Murder on the Moor - C. S. Challinor [60]
“I say,” Cuthbert exclaimed from his invalid chair. “I felt a blast of cold air myself. I thought at the time what a draughty old place this was and how glad I was that Estelle had packed my hot water bottle.”
“The window may not have been open all the way at that point,” Rex resumed. “Since there are no curtains or blinds on the window yet, anyone can look in if they got up on a ladder.”
“This is giving me goose bumps,” Estelle remarked, rubbing the arms of her sweater.
“How did your conversation with Moira end, Cuthbert?” Rex asked her husband.
“Very amiably,” Mr. Farquharson replied. “She said she wished she had been my daughter because her own father was a worthless drunk and was never in a position to take care of her. Then she said goodnight as her bath was getting full, and she locked the door behind her. I went back to the bedroom and told Estelle all about the conversation.”
“Your wife never mentioned anything about it to me when I interviewed everyone after lunch.”
“Well, I knew Bertie didn’t kill Moira,” Mrs. Farquharson spluttered, “so I decided not to say anything. He was only gone five minutes.”
“And your trip downstairs in the middle of the night—any positive recollection yet of having done that?”
The two officers leaned forward in their chairs.
“As I told you, I may have gone downstairs to use the cloakroom. I have been known to do that almost in my sleep.”
Strickler and Dawes raised their eyebrows at one another.
Rex spun on Hamish, whose face flushed to a mottled ruby red. “After you spoke to Moira, you returned to your room. Your wife left you fixing the radiator and was gone five minutes for a smoke. That did not leave you enough time to fetch the ladder, get through the window, drown Moira, and dispose of her body in the loch. Unless you’re a trained assassin.” Mr. Allerdice’s out-of-shape frame clearly did not fit the bill. “That’s assuming your wife’s statement holds up … But let’s accept her story about her clandestine smoke for now. And let’s not forget Flora’s apparition on the stairs.”
“Look, old chap,” Cuthbert interrupted. “I don’t see you casting doubt on Alistair. I know he’s a friend and colleague and all that, but he did seem quite pally with Moira last night.”
“You’re barking up the wrong tree,” Alistair replied. “The truth is, I’m gay.”
Shona sat bolt upright and glanced at her daughter, who had turned as pale as bleached bread.
“It’s true,” Rex confirmed. “Alistair had no interest in Moira beyond friendship. But I believe he was the catalyst for her murder.”
Rex gave his guests time to digest this while he planned his next words. There was no easy way to expose this murderer.
“Alistair was the cause of Moira’s death,” Rex repeated for effect. “That’s why I told you to stay away from him, Helen. The killer thought Moira was a rival for Alistair’s affections. I did not want the same thing happening to you.”
“A rival to whom?” Estelle asked.
“Flora.”
“Flora?” Estelle stared at the girl, who sat still as a statue, eyes downcast.
“Donnie knew that she was in love with Alistair—”
“Me?” Perplexed, Alistair stared at Flora in turn, who flinched. “I had no idea.”
“Moira was flirting with you to make me jealous,” Rex explained. “Fool that I am, I did not understand what game she was playing until Helen pointed it out. Donnie did not see through her stratagem either. He thought Moira might take Alistair away from his sister. He knew Flora had feelings for him. He must have seen the photo of the pair of them in her bedroom.”
Flora blushed to the shade of beetroot.
Alistair looked mystified. “What photo?”
“It was taken at a social event at the hotel