Murder on the Moor - C. S. Challinor [50]
“Aye, I walked all the way.”
“Are the family still wi’ ye? We expected them back last night or this morning, after the worst of the weather had passed. Did Flora send ye to fetch some things?” The woman looked confused by his presence in the young woman’s room.
Rex lowered his voice. “They’re all at the lodge. We had an accident last night, and what with one thing and another—”
“An accident!”
“The Allerdices are fine but, now that you’ve found me out, perhaps you can help me.”
“Best come away from the private quarters then, else they’ll have my guts for garters—unless they sent ye up here fer something in particular?”
“I was just snooping.”
“Are ye on a case, Mr. Graves?” the maid asked, curiosity burning in her bulging green eyes. “I keep up wi’ all yer cases. Och, the one aboot that beautiful French actress on that exotic island—”
“The Sabine Durand case.”
“Aye, and the Christmas mystery at—where was it noo?”
“I need to make an important call without further delay,” Rex cut in. “I was hoping to find a phone up here where I could talk in private.”
“Come downstairs before someone sees ye. I get off in twenty minutes. Can I give ye a lift back to Gleneagle Lodge? It’s not far oot of my way.”
“I wouldna say no, Mrs … ?”
“Phyllis. Phyllis McIntyre.”
She took him down the back stairs and into a large modernized kitchen, empty of staff and redolent of the vegetables he had noticed before, stewing in a large pot on the industrial-size stove in readiness for dinner. By that time, they would be pulverized beyond recognition of their original form, as experienced during one of his meals there. Trays of dirty tea plates were stacked on the counter next to the serving hatch.
“Ye look like ye could do with a cup o’ tea,” Phyllis said, drying red-roughened hands on her apron.
“Och, you’re a godsend. Could I use the phone at reception? I don’t know how long my mobile will hold oot.”
“Aye, go ahead. Nobody’ll bother ye. Most of the guests went oot after tea now that the rain has let up.”
Rex made his way back to the lobby and deftly replaced Mr. Beardsley’s key on its hook. He then dialed the number for Chief Inspector Dalgerry, who was heading up the Moor murders investigation. He had met the dour Scotsman on one occasion in the course of his work. Dalgerry was like a dog with a bone when it came to pursuing a lead, often loath to give up one favorite bone while other leads went ignored. It could prove difficult to persuade him that the traveling salesman in his custody might not be the child abductor after all.
Refusing to leave a message with a subordinate, Rex finally got through to Dalgerry’s voicemail. “This is Rex Graves, QC,” he informed the chief inspector. “I may have an important break in the Kirsty MacClure and Melissa Bates cases, and enough evidence to secure a search warrant for one Rob Roy Beardsley, that’s e-y, from Glasgow, currently staying at the Loch Lochy Hotel.” Rex left his local address, directions, and phone numbers at which to reach him.
The chief inspector might even argue that the photos Rex found had been posted by his detainee and downloaded from the Internet. Yet, DNA testing of the locks of hair would prove a physical link to the victims if Beardsley was the culprit. Rex had evidence too that put Beardsley in the vicinity of Melissa Bates’ murder, but he was saving that information for his grand finale.
When he returned to the hotel kitchen, a cup of tea and two buttered scones, split in two and filled with lumpy strawberry jam, were awaiting on a Formica-topped table. He thanked Phyllis profusely as she cleared the trays on the counter and loaded the dishwasher.
“I was surprised to see a photo of a colleague of mine in Flora’s room,” he said between mouthfuls. “An advocate by the name of Alistair Frazer.”
Phyllis glanced at him over her shoulder. “Handsome gentleman. Stayed here in early spring wi’ his solicitor friend. Flora took a shine to him. I think that photo in her room was taken at a