Murder on the Moor - C. S. Challinor [47]
Shielding Helen, he plunged into the bracken.
They walked several paces, the wet branches cracking dully beneath their feet and seeming to echo among the tall pine trees, making it impossible to conceal their whereabouts. Fallen logs and tangled tussocks of undergrowth conspired to trip them up at every turn.
“Over here!” called a weak male voice. “I’m hurt.”
Rex and Helen picked up speed and found Cuthbert in a clearing slumped against a gnarled tree stump.
“What happened?” Rex demanded.
Cuthbert raised his head. “I sprained my ankle when I fell into a blasted bog. I’ve been stuck here waiting for a search party. Where the devil have you been? I need to get this ankle on ice before it puffs up.”
“Did you shoot at that stag?” Rex asked, quite willing to leave Cuthbert in his misery for a while longer.
“I did not. I heard voices in the forest and fired off a shot to alert you as to where I was. I haven’t seen any bloody deer all day.”
“Have you seen Donnie?”
“No, now get me up and out of here. Please.”
Rex appraised Cuthbert’s small, if dense size. The path back to the lodge led over diverse terrain and was too uneven for the three of them to walk abreast supporting Cuthbert between them.
“It won’t be easy,” Rex said, thinking about sending Helen back to the house for Hamish and bringing some sort of makeshift stretcher.
However, he didn’t like the idea of Helen roaming about the hills by herself, nor did he much like the idea of leaving her here while he went back. All the same, he knew the way better and Cuthbert had the gun in case he and Helen were confronted by a wild boar or other threat. Rex had read in The Times that wild boar, extinct before the seventeenth century, were being reintroduced into the Highlands in a forestry regeneration project and, while he applauded this environmental effort, he still wouldn’t want to come face to snout with one of these large, hairy beasts.
“Helen, I should go and get help from the house. I’ll be as quick as I can. Will—”
He was interrupted by a loud crashing of disturbed branches and the stomp of feet approaching through the bracken. Pine twigs quivered, wet ferns parted, and Donnie stepped into the clearing with Honey in tow.
“Lad, am I pleased to see you,” Rex said over the thumping of his heart. “We have a minor emergency. Cuthbert is lame and needs a ride back to the lodge.”
“I heard the shot,” Donnie said. “Did ye shoot yerself in the foot, Mr. Farquharson?”
“I did not!”
“He just sprained it,” Rex informed him.
“Where were you, boy?” Cuthbert demanded. “I’ll die of hypothermia if I sit out here any longer.”
“Och, it’s not that cold,” Rex told him.
“It’s damp. I can feel it in my bones.”
“Well, let’s get you onto the pony.”
“There’s no saddle,” Cuthbert objected. “And no stirrups. How will I keep my balance? I can’t risk falling on this bum ankle.”
“What a baby,” Helen murmured to Rex.
“If you’d stayed at the lodge, like I asked you, this would never have happened.” Rex pulled him to his feet—or, more specifically, to his one good foot.
“Estelle was driving me bonkers. I had to get out of there. We have separate wings at our castle in Fife.”
“We’ll lay him across the pony,” Donnie suggested. “Jist like a trussed deer.”
“What, on my stomach?” Cuthbert protested.
“It’s safest.”
Rex trusted the lad’s judgment in this matter. The position had the added advantage of making it hard for Cuthbert to speak. Mr. Farquharson hobbled over to the sturdy animal, which snorted and shook its head and neck with vigor. Donnie held the reins firmly and coaxed her with soft words in Gaelic.
“Over you go, Mr. Farquharson,” he instructed. “Honey is plenty shaggy under the belly. Jist hold on tight.”
Rex took Helen aside. “We’re aboot halfway to the Loch Lochy Hotel. I shall press on.” He had questions for Cuthbert regarding his conversation with Moira last night, but they would have to wait until he got back to the lodge.
“Can I come?” Helen pleaded.
“Not this time, lass. I can make it faster on my own.