Dewar had been helpful in filling in some of the background details and Faro was now almost certain that no wounded bull had been involved and that horns, stolen earlier from the inn's public bar, were the murder weapon, inflicting the fatal wound to lead the doctor and the two local policemen away from the truth, that Sir Archie had met his death at the hands of some person or persons as yet unknown.
He decided that a talk to the village doctor was his next step but, perhaps of greater importance, a visit to the angry young nephew Hector whose excavations of the hillfort were within sight of the copse where his uncle had died.
In weather unreliable from hour to hour, vacillating from warm sunshine to driving rain, he set forth from the inn wrapped about temporarily in the splendour of an afternoon when the world held its breath.
Here was a day that had never heard of grey skies, of storms and cruel winds as it basked in the dazzling greens and innocent white blossom of a May morning. A lark blissfully hurled its triumphant song into a sky of celestial blue as he quickened his steps up the road.
To reach the hillfort he had to cross a strip of open pasture, domain of the wild cattle, and, leaving the road, he opened the gate cautiously, breathing freely again when he saw they were far up the hill. But even at that distance he felt naked and vulnerable, for they ceased grazing and fixed their eyes on him, all heads suddenly turned in his direction, as if they were well aware of his unease.
Hurrying towards the hillfort, he realised this was another wasted journey. There was no sign of Hector Elrigg, although his absence provided a chance to inspect the excavations more closely. He was not sure what he hoped to find, but it offered no helpful clues to the solution of the mystery.
Changing direction, he walked rapidly to the shelter of the trees across the deserted field, where he again examined the spot where Dewar had found Elrigg. Apart from a few broken branches the ground had healed and there was nothing to connect murder with that fatal misadventure.
Enjoying the warm sunshine on his back, he sat down on a large stone to enjoy a pipe. The crumbling wall beside him was part of a winter pen to give the sheep shelter. Looking round idly, he noticed what appeared to be the tip of a broken branch sticking out between the stones.
A sharp tug released it from its anchor. No branch emerged but the singly stiletto-sharp horn of a bull. He gazed at it triumphantly. He had not the slightest doubt that what he held as once part of the pair stolen from the inn.
The murder weapon.
He examined it more closely: the ominous dark stain on the tip could be dried blood. Deciding this evidence might be useful and not wishing to be seen with it in his possession, he tucked it up his jacket sleeve for a closer inspection later.
Emerging from the copse, his back was now turned towards the cattle but the trees concealed him from their gaze. He was not consoled for although there were no animals visible except for a few grazing sheep, his mind dwelt nervously on fences and open gates.
Not only the king bull was dangerous, he realised, but a young and skittish male, moving apart from the herd and for reasons of its own, of a possible homicidal disposition, could be equally damaging when on the rampage.
He walked quickly in the direction of the road and, conscious of the lack of any shelter, glanced back frequently over his shoulder. Alert at every sound, he found himself reliving that moment in his childhood near his aunt's Deeside croft more than thirty years ago.
How terrifyingly the ground had shaken under his feet at the thunderous charge, the snort of rage as the great red shaggy beast hurtled towards him through the mist.
He knew how narrowly he had escaped death that morning and, for years afterwards, he had awakened screaming with the smell of the enraged Highland bull's hot breath on his neck, its murderous sharp horns at his heels...
Shuddering from remembrance, he was within sight of the gate leading to the road when the chill gathering about his shoulders was not from fear but from a black sky replacing what had been cloudless sunshine minutes ago.
The next moment the cloud burst overhead and hailstones pelted down on him. He began to run...
Thunder rattled across the sky, shaking the hills and, almost within safety and the fenced road, he heard the ground echoing with the monstrous sound of hoofs...
CHAPTER 10
The beast pounding towards Faro along the road was no wild bull, merely a rather stout horse and trap bearing an elderly gentleman sheltering under a large umbrella.
'Whoa!' And stopping alongside, he leaned out. 'Care for a lift?'
'I would be most grateful.'
As Faro climbed in, the man who was clad in a handsome tweed greatcoat handed him a waterproof cape. 'Keep the worst of the rain off you, although I dare say it'll pass over in a minute.'
Even as he spoke, the sun came out again, scudding across the field, and the angry clouds were swept away, their rain sheets now lying heavily to the east.
'That's that,' said the man, closing the umbrella. 'I'm Dr Brand, by the way.'
An unexpected stroke of luck, Faro thought, as the doctor continued: 'Saw you crossing the field. Out walking, were you?' Acquainted with everyone in the village, he was obviously curious about this stranger and it was in Faro's own interest to enlighten him.
'Oh, I see. An insurance assessor. Of course,' the doctor nodded sympathetically, 'the family can take no chances.'
'I suppose you examined Sir Archie,' said Faro tentatively.
'I did indeed. Nothing I could
