson wiped her hands on a flowery apron and chugged down some sherry. “You solved the case of the missing actress in the Caribbean too, didn’t you?” The question was more of a statement, and so he refrained from confirming.
“There was a piece about it on BBC Scotland,” Helen told her. “Rex did an interview.”
Rex coughed modestly.
“Any other private cases in the works?” Estelle asked.
“I hope not,” he said. “I have my plate full as it is what with this place and my day job.”
“You’ve done wonders with Gleaneagle Lodge. Helen showed me the before-and-after pictures. I hope you’ll have many happy times here together. Cheers.” Estelle raised her glass in a toast.
“Thank you. Is that someone at the door?” Certain that he had heard the doorbell, Rex stepped into the hall.
“Alistair!” he exclaimed upon opening the front door. He gladly accepted his colleague’s gift of a bottle of Glenlivet. “Glad you could make it. Come on through to the library. The women are busy in the kitchen.”
“You’ve done a lot to this place,” Alistair remarked, looking about him. “I like what you did to the front, or is it the back? I suppose the front is the loch view, right?”
Alistair Frazer, a man blessed with distinguished good looks and sartorial flair, sank into one of the wing armchairs by an open fireplace, where the unlit logs were piled for effect. His hair, beginning to recede at the temples, trailed in loose curls to the nape of his neck, giving him a Byronic look. His wan cheeks added to his romantic and melancholy air.
“It was a lot of work,” Rex acknowledged, taking a seat opposite him and contemplating with satisfaction the recently stained wood-paneled walls. “How was your trip up?”
“Just fine. I took my time. I drove past Rannoch Moor.” Alistair’s face grew somber above his peach-hued cravat. “It’s right desolate. Just miles and miles of windswept peat and bog.”
“Now, don’t go punishing yourself,” Rex counseled. “You did your best.”
His barrister colleague had recently prosecuted a child molestation and murder case at the High Court of Justiciary in Edinburgh, and had lost. The victim’s body had been found on Rannoch Moor.
“It was airtight,” Alistair groaned. “Collins’ blood was found on the wee girl’s body.”
“The defense argued that he found her after the fact and scratched himself on the brambles while trying to lift her out of the bog.” Rex had not been in court for the trial but had followed the proceedings with interest. The Kirsty MacClure case had been all over the media. Two previous child murders on the moor in the past two