Murder on the Moor

by C. S. Challinor

  Moira was prone to taking long baths, but she would have had to have been inconsiderate in the extreme to voluntarily remain in the bath for hours when people were trying to get in to use the facilities.

  And what about the shadow Flora had seen on the stairs at around twelve-thirty? The apparition with a distorted head and a long knife?

  “A penny for your thoughts,” Helen said, trudging breathlessly beside him. “Actually, I’d give a lot more to know exactly what goes on in your head sometimes.”

  “I’m just trying to sort out this whole mess. Did Moira seem suicidal to you last night?”

  “Hardly. Quite the belle of the ball, I’d say, and enjoying every minute of it.”

  “You were the belle, Helen.”

  “If you say so.”

  Rex stopped in his tracks and turned Helen to face him. Her hood slipped into her eyes as she lifted her face to look up at him. He pulled it back tenderly. “She’s dead, Helen.”

  “I know.” Helen burst into soft tears. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault.” He took her by the arm and together they crested the hill and started down the country road that led to Glen-eagle Village. Droplets of rain detached from the branches of the overhanging trees and fell onto the grass, where clumps of bluebells drooped beneath their watery burden. Sodden leaves clung to their boots as they trudged along. Not one car passed on the winding strip of blacktop.

  “This reminds me of when we escaped to the pub from Swanmere Manor,” Helen told him. Snowbound at an English country hotel owned by a friend of his mother, they had skied down to the village to find the local constable and report a couple of suspicious deaths. “I must be a bad luck charm,” she added miserably.

  “Don’t be daft, Helen. You were nowhere aboot when I had that case in the French West Indies, or in Florida, for that matter.” He let out a heavy sigh. “It’s a wee bit different when it’s on your own turf.”

  “I was thinking … If Moira had had a bit too much to drink, she might have accidentally slipped in the bath and sloshed water all over the floor. Oh, wait,” Helen said before Rex could interrupt her. “That doesn’t explain how she ended up in the lake. But if she was drunk—I mean really drunk, she might have climbed out of the window and decided to take a swim. Then it wouldn’t be a murder at all,” she added hopefully.

  “Does that seem plausible to you?”

  “Her climbing out the window? Not really,” Helen admitted. “I’m just looking at all the angles.”

  “If she had been found in the bath, the suicide theory might hold water—excuse the pun. But turning up dead in the loch … That’s definitely fishy.”

  “I suppose so. That means a murderer is at large, doesn’t it? So, what’s your best guess?”

  “I’m nowhere ready to say.”

  “I knew a penny would be too little for your thoughts. What if I offered you a million pounds?”

  “You don’t have a million pounds. As far as I know.”

  Helen heaved a sigh as she walked in step beside him along the seemingly neverending wet road. “Unfortunately, no. School counsellors aren’t that well paid. And no one in my family has died and left me anything.” She was silent for a moment as the sign for Gleneagle Village came into view at the final bend in the road. “Does Moira have any family who would benefit from her death?”

  “Only a father in Glasgow. But she had nothing, really, except her one-bedroom flat. If she left him anything, which I hope she didn’t, he’d only drink it away. No, Moira was verra much alone in this world.”

  However, he refused to feel guilty. He had been good to her while they were together. He had not even complained when she suddenly decided it was her vocation to go and help the displaced in Baghdad. There she had fallen in love with an Australian photographer and written him a Dear John letter—when she eventually did decide to write. The contents of that letter made him flinch to this day. How she could have expected him to take her back when her lover returned to his wife in Sydney, he could not imagine.

  “Here we are,” he said unnecessarily when they reached the village with its stark gray stone cottages and tiny shops aligned on each side of the road.

  Beside the Gleneagle Arms stood Murray’s Newsagent’s, the name stenciled in black letters across the orange awning. A small-paned window held so many For Sale notices and sundry announcements that it was almost impossible to see through to the inside. A bell rang as they entered. From the newspaper stand, a headline screamed, “Moor Murderer Strikes Again!” Rex picked up a newspaper for Alistair.

  “Guid day tae ye, Mr. Graves,” the wiry newsagent greeted from behind the counter, nodding a polite acknowledgment to Helen. “Whit can I dae for ye?”

  “Is the pay phone down the street working?” Rex asked.

  “Noo, but ye can use the phone in here—if ye’ll mind the shop while I nip round the pub. Is it a local call?” Murray inquired with a suspicious glint in his eye.

  “Aye.”

  The old man plunked the dial phone on Rex’s side of the counter.

  “I also need a tow truck,” Rex informed him.

  “Angus went fishin’. A’ll send him tae the lodge when he returns.”

  Angus owned the local garage. Rex couldn’t think of anyone else who could help with the tyres.

  “A’ll be reit back!” Murray gleefully raided the till, grabbed his cap, and disappeared through the door.

  “He’s a trusting soul,” Helen remarked. “But then you are a Scottish barrister and an officer of the court.”

  “I suppose we could always run off with an armful of Mars Bars and Malteesers,” Rex joked, gesturing toward the display of candy at the counter.

  Pulling the old-fashioned black phone toward him, he dialed 9-9-9 and stated his emergency, adding detailed directions to the lodge. “Aye, that’s right. Off the A82 … between Invergarry and Laggan, north of the swing bridge. Aye, I’m sure the victim is dead,” he told the dispatcher. “Murdered. When can the police get here? … That long?”

  “What’s the delay?” Helen asked when he replaced the receiver.

  “They’re busy with the latest moor murder on top of all the emergencies caused by the rain. They’ll be here as soon as they can, but since the victim is dead, the dispatcher said it wasn’t a priority.”

  “But it’s a murder!”

  “I’m no sure she believed me, and all police resources are concentrated on hunting for Melissa Bates’ killer. Every off-duty constable from Inverness to Perth and from the Atlantic to the North Sea has been deployed in the search.”

  “Isn’t there a local bobby?”

  “Not any more. But not much goes on in Gleaneagle except for the occasional drunken brawl.”

  “Until now.”

  “Until now.” Rex dialed the lodge and then called the phone company to report that the line at his house was still down. “I wonder what’s keeping Murray.”

  “Beer.”

  “I’ll track him down next door and see if someone can take us back to the lodge.”

  “I’ll go,” Helen said. “He specifically asked you to mind the shop.”

  Rex did not much like the idea of Helen going into a pub by herself, but he knew she could take care of herself. After all, a group of lecherous old crofters and shopkeepers could not pose more of a threat than the hormonally active teenagers she worked with at her school.

  While she was gone, he leaned against the counter and perused the story concerning the latest victim in the string of child murders on Rannoch Moor. The article did not offer many more details than Alistair had been able to provide. That the police had a traveling salesman from Inverness in custody was the latest development in the case. Chief Inspector Dalgerry from the Northern Constabulary was quoted as saying he was confident they had the right man for the murders and he hoped the public might rest more easy. A pair of photos accompanied the story, the pug-nosed Dalgerry contrasting starkly with the innocent young face of Meliss
a Bates.

  The shop bell rang, and Helen re-entered with Murray and a midget of a man of about fifty with an impish countenance.

  “This is Mr. Buccleugh, the fish monger,” Helen announced. “He has kindly agreed to lend us his van—for ten pounds. I explained that our car broke down.”

  Good, Rex thought. He did not want to advertise a murder and have nosy-parkers turning up at the lodge and interfering with the evidence until after the police had left.

  “I cleared oot the crates,” Buccleugh said. “Ye can return the van on the morrow.”

  “Most obliged. Is there petrol in the tank?”

  “Enough tae get ye tae Gleneagle Lodge an’ back. Tis the yellow van parked ootside the pub.” He gave Rex a key.

  Rex paid the man and left money on the counter for the newspaper.

  “Guid cheerio the nou!” Murray called after him as he and Helen left the shop.

  Rex felt certain the locals exaggerated the Highland dialect for his benefit. But when he saw the van, he stopped short on the pavement. Now he knew he was the butt of a joke.

  “No way!” This was what his Americanized son would say.

  “It’ll get us there,” Helen said hesitantly.

  The van was a mustard yellow Reliant Regal three-wheeler of the most basic design, with a bare metal floor and a window in the single door at the back. The interior reeked powerfully of haddock.

  Installed on the upright seat, Rex manually rolled down his window to get rid of the stench and pressed the switch for the headlights. His knees embraced the wooden steering wheel in the cramped space, rendering it almost unnecessary to use his hands. Forcing the rickety gear shift in first, they wobbled off down the road. “This is right embarrassing,” he muttered, imagining the villagers laughing their heads off behind their net curtains.

  Helen opened the window on her side and stuck her face out for air. “What a ponk! But at least we don’t have to walk.”

  “I’m verra grateful for the transportation, Helen, but was there really nothing else on offer?”

  “We’re lucky to get this. Seriously. They’re a suspicious lot at the Gleneagle Arms. The looks I got! I suppose they don’t get many visitors. They were still gossiping about a man who came in last night, who was ‘not from around these parts.’” Helen mimicked the Highland accent, instilling the words with distrust and foreboding.

  Rex’s ears pricked right up. “What else did they say?”

  “Well, I knew you’d be interested, so I asked the barman. He told me the man came in asking for directions to Gleneagle Lodge.”

  “Did you get a description?”

  “Average height, around forty, and wearing something on his head. He seemed in a bad mood, apparently. Oh, and he was foreign.”

  “Around here that could mean he’s from Inverness. Did the barman say what time the man came in?”

  “About nine o’clock. And that’s all he could tell me. Most of the regulars were in, he said, and he was busy serving, so he didn’t pay much attention.”

  Rex concentrated on the slippery road as best he could while he assimilated this new piece of information.

  Half a mile out of the village, the blare of a siren assailed them, followed by the persistent sound of a horn. Rex spotted the flashing ambulance in his rearview mirror and rolled onto the grass shoulder out of its way. The back end of the ambulance thundered into the distance.

  “They’ll get there before we do,” Helen remarked.

  “By a long chalk,” Rex added, gunning the accelerator from a standstill as the single front wheel spun uselessly. “We are stuck in the mud.”

  By the time Rex and Helen arrived back at Gleneagle Lodge in the three-wheeler, both of them mud-splattered from head to foot, the ambulance had left.

  “It’s all taken care of,” Alistair said, coming out of the house to meet them. “The medics took the body to the morgue. Here’s the number.” He eyed the yellow van. “Um, may I ask … ?”

  “It’s all we had available to get us back here,” Rex told him. “No one in the village wanted to venture out in this weather. The ambulance ran us off the road and we got stuck in the mud.”

  “I need to go and change,” Helen said, starting toward the house.

  “What about the police?” Rex asked Alistair.

  “No show. And the ambulance had to dash off and respond to another call. I gave the medics all the information. They couldn’t wait around for the police.”

  “So, what’s new here? How are the guests bearing up?”

  “The Allerdices are insisting they have to get back to their hotel. I persuaded them to wait until you returned. Shona is busy throwing together some lunch. Estelle and Flora are helping out.”

  “And the men?”

  “Watching the soccer. All except Cuthbert, who stalked off somewhere in his hunting gear.”

  “Did he now?” Rex said tersely. “I asked him to keep an eye on things at the house.”

  “I couldn’t stop him. He promised he wouldn’t leave the property.”

  “Did he take his rifle?”

  “Aye. He said to tell you not to worry as he didn’t intend to kill anything.”

  This was not very reassuring. “What aboot you, Alistair? Are you okay?” His friend, hunched in his jacket against the wet weather, looked deathly pale. “You’re soaked through.”

  “It was a wee bit emotional seeing that poor woman being carried off in a bag. I’m glad you were not here to witness it.”

  “Did the medics find anything unusual?”

  “Nothing beyond the obvious. They were reluctant to move the body before the police arrived, but I told them we had fished it out of the loch hours ago and there was a chance it might start to decompose. It is, after all, summer. Not that you’d notice.” Suddenly, Alistair grimaced. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to sound callous. I forgot you two had been close.”

  “That’s all right. It was awhile ago. And don’t go believing everything Moira might have told you.” Rex still couldn’t altogether absorb the fact she was dead. “I’m just worried that removing the body prematurely might compromise eventual legal proceedings, in spite of the notes and photographs I took. Still, it’s one less thing to worry about, I suppose. Now I can concentrate on the guests and try to find out who murdered her.”

  “I hope you’re wrong about that. I still think it could have been an intruder. I mean, do you honestly think one of them could have done it?” Alistair thumbed toward the lodge.

  “Killers come in all guises.” Rex reached back into the van. “I brought you a paper. All available bobbies and brass are working on the Melissa Bates case. I was told the police would respond to our emergency when they could.”

  “I have no doubt you’ll figure it out by yourself.” Alistair gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder and directed him under the porch.

  “I don’t have much to go on. Most of the evidence will have been washed away in the rain. I don’t suppose anyone came to fix the phone in my absence so I can call the coroner?”

  “No visitors except for the medics.”

  “There’s not one mobile to be had in the village. Helen inquired at the pub. Too much to hope that Shona found hers … ?”

  “She searched everywhere.”

  Rex sighed in despair. “I arranged for the local mechanic to come. Until then,” he said, pointing to the Reliant, “this is our only set of wheels.”

  “I wouldn’t be seen dead in it,” Alistair declared. “The good news is I doubt anybody will bother sabotaging it.”

  “I should lock it in the stable, just in case—though I doubt it would make it up the hill in the mud. It barely managed the other side on a proper road. Perhaps I should have left it at the top of the hill, but I thought I should keep an eye on it since it’s on loan.”

  “Are you going to keep everyone here?” Alistair asked.

  “At least until I’ve spoken to the coroner. Perhaps he can shed some light on events.”

&
nbsp; “It’s a she. Dr. Sheila Macleod. I impressed upon the medic how urgent this was. In fact, I even got his number.” The look of complicit satisfaction on Alistair’s face left Rex in no doubt as to his meaning.

  “What happened to your solicitor friend? The one who arranged the sale of this house? I’m assuming you and he … ”

  “We had a tiff. I left Edinburgh without my phone on purpose. I hoped—childishly—that he would call and wonder where I was, and I didn’t want to be constantly checking my messages in the hope that he had.”

  “I see.”

  “Sorry about that. However, to redeem myself, I begged a favour off the young medic—John. His aunt just so happens to be Dr. Macleod. He’ll tell her to get right on it, and she’ll contact the procurator fiscal if she determines the death suspicious.”

  “I’m glad something is working to our advantage at last.” Rex glanced at the house. “I’ll join you inside in just a minute. I want to take a quick look around first.”

  He found the pony grazing among his dripping flowerbeds, in the spot where he had left the ladder. Donnie must have let her out of the stable. He could at least have put her in the meadow, Rex fumed to himself.

  “Off with you! Shoo!” he exclaimed, waving his arms at the Shetland, without venturing too close in case she decided to take a bite out of him with her big ivory teeth—the size of piano keys.

  Strolling off, she started nonchalantly nibbling on a rhododendron bush. Rex, though incensed, attended to the more urgent matter of examining the ground beneath the bathroom window. Horse hooves had churned up the soil and grass around the feet of the ladder. No other prints had survived the downpour. However, a thorny vine growing up the wall had been flattened where it grew out of the soil. Moira’s body must have landed there. Unless that, too, was the horse’s doing. Rex regretted not having taken a look before he left for the village, but he had expected the police to arrive.