Snare by Gwen Moffat Page A

full pelt; Hamish was lucky not to be seriously injured.’
    â€˜He should have controlled the beast.’
    Rose was a small round woman and when she was angry she looked like a fiery robin. Suddenly the fire left her. ‘It’s their land,’ she said miserably. ‘I s’pose the lad can do what he likes when he’s exercising their horses. Alec was in the wrong being there, but Lady Coline never minded no one walking through the park.’
    â€˜No one’s to blame,’ Miss Pink said, ‘It was an accident.’
    â€˜ He’s not going to believe that.’ Rose jerked her head at the ceiling. ‘He’s lying there, in bed. He won’t eat, he won’t talk. He don’t cry any more though.’
    Duncan Millar appeared in the doorway that led to the living quarters: a thickset man in his sixties with a beard, wisps of grey hair showing below his old deerstalker. Like most local men he was a jack of all trades – ghillie, fisherman, estate worker. Now he was out of his depth. ‘He says he’ll kill him,’ he told his wife.
    â€˜He’s talking then?’ Rose was relieved. ‘You mind the shop, and I’ll take him his breakfast. I knew he’d come round; it was the shock.’
    â€˜We can’t let him out.’ Duncan was morose.
    Rose’s eyes went from him to Miss Pink as the meaning penetrated. ‘One of us will have to go with him. But he’ll be wanting to stay in for a time, get his strength back. His turns take a lot out of him.’
    The post van drew up outside and the driver entered with the mail. In the ensuing bustle Miss Pink stepped back and collided with Esme Dunlop, who had come in from the street. They apologised to each other, Esme continuing with voluble explanations of her presence involving a parcel of bulbs and then – ‘How is Alec?’ she asked abruptly.
    Miss Pink told her what she knew – leaving out the part about Alec’s brandishing the tree branch – while Rose busied herself with the mail. Duncan had retreated to the back premises.
    â€˜You saw it all,’ Esme said, her eyes gleaming.
    â€˜From the top of the cliff. How did you know that?’
    â€˜I was visiting Anne Wallace last evening.’ She smiled indulgently. ‘Quite simple, you see. No spying involved. Is that parcel for me, Rose?’
    â€˜No, Miss Dunlop, but I did see a letter here somewhere.’
    â€˜I’ll hang on; I need some bicarb. I eat too fast, that’s my problem –’
    â€˜Here you are, Miss Dunlop.’
    â€˜I don’t know this writing,’ Esme said, taking a small white envelope from her. ‘It’s probably some poor old soul who wants me to sort out her electricity bill or something.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘What it is to be a secretary!’ She unfolded a sheet of paper absently, but as she read her lips parted and she lost colour. Miss Pink could see that the paper bore a short message in letters of differing size and type. Her eyes met Esme’s appalled stare and then the woman turned and blundered out of the shop.
    Rose was occupied with the postman and showed no interest in the scene. Miss Pink stepped outside and saw Esme running towards the cottages on the bend of the Lamentation Road. She reached her front door, pushed it open and stumbled over the sill. The door slammed.
    * * *
    Miss Pink telephoned Beatrice Swan, thanked her for her hospitality of last evening and returned the invitation. She conveyed the latest news of Alec and said that she had to go to Inverness: ‘My typewriter’s jammed. Can I bring you anything?’
    â€˜Please. I need vanilla pods, plain chocolate, leaf gelatine. I’ll tell you where to go ...’
    By ten o’clock she was on the Lamentation Road, coming over the moors on yet another glorious morning. She found herself wondering what she might do when the weather broke. Was it to be