Murder on the Moor by C. S. Challinor Page B

this time,” Hamish replied.
    Rex noticed that the men had all helped themselves to his stock of Guinness. Cans littered the end tables. Rob Roy sat in his leather wing armchair, a beer clasped in his lap.
    “I pray this time they did,” Alistair concurred. “I hope they checked out Collins’ alibi thoroughly first. It’s funny how he always seems to have a good one available.”
    “If it’s not Collins after all, you can’t go on blaming yourself for his acquittal,” Rex pointed out.
    “I know when someone is lying. He’d have to prove he was more than a hundred miles from Rannoch Moor yesterday before I’d believe him, and it would have to be God vouching for him.”
    “Rannoch Moor is a vast stretch of wasteland,” Hamish said, slurring his speech and causing Rex to wonder exactly how many beers he had consumed. “I visited there once and remember thinking I’d never want to break down in a lonely pla sh like that. They cut down most of the trees, you know, to prevent villains from lurking in the fore sh . Have you ever been there, Rob?”
    “Can’t say that I have.”
    “I know it quite well,” Rex told them. “I used to hike across Rannoch Moor, precisely because of the solitude. There’s a lot of wildlife, as you’d expect in such an unpopulated area.”
    Rex actually knew the area better than most. Surrounded by mountains, Rannoch Moor brooded across fifty square miles, rising to over one thousand feet above sea level, the whole substratum of granite gouged by glens, slashed by rivers, and pitted with lochs. Gnarled roots of old pine trees from the ancient Caledonian forest beckoned from the peat. No road connected the moor from east to west, where deep bog swallowed everything put in its path.
    By virtue of being so desolate, it provided a haven for all sorts of bird, animal, and plant life, which he had duly noted on his hikes. The shores and islets of trout-filled lochs attracted goosander, black-throated diver, and red-breasted merganser, while curlew and grouse haunted the heathery slopes. Golden eagles and osprey circled the rocky summits where hare and roe deer roamed undisturbed for the most part. Fragrant myrtle abounded in the bogs and a particular plant grew exclusively in the region, which was indeed a treasure trove for the observant nature lover.
    “No sign of Cuthbert?” he asked in a casual tone.
    “He went off in his daft hat after the ambulan sh left,” Hamish told him. “He said your advocate friend Alistair could take over.”
    “Trust that aristocratic twit to shirk his duties,” Alistair remarked.
    Rex could not agree more. The investigation of Moira’s death was not proceeding as anticipated, but he was on one right track. He could feel it in the tingle at the back of his neck—a sure sign he was onto something important.

Rex left the men to discuss the Moor murders and went to check on the women, who were bustling around in the kitchen, chatting nonstop as women do. However, the chatter ceased when he entered. Presumably they had been talking about Moira.
    “Oh, hello, Rex,” Shona said in a fluster, drying a wine glass. “We’re reheating the venison stew for lunch. There are loads of leftovers from last night, so we won’t starve.”
    “Did you pick up any groceries in the village?” Estelle Farquharson wanted to know. “We’re about to run out of milk.”
    “It skipped my mind.” Rex glanced for assistance at Helen, who was preparing a green salad.
    “I told you, Estelle,” she explained. “We went to find a phone and to get hold of the garage owner. Unfortunately, the villagers don’t seem to feel a pressing need to get anything done in a hurry. I suppose it would all be rather quaint if we weren’t in such a fix.”
    “Well, when is the man with the tow truck due to arrive?” Estelle demanded.
    “Soon,” Helen replied firmly.
    Rex privately thought they might not see him until next week. Equipped with plaid pot holders, Estelle removed