Murder on the Moor - C. S. Challinor [8]
“It won’t remain serene for long once news of a monster breaks out,” Rex remonstrated. “Please don’t write anything aboot it in your article.”
Beardsley sighed with regret. “It’s my journalistic obligation to inform the public.”
“I suppose this third monster already has a name?” Rex inquired.
“Bessie.”
“Bessie?”
“She may be a first cousin of Nessie.”
“This is ridiculous.”
“It’s fascinating, really. Loch Ness lies along the same fault line as Lochs Lochy and Lown, and connects with them under water. The sedimentary rock which cradles the lochs is among the oldest in the world. During the last Ice Age, the deep freshwater lochs never froze, providing a safe haven for a certain species of dinosaur. And so Nessie, Bessie, and Lizzie live to tell the tale.”
“My loch is technically a lochan—a wee loch,” Rex insisted, turning to face Beardsley full on. “It’s too shallow to be connected to anything. It has no outlet anywhere.”
“Have you scuba dived to see what may be hidden below?”
“It’s too murky.”
“My point exactly.” The journalist smiled owlishly beneath his spectacles. “You see! You never know …”
What rubbish, Rex thought, anxious to end the conversation. He saw his homeland as a serious place, full of dour Scots and revered customs. The idea of cartoonish reptiles residing in the Highland lochs made a mockery of everything that was essentially Scotland. Bad enough that the legend of Loch Ness generated a steady influx of tourists who cared less about the tragic Battle of Culloden fought not far from the shores of Loch Ness and snapped up Jurassic-style souvenirs from Drumnadrochit Village with greater ferocity than any prehistoric eel … The idea that they might start trickling across to his side of the Great Glen was frankly disturbing.
“I hope you’re joking,” he grumbled. “Do you write for the tabloids?”
“I’m a freelance writer for papers like the Inverness News-Press.” Beardsley’s tinny voice rose higher in pitch. “I am methodical in my research and take my profession very seriously.”
“Aye, so what else have you written aboot?”
Beardsley listed a couple of nature and hiking periodicals, which Rex had never heard of.
“Monks at Fort Augustus Abbey gathered evidence of a sea dragon on Loch Lochy in 1933,” Shona said in defense of her monster.
“Everyone, come and help yourselves while the food’s still hot,” Helen interrupted, holding an asparagus quiche between two oven gloves. She placed it on a mat on the buffet table and cast a loving eye over the tasty array of dishes displayed on the beige linen tablecloth edged in Irish lace, a housewarming gift from Rex’s mother.
“What took so long?” Rex asked, taking Helen aside for a kiss.
“Cuthbert was teaching me some Gaelic in the kitchen.”
“What else was he doing?” Rex asked suspiciously.
“Well, he did pinch my bottom, but I smacked his hand firmly and called him a naughty boy. Unfortunately, he seemed to like that.”
“The perv. He’s as bad as Hamish Allerdice.”
“Anyway, before I forget what it is I’m supposed to ask you …” Helen drew herself up straight and announced, “Cò an caora sin còmhla riut a chunnaic mi an-raoir?”
“And what do you suppose that means?” Rex inquired.
“It means, ‘How are you enjoying the party?’”
“It does not. It means, ‘Who was that sheep I saw you with last night?’”
“I didn’t know you spoke Gaelic!”
“I don’t. I’m a Lowlander, but it’s a common joke. Verra common,” Rex added.
Helen burst out laughing. “I’ve been had! Oh, that’s so funny. ‘Who’s that sheep I saw you with last night?’ Ha, ha!”
“Go back to Cuthbert and say, from me, ‘Cha b’e sin caora, ‘se sin do chèile a bha innte.’ At least, I think that’s right.”
“What does that mean?”
“‘That was no sheep, that was your wife.’”
Helen let out a whoop of laughter. Immediately her hand went to her mouth as she tried to control herself. “Oh, I’m sorry, but—Estelle does look like a sheep!”
Estelle Farquharson, who had changed into a magenta frock, came up to them with her long, ovine face and asked horsily, “What