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

fact that Helen was not beside him before falling back into a deep slumber. Later, as dull light began to seep in around the curtains, he felt her warmth in the bed and thought how lovely it would be not to have to get up before some decadent hour of the morning. Nine o’clock would be heaven.
    As he half rose from the pillows to peer at the luminous hands on the alarm clock, he became aware of an incipient headache, which he attributed to the whisky he had consumed the night before, and which he might have been able to sleep off given half a chance. As it was, the house was already alive with the sounds of people rising and preparing for the day.
    At just after seven, as he was shuffling out of the bedroom in his slippers to see to his guests, Flora accosted him on the landing. “Do you mind if I use your bathroom? Someone’s in the cloakroom downstairs and I’ve not been able to get into the one upstairs since yesterday night.”
    “Maybe the door’s jammed.” Rex tried the knob on the bathroom door. “It’s locked.” He knocked. “Hello? Is anybody in there?”
    Flora, standing beside him with her thighs squeezed together, wore a pained look on her face.
    “By all means, use ours,” he told her. “Helen went down to the kitchen.”
    The young woman scooted into his bedroom. He knocked again at the bathroom door.
    “What time does the paper arrive?” Cuthbert asked, emerging from his room.
    “The boy usually delivers the papers before six.”
    “No sign of them, old chap. I’ve already been down. Maybe he couldn’t get here because of the rain, though it’s eased off a bit now.”
    “He comes on his bicycle, but he’s never missed a delivery, even in snow.”
    Hamish Allerdice came out of his room, bleary-eyed and unshaven. “Morning,” he croaked. He rattled the bathroom doorknob and swore. “Someone’s in there. I haven’t been able to get in all night. Had to go downstairs.”
    “Flora said the same thing,” Rex informed him. “I really don’t want to break down the door. Perhaps it locked itself. I’ll go and see if I can get in through the window.”
    He mooched down the stairs and changed into his Wellingtons. Voices burbled from the kitchen. The faucet was running in the cloakroom. He imagined everyone must be up by now. Stepping outside the front door, he was struck by the penetrating chill. A dreary rain persisted through the wan early morning light. Mist decapitated the tops of the hills and floated in wreaths across the silvery loch. A shiver coursed through his body and soul.
    Turning the corner of the lodge, he glanced up at the bathroom window. He suspected it was locked, since it was close to a drainpipe and therefore accessible to a determined burglar. Still, it was worth checking before he caused damage to the bathroom door.
    He kept a ladder in the stable. Pulling the back of his sweater over his head, he made a run for it, splashing through the puddles in the gravel driveway and splattering mud on his jeans.
    At the near end of the stable, Donnie lay cocooned in his blanket on the trundle bed, snoring peacefully. Coals glowed in the free-standing heater, generating a pleasant warmth within the confines of the white-washed walls. Careful not to wake the boy, Rex grabbed the ladder from where it stood beside the power lawn mower, scythe, and sundry other garden utensils at the opposite end and, hoisting it onto his shoulder, trudged back through the rain.
    Extending it to its full length, he propped it against the wall of the house and climbed to the bathroom window above the library. To his great relief, he found the sash window unlocked and managed to push it open with ease. As he did so, he remembered that this window had been on the McCallums’ to-do list. It had been jammed shut from hardened paint when he purchased the house. They must have unstuck it and forgotten to lock it afterward. What a pair of incompetent fools! He should have hired someone else.
    The window