Disappointingly, there were no ready clues such as one set of footprints or a dropped button. The whole area was scuffed over as if someone had swept it with a large branch. Gertrude snuffled about, and sneezed. Then she backed away from an area and growled at it.
When Mr. McOwen looked to see what she was fussing about, he found a tidbit of dried meat surrounded by several dead mice and voles. “Someone trying to poison the wildlife, I guess.” He carefully picked up the tidbit with his handkerchief. Perhaps someone would have some idea as to what was on it.
Mr. McOwen didn’t like poison. When an area needed cleared of a predator, he preferred to use the dogs and drive it out. Poisons were too likely to get the wrong creature. Canny predators tended to leave it alone, but these little ones had been enticed to their death as could be others. He briefly considered picking up the dead animals as well, but decided against it. There were too many of them, and he had no idea what he would do with them if he did take them.
When he and Gertrude came out from under the willow, she started up the riding path that led to the upper meadows. She looked back over her shoulder to see if he was following.
He swung up on his horse, signaled the dog that she could pursue whatever it was and followed her. Curiously, she went straight up the trail, zigzagging from side to side, the white plume of her tail waving in the air, her red ears pricked forward as she snuffled the ground.
She soon stopped snuffling, and bounded up the trail. She did not leave it as she might have for a fox or some other wild creature. Instead she ran steadily, without stopping, until she came to one of the shepherd’s way stations. Mr. McOwen swung down off his horse. Looping the reins on a convenient post near a sheep pen, he followed the hound into the low shed.
It was an odd sight that met his eyes. It looked as if someone had set up a meeting. Bales of sod were piled at one end to make a sort of rough podium, while planks were placed across more bales to form a rude seat.This cannot bode well. I need to get back and tell the Duke about this at once.
With that thought, Mr. McOwen went back outside, mounted his horse, whistled to Gertrude, and rode back down the mountainside toward the castle at nearly the same time as Inspector Ravensgard was entering the village from the mountains on the other side of the valley.
Chapter 30
Inspector John Ravensgard drew rein at the top of the valley. They had been traveling hard for the last four days, steadily climbing the hills up from Edinburgh. The two footmen wearing Gwyndonmere livery pulled up beside him, the third turned back from where he was riding point.
“Is there a problem, Inspector?” the lead man asked.
“No, no problem. Just getting the lay of the land, as it were.”
It was beautiful land, spread out as if it were a child’s playhouse on a bright quilt. The sun, which had been absent through most of their journey came out and illuminated the scene below. The castle, a great structure of rough stone, stood at the edge of the lake, with the tributary stream coming down out of the mountains on the opposite side.
The village was located near a spillway from the lake where the overflow connected with the river. Inspector Ravensgard could make out a mill, a scattering of outer buildings, neat rows of cottages with gardens out behind, and the sun glinting off what looked like glass.
“What are the shiny buildings?” The Inspector pointed with his chin.
“Oh, those be the orangeries, Inspector,” the lead footman replied. “The late Duke, the current Duke’s father, had them built. Cost a pretty penny I’m told, but well worth it. There’s nothing like having a bit of green with your neeps and taties in tha winter.”
“Forward thinking of him. Shall we go down?”
For the next hour the small party rode down a snake trail of a road that switched back and forth across the steep slope. As it neared the bottom it both widened and straightened, ending in a nicely constructed bridge that was wide enough for two carts to cross abreast.
“Will you have a cleanup and a bit o’ luncheon before you go on up to the castle, Inspector? A room has been made ready for you at the Blind Sheep Inn, and I doubt not they will make a room at the castle, as well.”
“I could use with a wash and a bite. But only a short one, so’s not to go before the Duke in all my travel dirt.”
The wash and bite were quickly done, the inn keeper anxious to get the special visitor on his way to the Duke. Despite the haste, the inspector noted, the food was hot, the bath was warm, and his boots came back to him quickly, well-blacked, and his dusty, travel-stained clothing was brushed and redded up as well as might be without the attentions of a laundress.
Fortunately, the Inspector had a fresh shirt and small clothes in his saddle bags. Fed, and feeling much more presentable, the Inspector made ready to mount up and continue on his way to Castle Gwyndonmere. With perceptions perhaps sharpened by a well-fed belly, he noticed two gaudy little wagons similar to those often used by the Travelers.
“What are the wagons?” he asked his guide, the lead footman. The other two had gone on ahead to alert the castle.
“Oh, those are a whim of the Duke’s. A year or so ago, he was much taken with the appearance and efficiency of these little cart houses, and commissioned a passing band of Traveler wheel rights to make these. He intended them for use at the sheep camps, but the shepherds have their own gear and their huts so they’ve remained unused.”
“If you’ll mount up, Inspector, we’ll be up to the castle in a trice, and you’ll no doubt be welcomed since the Duke sent for you.”
Seeing the sense in this, the Inspector quickly mounted up. After a short ride, he was met by a stable lad who took his horse, then by a punctiliously correct butler of such venerable age it was all the inspector could do not to scream at the ponderous pace at which the old fellow escorted him to the Duke’s study.
At the door, the butler tapped gently then intoned sonorously, “Inspector John Ravensgard from Edinburgh to see you, Your Grace.”
“Come in, come in,” called a quiet, cultured voice.
The butler opened the door, and gestured for the Inspector to enter.
“Allow me to introduce His Grace, Jonathan Harper, Duke of Gwyndonmere, and Mr. Ahmlad McAhmladhson, Steward of Gwyndonmere,” the butler said. “Your Grace, Mr. McAhmladhson, please meet Inspector John Ravensgard from Edinburgh.” The elderly retainer then moved as if he would withdraw.
