Murder on the Moor - C. S. Challinor [49]
Beneath the window, a wooden kneehole chest of drawers with a chair drawn up to it served as a desk for a battered laptop. A pile of dictionaries, encyclopedias, and nature books, along with a stack of personal mail, towered pell-mell beside it. Rex unfolded the first letter, forwarded to the hotel from a Glasgow address two weeks before and originating from an editor at the Inverness News-Press.
Dear Mr. Beardsley:
Thank you for your recent submission for an article on the Loch Lochy Monster. Unfortunately, we are not currently accepting ideas for stories on that subject, but wish you success in placing your article elsewhere.
Yours sincerely . . .
Similar rejections accounted for most of the mail. The letter in his pocket was no exception. Beardsley must have inundated the national and local papers with queries. He had no reason for presuming on the Allerdices’ hospitality if he could not reasonably hope to sell the Lizzie story and generate some publicity for the hotel. The man was a fraud.
Crossing the fitted brown carpet marred by a spattering of dark stains, Rex extended his search to the wardrobe, which swung open with a disconcertingly loud creak. A collection of clothes drooped from their hangers, most of them creased and giving off a whiff of damp and mold. One garment wrapped in plastic immediately incited his interest.
Pulling it out, he discovered a crisp scout leader uniform beneath the protective sheathing. His heart beating faster, he examined the tan-colored uniform.
He dove into the mound of sweaters and scarves on the top shelf, his fingers encountering, right at the back, a hard slimy surface. As he extracted a child’s red plastic case, contents shifted inside. He drew a deep breath and, using a handkerchief from his pocket, set the case on the quilted floral bedspread. The catch sprang open with a few jiggles of the top of a wire hanger. He raised the lid.
His responses and reactions froze, suspended in shock as he gazed into the red plastic case. With the aid of the hanger, he flipped through the photographs. One in particular caught his eye. Kirsty MacClure lay in a bed of ferns, a bewildered expression captured on her cherubic face as she stared into the camera lens.
On the reverse side of the photo, in black ink, was written the name Jackie. “Beth” appeared on the back of Melissa Bates’ likeness. Why had Beardsley used different names? Surely he could not hope to fool someone who came across them by chance.
In a corner of the case, he found a lock of flaxen hair bound by a pink ribbon, the same shade of blond as Kirsty’s. Other mementos—strands of dark, light brown, and auburn hair, and bright trinkets of jewelry such as a child might wear—were stowed beneath the photos. Retrieving Moira’s phone from his pocket and stilling the tremor in his hands, Rex photographed each picture with grim precision.
He closed the case and hid it behind the pile of clothes on the top shelf, where Beardsley had presumably thought maid service would never look. He bent the hanger back into shape and smoothed down the bedspread. No need to dally. He already had more than he had bargained for and more than he ever would have wished to see.
With an ear to the door, he eased it open and locked it behind him. He approached the stairs leading to the top floor where Shona Allerdice had mentioned the family lived. A purple velvet cord displaying a “Private” sign blocked off the steps. Rex stepped over it.
The first room he came to clearly belonged to Flora. A photograph of her and Alistair stood on the dressing table, the mirror reflecting back at him his mud-besmirched clothing and unshaven face. He returned his attention back to the photo. As he was studying it, a light tap at the door spun him around, and an elderly maid in a white cap and apron entered, and shrieked. The same woman had made up his room when he stayed at the hotel.
Rex held out his hand in appeasement. “Don’t worry. I’m no a burglar,” he assured her.
“Mr. Graves? Ye gave me such a turn! I hardly recognized