Murder on the Moor (2 page)

“Did you bring a camera?” he asked his guest.

“Estelle has a Nikon somewhere.” Cuthbert’s bottom lip, wet and red as a woman’s, trembled peevishly. “Not quite the same thing, is it?”

“I don’t believe in murdering God’s creatures for sport.”

“You can’t view them as defenseless bambies, you know. They wreak havoc with the forests. Without wolves to cull the population, it’s the best way to keep the numbers under control.”

Rex shook his head resolutely. “Not on my land. I like to think of Gleaneagle Lodge as a nature sanctuary.”

At that moment, a golden eagle swooped overhead and soared over the barren hill summits.

“Well, it’s your land, I suppose, and you’re free to do with it as you please,” Cuthbert conceded. “Here’s the boy now.”

An uneven clopping of hooves rang out as Donnie Allerdice, an agile lad of about seventeen in a plaid shirt and jeans, led a sturdy Shetland pony down the loose stone road.

“This here is Honey,” he told the men when he drew level with them. “On account of the colour of her coat, not her temperament.” He said this in a slow and deliberate way. The horse chewed irritably on its bit and twitched its long tail. “The midges are bothering her something fierce.”

“You can put her in the meadow over there for the time being,” Rex told the boy, who was slightly cross-eyed. “We won’t be needing her.”

“Mr. Graves is opposed to hunting,” Cuthbert explained testily.

“That’s a shame,” the boy said. “I saw a large hummel and his hinds down in the glen.” Rex noticed he carried a sheath knife in his belt.

“A hummel, eh?” Cuthbert questioned. “Those are pretty rare. They don’t grow antlers,” he told Rex. “I wouldn’t mind taking a look. Could you show me?” he asked the boy.

Rex reached out for the rifle. “Before you go, could you leave this? I’ll put it in the house.”

Cuthbert reluctantly handed it over. A military-looking telescopic lens was mounted on the gun. Rex reflected that a deer would never stand a chance against such a state-of-the-art example of ruthless weaponry.

He had better put it somewhere safe.

Rex felt glad to
be rid of Cuthbert for a while and hoped the hummel would lead him on a wild goose chase. He deposited the rifle upstairs in a cupboard in the bedroom with the leaky radiator and went to see how Helen was getting on in the kitchen. He was very proud of his kitchen, which retained its flagstone floor and Victorian tile-work, but where he had updated the cabinetry and installed a vintage Aga stove re-enameled in red.

Helen and Estelle were whisking up a storm at the granite island countertop. A bottle of sherry stood open before them.

“Are you making sherry trifle?” he asked.

“The sherry is for us,” Helen explained. “The cooks’ prerogative. Would you like a glass?”

“I’ll hold off for now, thanks. Having fun?”

“Oh, Helen and I are getting on like a house on fire,” Estelle enthused. “She was just telling me how you two met in Sussex two Christmases ago when you were solving your first private case. How absolutely thrilling!” Mrs. Farquharson wiped her hands on a flowery apron and chugged down some sherry. “You solved the case of the missing actress in the Caribbean too, didn’t you?” The question was more of a statement, and so he refrained from confirming.

“There was a piece about it on BBC Scotland,” Helen told her. “Rex did an interview.”

Rex coughed modestly.

“Any other private cases in the works?” Estelle asked.

“I hope not,” he said. “I have my plate full as it is what with this place and my day job.”

“You’ve done wonders with Gleaneagle Lodge. Helen showed me the before-and-after pictures. I hope you’ll have many happy times here together. Cheers.” Estelle raised her glass in a toast.

“Thank you. Is that someone at the door?” Certain that he had heard the doorbell, Rex stepped into the hall.

“Alistair!” he exclaimed upon opening the front door. He gladly accepted his colleague’s gift of a bottle of Glenlivet. “Glad you could make it. Come on through to the library. The women are busy in the kitchen.”

“You’ve done a lot to this place,” Alistair remarked, looking about him. “I like what you did to the front, or is it the back? I suppose the front is the loch view, right?”

Alistair Frazer, a man blessed with distinguished good looks and sartorial flair, sank into one of the wing armchairs by an open fireplace, where the unlit logs were piled for effect. His hair, beginning to recede at the temples, trailed in loose curls to the nape of his neck, giving him a Byronic look. His wan cheeks added to his romantic and melancholy air.

“It was a lot of work,” Rex acknowledged, taking a seat opposite him and contemplating with satisfaction the recently stained wood-paneled walls. “How was your trip up?”

“Just fine. I took my time. I drove past Rannoch Moor.” Alistair’s face grew somber above his peach-hued cravat. “It’s right desolate. Just miles and miles of windswept peat and bog.”

“Now, don’t go punishing yourself,” Rex counseled. “You did your best.”

His barrister colleague had recently prosecuted a child molestation and murder case at the High Court of Justiciary in Edinburgh, and had lost. The victim’s body had been found on Rannoch Moor.

“It was airtight,” Alistair groaned. “Collins’ blood was found on the wee girl’s body.”

“The defense argued that he found her after the fact and scratched himself on the brambles while trying to lift her out of the bog.” Rex had not been in court for the trial but had followed the proceedings with interest. The Kirsty MacClure case had been all over the media. Two previous child murders on the moor in the past two years had not turned up any suspects.

“It had to have been him,” Alistair persisted. “There was no one else around for miles. Every square kilometer was searched from Glen Moor Village to Abercroft.”

“I know.” Rex shoved a hand through his hair in frustration. “That Kilfarley is a good defense lawyer. Collins was lucky to get him.”

“It’s a shame we couldn’t get in his previous arrest for child molestation. Kirsty’s murder had his modus operandi all over it.”

“Possibly, but he had an alibi for the time of death. The jury rightly decided they couldn’t risk sending an innocent man to prison.”

“Innocent, my eye. Now he’s free and there’s a huge outcry that the culprit hasn’t been caught. Parents are not letting their bairns out to play. Just wait until another child is abducted, strangled by their own underwear. It’s only a matter of time.” Alistair suddenly fell silent as Helen entered the room.

“Tea, anyone? Nice to see you again, Alistair.”

“Thanks, lass.” He gave Helen a friendly wink.

“Aye, don’t mind if I do,” Rex said.

“You both look like somebody died.” When neither of the men said anything, she added, “Well, tea it is, then,” and left the room.

“Nice woman, your Helen,” Alistair murmured. “Cheerful and wholesome.”

“She is that.”

“Do you discuss your trial cases with her?”

“Not usually. We don’t get to see each other that much, what with her living in Derby, so I prefer to keep off the subject of work, especially when it involves something as upsetting as the Kirsty MacClure murder.”

“If Collins ever crosses my path, I’ll take justice into my own hands, just mark my words.”

“That’s no way for an advocate to talk, Alistair,” Rex said in a conciliatory manner. “You did your utmost.”

Rex really couldn’t fault him for his attitude though. Of the serious crimes that came before the High Court, violence against children was the most heinous and hardest to forget. He hoped the housewarming party would help take Alistair’s mind off the case. “Did I tell you the Allerdices are coming?” he asked. “You’ve met them, I think.”

“Aye, a couple of times when I was staying at the hotel with Bill.” Bill Menzies was the solicitor who had arranged the sale of Gleneagle Lodge. “I saw the Allerdice boy walking over the ridge when I was driving over. He was with a man in full deer-stalking regalia.”

“Cuthbert Farquharson.”

“The laird of Aberleven in Fife?” Alistair asked in disgust. “That Tory philanthropist who lent his party two million pounds? What’s he doing here?”

Rex leaned forward. “I’m afraid he’s one of our house guests. I bought this place so I could get away from snobs like that, but he and his wife, Estelle, gave generously to my mother’s charity.”

“Supplying bibles to illiterate tribes in the Amazonian jungle, when we’re trying to conserve their trees?” Alistair joked.

“Aye, well Mother supports missionary work and she insisted I invite the Farquharsons here since they were in Inverness.”

Helen came back into the library with a tray of crockery and a plate of perfectly cut cucumber sandwiches. “The Allerdices rang to say they were running a bit late. Their guest, Mr. Beardsley, got delayed on a hike, but they’re on their way, with their daughter.”

“Flora’s a sweet thing,” Alistair said as Helen knelt at an end table to pour the tea. “Devoted to her younger brother, Donnie. He’s a bit slow.”

“You mean mentally disabled?” asked Helen, who had no patience for euphemisms. Her forthrightness was one of the many things Rex appreciated about her.

“Aye, but only mildly.”

“I noticed something amiss with the lad,” Rex acknowledged. “It’s hard to tell if he’s actually looking at you. And he punctuates every word with a pause.”

“Forest Gump,” Helen said. It was one of her favorite movies.

“Exactly. He seems like a nice lad.”

Helen handed out cups and poured one for herself. “Estelle’s upstairs freshening up.”

“How did it go in the kitchen?” Rex asked.

“Oh, fine. She’s quite tipsy though. I hope she makes it through the rest of the evening. What’s Mrs. Allerdice like?”

The two men looked at each other, seeking inspiration.

“Mousy,” Alistair ventured. “You’d better watch out for her husband.”

“Oh? Why?”

“Hamish can’t keep his hands off attractive women.”

Helen laughed. “Rex will protect my honour.”

At that moment, the slamming of car doors reached Rex’s ears. The last of the guests had arrived. He rose from his comfortable armchair with a resigned sigh. “Looks like rain,” he forecast, pausing before the library window. The slate-gray loch across the grass mirrored a glowering sky.

“The weatherman on the car radio announced heavy rain, perhaps even hail,” Alistair informed him.

“That’s a shame,” Helen stood up and rearranged her skirt. “We were hoping to entertain our guests in the garden.”

“No hope of that,” Rex said, making for the door. “We just got our first drops.”

He desperately hoped there would not be a rainstorm. He did not want his newest guests outstaying their welcome.

Rex crossed the hall
and went outside to greet the newcomers. Shona Allerdice, under the shelter of an umbrella held by her husband, scurried toward the stone porch with a huge casserole in her arms.

“Just in time,” she cried as the deluge began.

Rex ushered them inside and, borrowing the umbrella, ran over to the van to get Flora. The young woman scrambled out the back door carrying two bottles of red wine, her patent leather shoes totally inappropriate for the weather, Rex noted. A bearded and bespectacled man in his thirties exited on the other side with a knapsack.

“Don’t worry about me,” he said, indicating the umbrella in Rex’s hand. “I’m used to being out in all weather. I’m Rob Roy, by the way. Staying at the hotel.”

The three of them made a dash for the front door.

“We best all take off our shoes,” Mrs. Allerdice suggested, removing her medium-heeled pumps.

She was, as Alistair had described her, a mousy woman, with a pinched face. Flora would resemble her mother in twenty years, Rex mused, but for now she had youth on her side. She wore her dull brown hair in a headband. Both women were narrow in the shoulder and wide at the hip, and dowdily dressed.

Rex appreciated Shona’s consideration regarding the footwear. He had already had to clean up after the two workmen, and Beardsley’s walking shoes were covered in mud.

“Hope you like Burgundy,” Hamish Allerdice said in a gruff Scottish accent, taking the wine bottles off his daughter. “It’ll go superbly with the venison stew we brought. It’s our chef’s special.”

“Most kind,” Rex murmured. He detested venison. It was too gamey for his taste, and he could never eat it without thinking of the noble beast twitching its nose in the air, alert to danger but blind to its source.

“Your son went off with one of my guests to stalk a hummel,” he told Allerdice. “I hope they find shelter from the rain.”

“Donnie will know what to do,” Flora reassured him. “He’s right at home in the ootdoors. Is the pony with them?”

“No, she’s in the meadow. I should put her in the stable now that it’s raining down hard.”

“I’ll do it,” Beardsley offered. “I’m already wet, and Honey knows me.”

Rex walked back out with him onto the covered stone porch. The stable could accommodate four horses. He had cleaned it out and whitewashed it, and was using it for storage. The gardener had stacked hay in one of the stalls when he cut the grass.

“You’ll find a bucket in there,” Rex told Beardsley. “A hose is attached to the wall if you need to give her water.” He had no clue about horses.

“Terrific. There’s some oats in the van I can feed her.”

“Hurry back.” Rex patted the man on the shoulder. “There’s plenty of drink and food for us too.”

Helen had set up a buffet in the living room overlooking the loch, the view transformed into a blur of rain. Rex decided to light the fire to provide a more hospitable atmosphere on this drab evening.

“Here, let me do that, lass,” he said to Helen who was opening bottles at the drinks cabinet. “You’ve done more than enough already.”

“All right. I’ll go circulate.”

He poured malt whisky for Alistair and Mr. Allerdice. “It’s raining on my parade,” he commented with a rueful glance out the window.

“Not to worry,” Hamish Allerdice replied. “We’re spoilt enough with views over our own loch, don’t you think, Alistair? You’ve visited Loch Lochy.”

“Aye, the view from the hotel dining room is spectacular.”

“One of our guests saw the sea monster a couple of weeks ago,” Hamish boasted. “Our waiter saw it as well. Thought at first it was an upturned boat, but then he spotted three humps and a tail. We sent a photo to the
Inverness News-Press
, and Rob Roy came to check it out.”

“It was probably a couple of seals frolicking in the water,” Rex opined.

“It had the same sleek head, but it was twelve foot long.”

Rex took a closer look at Hamish Allerdice. Nondescript like his wife and prey to the signs of male middle age: thinning hair, thickening midsection, pouchy eyes, and jowly cheeks. Rex commended himself that his own sandstone red hair had stayed intact. Moreover, his bulky frame carried his surplus weight better than Hamish’s shorter stature.
Vanity, thy name is Man!
he chided himself.

“There was another sighting this morning,” Helen said, joining the men, a glass of sherry in her hand. “They were talking about it at the village shop.”

“Aye, that’s right.” Hamish’s eyes lingered on her bust, accentuated by the black halter-neck dress she had changed into upstairs. “Rob Roy wants to interview the old fisherman. Cameron is a local attraction in his own right.”

The journalist entered the room with Cuthbert Farquharson and the adolescent boy, Donnie. Flora jumped to her brother’s side and started fussing over him, pulling the scarf from his neck and using it to mop his face and dark hair. Divested of his deerstalker, Farquharson’s fading blond curls hung limply over his forehead.

“Come and dry yourselves by the fire,” Rex invited.

He crossed to the stereo system and put on a CD of Scottish ballads, which seemed appropriate for the mournful weather. The logs in the fireplace caught flame from the pine kindling and began to blaze cheerfully. Tongues, loosened by alcohol, spoke louder, everyone talking at once about the Loch Lochy phenomenon, which Shona Allerdice said would undoubtedly drum up business for the hotel.

“We’re having a slow season,” her husband explained.

“The creature is naught but a gimmick,” Rex remarked in response to the Allerdices’ comments, his Scots coming out stronger as always in times of emotion. “It’s bad enough hearing all the nonsense aboot Nessie, but now
Lizzie?
Is every loch going to produce its own sea monster?”

Helen laughed. “Oh, Rex, you should be proud of your monsters.”

“I’m proud of Bonnie Prince Charlie, John Knox, Robbie Burns, and all the rest o’ them, and of our turbulent and bloody heritage—not of two-headed freaks of nature lurking in every puddle.”

“It’s not two-headed,” Shona Allerdice corrected him. “It’s a wonderful creature that resembles a serpent, only with flippers and three humps on its back. There’s loads of data proving the existence of a Loch Ness monster. It even has a scientific Latin name, but I forget what it is.”

“
Nessiteras rhombopteryx,
” Rex supplied.

“You see, you’re more informed about it than you like to admit,” Helen cried out with glee. She turned to Shona. “I’d love to catch a glimpse of it to show the boys and girls at my school.” She glanced at her slim gold watch. “Oops, I should go and check on the quiche.”

“Rob Roy is writing an article on our Lizzie,” Shona told Rex proudly. He’s staying at our hotel while he finishes his research. He may even end up writing a book about it. That would definitely put the Loch Lochy Hotel on the map.”

Rex mentally rolled his eyes.
Try serving better food and refurbishing the place with less hokey décor
, he thought. He had stayed at the Loch Lochy Hotel while work was going on at the lodge, since it was conveniently close. It was not somewhere he would stay by choice.

Rob Roy Beardsley nodded in agreement with Shona. “This may be only the tip of the iceberg. There have been sightings of a third monster in this verra loch.”

“My loch?” Rex said, aghast at the thought.

“Aye, Loch Lown.
Lown
means ‘serene’ in Scottish dialect. Did you ken that?”

“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 on earth is so amusing?”

“I—um—er—your husband just told me a joke,” Helen replied, wiping tears from her eyes.

“Really? He’s not usually so funny. Do tell.”

“I—I can’t remember!”

“What? You said he had just told you it.”