Murder on the Moor - C. S. Challinor [53]
The rare Dalradian limestone on Rannoch Moor, dating back 600 million years, yielded soil suited to northern felwort, bottle sedge, wild strawberry, and globe flower. Another plant, the Rannoch Rush was exclusive to the area, and he had culled a sample and preserved it in an envelope, even going so far as to mark the grid where he had found it. The plant was dried out now, but there was no mistaking the tri-clustered carpels and spiky, reddish flower. It was identical to the sample he had scraped off one of Beardsley’s hiking boots that morning.
“Rex? Is that you?” Helen appeared in the doorway to the library. “Did you find out anything?” she asked in a hushed voice.
“Aye. The police should be here shortly. How are our guests behaving?”
“All right. Just a bit weary and bored.”
“Well, what I’m aboot to tell them will perk things up a bit.”
“What have you got there?”
“Some interesting bits of scenery.”
“From your walk over to Loch Lochy?”
“No, from Rannoch Moor.”
Helen wrinkled her brow. “I don’t follow.”
“You will,” he assured her. “And stay within sight. I found something grisly in the stable.”
She gasped. “Honey? Is she …”
“No, the pony is fine.”
“Good. I had a vision out of The Godfather.”
“I doubt it was a horse’s head the killer was after.”
“Moira’s killer? Oh, Rex, you’re scaring me.” Helen melted into his arms.
He stood rocking her against him. “Nothing will happen to you, lass,” he assured her.
He strolled into the living room where the guests slouched on armchairs and sofas. Alistair set aside his newspaper. Flora, curled up on the loveseat, her dun-colored hair spread over the gold chenille cushions, slept soundlessly. Cuthbert Farquharson reclined in a chair with his sprained leg on a footstool, his hunting rifle propped up beside him. Estelle was in the process of wrapping a hot water bottle filled with crunching ice around his ankle.
Cuthbert waved a tumbler of liquor at Rex. “Hope you don’t mind, old chap, but I helped myself to your whisky to drown the pain.”
“I think I’ll have a wee dram myself. Hair of the dog.” Rex’s early morning headache had not amounted to much, but it was still there, gently pinching between his eyes.
“You’re soaked,” Shona exclaimed. “Sit here by the fire,” she fussed, patting a padded tapestry chair.
“Did you find the felled deer?” Hamish asked from a window seat, where he had been staring gloomily at the view over the narrow loch.
“I searched everywhere,” Rex lied. “In case it was wounded and had limped off somewhere. No luck.”
“My shot went nowhere near it,” Farquharson rejoined airily. “I fired into the air when I heard voices.”
“I had to be sure,” Rex said, scribbling in his pad.
Stand by. Need to detain R.R.B. until police arrive.
He ripped out the page and folded it, then passed it to Alistair on his way to the drinks cabinet.
His colleague glanced up when he read the note and rose from the armchair. He hovered by the door under the pretext of refilling his tea cup. The others appeared too apathetic to take much notice. Estelle and Shona were stifling yawns over a pile of magazines sandwiched between them on the sofa by the fireplace. Beardsley and Donnie played backgammon on the floor at Flora’s feet.
“We should have started back to the hotel when there was a lull in the rain,” Hamish groused.
“In those shoes?” Rex indicated his leather loafers.
“Aye, well it’s pointless staying here. No sign of the police or the tow truck. Services around here are a joke.”
Rex poured out a measure of whisky from the cut-glass decanter. “Well, it’s an exceptional set of circumstances. The police are busy with the murder of Melissa Bates and the rain has no doubt deterred the owner of the tow truck from venturing out.”
“Isn’t that what they’re supposed to do?” Estelle riposted.
“Quite right, dear,” Cuthbert advisably agreed with his wife’s loud bleating.
“This afternoon,” Rex told the group, “I continued on to the Loch Lochy Hotel, since I was already