Murder at Midnight by C. S. Challinor Page B

Inspector Dalgerry at Fort Wil liam Police Station and, eventually getting him on the line, after waiting for him to call back, explained the situation at Gleneagle Lodge and expressed his concern that the police had not yet arrived.
    The chief inspector assured him that assistance was on its way. “The dispatcher, who knows my son, called me at home, Mr. Graves. He thought I would like to know since it was your place, again.”
    Dalgerry had headed up the Moor Murders Case and, although Rex had solved the crime, he had let the chief inspector take most of the credit. Rex wasn’t so much interested in fame as in the satisfaction of finding out whodunit . The two of them engaged in a cautious professional acquaintance, the officer according Rex grudging respect, and Rex, in turn, cognizant of the chief inspector’s rank and experience.
    “Aye, I’m beginning to regret buying this place. It was supposed to afford me some peace and quiet.”
    Dalgerry chuckled over the phone. “Och, you love all the drama. And from what I hear, this one’s a real gem. I’m in my car now heading up the A82, approximately half an hour away, depending on road conditions, which are verra bad.” The chief inspector spoke in a growl, with a heavy Highland accent.
    Rex thanked him and rang off while some charge was still left on his cell phone. He sat quietly at the kitchen table to reflect on what could most expediently be achieved in the short time before the police arrived. Little progress had been made other than the discovery of the dart, which in and of itself was certainly important, except that it could have been shot by almost anyone in the room, and just conceivably by someone not invited to the party.

9 a hero ’ s tale
    Without the other piece of the weapon, it was impossible to tell how far the dart had traveled in Ken’s case. The roughly symmetrical wound suggested a direct shot. What level of expertise had been required to deal a fatal blow to Ken, and who possessed such expertise?
    Unlikely it was Vanessa. The idea was almost laughable. Nobody truly believed it was her dart, even though it had been found in her clutch. She had offered a plausible reason for having it and had been believable; unless she was a consummate actress, and her daughter took after her in that department. Rex ran agitated fingers through his beard and flung himself back in his chair. Think, think, he exhorted himself, staring up at the ceiling. A pipe, or whatever device had launched the dart, must exist, else why would the killer have used a dart? And it was imperative they locate any remaining darts. Rex wished they had adequate light to make a thorough search and speed up progress. Presumably the police would come prepared. However, he wanted to find more evidence before anyone had a chance to hide anything.
    He pushed himself out of the kitchen chair and went to re-join his guests, surprised to find them listening intently to Ace Weaver in his wheelchair. It appeared the old man was regaling them with a tale of escape from Flanders when his Spitfire was shot down in 1943 by a German Focke-Wulf 190 fighter. He now formed an integral part of the group, his wheelchair turned about, and he seemed remarkably revived. His voice, though it quavered in places, was strong, his eyes bright and alert. His wife nodded and expressed surprise at appropriate moments even though she must have heard his war stories numerous times before. Zoe regarded her father fondly and twiddled a long tendril of coppery hair.
    Rex sat down beside Helen on the sofa and waited, all but writhing with impatience, until the ex-airman finished narrating his story of an adolescent boy in a brown cap and loose trousers bringing him food and hiding him in an applecart out in the meadow while the Germans searched the farmhouse and outbuildings, one of them going so far as to prod him under the fruit with a pitchfork, almost discovering him. In the nick of time, the quick-witted Emile,