Snowbeast!: A Harrowing Thriller by Peter Tremayne

Author:Peter Tremayne [Tremayne, Peter]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Lume Books
Published: 2017-10-24T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

The group of people in the bar at the Rob Roy Hotel looked tense and nervous. Among them, Hughie Fergus sat drinking his fourth glass of whisky with a trembling hand. Cameron’s dog, Bruce, lay at his feet still whimpering softly. MacKail, leaning against the bar and making a pretence of cleaning glasses, glanced up at the wall clock from time to time.

‘Are they not back yet?’ demanded Hughie Fergus for the fifth time.

‘Och, man,’ replied Tam Clunes, ‘it will take the constable and Mister Mitchell a while to get to Cameron’s place and return.’

‘Aye,’ muttered Fergus. ‘Then I suppose you’ll be believing me when I tell you about the Snowbeast!’

Clunes smiled cynically and shrugged.

‘It’s hardly proof of your Snowbeast, Hughie,’ MacKail pointed out. ‘Old Cameron may have toppled from a ladder and fallen on the ploughshare.’

Fergus snorted in disgust.

‘I know what I saw,’ he said doggedly. ‘And the constable and Charles Mitchell will bear me witness.’

It was scarce an hour since Constable Robertson and Charles Mitchell had set off to Cameron’s farm after Hughie Fergus had burst into the Rob Roy Hotel with the grim news of his discovery.

‘Maybe there is something in it,’ observed a fair haired man who farmed the lower slopes of Cairn Toul to the south. ‘I’ve heard the old tale about the Beathach an t-Sneachda often enough. Maybe there is a strange creature up there.’

Tam Clunes exploded with laughter.

‘You’re all a pack of old women. Snowbeasts! Abominable Snowmen!’

‘What about the terrible wailing that we’ve all heard?’ demanded Fergus.

‘An animal,’ replied Clunes with an air of superiority. ‘A wildcat or the howl of a dog.’

MacKail glanced through the bar window.

‘Here they come!’ he snapped.

Charles Mitchell entered the bar a few minutes later followed by a portly, grey haired policeman. They both looked pale.

‘Two glasses of your best malt, MacKail,’ demanded Mitchell as they stamped into the bar, shaking the snow from their clothes. It had been snowing steadily for the last hour. There was a pregnant silence while the drinks were being poured and while the two men drained their glasses.

‘Well?’ prompted Hughie Fergus.

Constable Robertson shrugged.

‘We found old Cameron just as Hughie Fergus said – he was skewered to his own plough. We couldn’t even budge the poor devil.’

A shocked silence greeted the announcement.

‘I’ll have to use your telephone to get through to my headquarters, MacKail,’ added the constable. ‘This storm seems to be interfering with my radio.’

‘Help yourself,’ MacKail said, indicating the lobby where the hotel switchboard was.

Mitchell demanded another whisky. He still looked pale and shaken.

‘Could you tell how it happened?’ asked Tam Clunes.

‘Aye,’ nodded Hector Donald Mor, the old porter. ‘Give us an idea if only to shut up old Hughie Fergus here; him with his tales of Snowbeasts.’

Mitchell was not laughing when he turned round to meet their inquisitive stare.

‘I’ll tell you this; someone or something flung Cameron onto that plough. He could not have fallen there by accident. And I’ll tell you something else . . . before he was thrown on to the plough he was badly mauled, mauled by some animal.

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