Snared.pdf

Snared | JL Merrow

M ARTIN used his elbow to ring the doorbell of the Callander

B&B and did his best not to bleed on the paintwork.

ÑGood gracious!Ò The lady who opened the door blinked

up at him like a startled lamb, the resemblance enhanced by

her spry little figure and tightly curled white hair. She

seemed at a loss for any further words. Martin didnÔt blame

her. After all, it wasnÔt every day strange men turned up on

your doorstep with their hands all covered in bloodÐat least,

not in MartinÔs experience, although maybe they did things

differently in Scotland.

ÑMrs. McPherson? We spoke on the phone. Martin

Lowrie. IÔm booked in for the next three nights? I had a bit of

a run-in with the local wildlife,Ò he added, waving his hands

in illustration and wincing as he saw a droplet of blood flying

onto the doormat. ÑSorry about that.Ò

The landladyÔs eyes widened. ÑDear me! Your hands are

cut to ribbons. Come in, young man, come in, weÔll get that

seen to just now.Ò She bustled down the narrow hallway in

front of him in a waft of lavender. Luckily the hall happened

to be tiled, not carpeted, saving Martin the further

embarrassment of trampling mud and blood into the

Axminster. Or was it just luck? Perhaps they did do things

differently in Scotland, after all? Martin grinned to himself at

a sudden vision of the sweet, little old lady turning out to be

some kind of Scottish Sweeney Todd, murdering one weekÔs

guests and serving them up to the next. Mind you, itÔd play

hell with the repeat business.

Snared | JL Merrow

ÑThis way, my dear. Now, letÔs get those hands under

the tap. Och, thatÔs some nasty scratches youÔve got there.

What on earth have you been doing with yourself?Ò

Martin held his hands under the cold water as directed.

The initial stinging gradually eased to a dull throb and then

an icy numbness. ÑYou know, people warned me about the

midges here, butÈ.Ò He laughed, trailing off at her genteelly

raised eyebrows. ÑI found a cat caught in a snare on my way

over,Ò he continued hurriedly. ÑNot very grateful things, cats,

are they?Ò

The old lady turned off the tap and examined his

wounds. ÑWell, if it was a wildcat, youÔll get no gratitude from

one of them, itÔs true enough. So you freed the wee creature,

did you?Ò She turned unexpectedly sharp eyes on him, not

looking away until he nodded. ÑDid you no think to call the

SSPCA?Ò

Martin drew in his breath sharply as she wrapped his

hands loosely in a tea towel. HeÔd have felt bad about ruining

her linen, but the shortbread recipe and improbably colored

picture of the Isle of Skye led him to suspect she wouldnÔt be

too devastated by its loss. ÑWell, yes, in hindsight that might

have been an idea. I donÔt suppose you have any Savlon?Ò

ÑOch, no, weÔll get Dr. Brodie to look at those. Alan?Ò

Martin jumped as her soft, high voice suddenly became a

bellow. A red-headed boy, all gangly limbs and hands too big

for his body, came hurtling down the stairs in a manner so

uncoordinated Martin was amazed he didnÔt fall headlong.

He shot Martin a deeply suspicious glare. ÑGran?Ò

ÑWill you go down the way and ask Dr. Brodie to come

up? This young manÔs in need of some first aid.Ò

Snared | JL Merrow

D R . B RODIE turned out to be somewhere between MartinÔs

age and Mrs. McPhersonÔs, and appeared to be doing his

best to perpetuate single-handedly the stereotype about the

dour Scotsman. ÑWell, youÔre lucky you were wearing thick

sleeves,Ò he admitted with an air of disappointment. ÑIt

doesnÔt look like the creatureÔs teeth have broken your skin.Ò

Martin shrugged as well as he could whilst keeping his

hands still for the doctor. ÑYes, there was a sort of steady,

light rain when I was coming over the topsÐwhat do you call

it round here? Mizzle? So I had my waterproofs on. Just as

well the cat only bit down on my arms, not my hands.Ò

Martin winced involuntarily at BrodieÔs none-too-gentle

touch on a particularly deep scratch. ÑI canÔt really blame it.

The snare was caught around its hindquarters and pulled

tight like a corsetÐit must have been out of its mind with

pain.Ò

Brodie nodded sourly. ÑStill, youÔll be wanting a tetanus

injection for these scratches, lad,Ò he huffed as he finished

dressing MartinÔs wounds. ÑYou can come in after surgery

tomorrow. Eleven-thirty.Ò

ÑAre you sure thatÔs really necessary?Ò Martin had

intended to walk up to Strathyre tomorrow, and this was

going to totally bollocks up his plans.

ÑHave you ever seen a man with the lockjaw? Not a

pretty sight, I can tell you. YouÔd not be scared of a little

needle, now would you?Ò

ÑWhat? No, of course not!Ò Martin defended himself,

annoyed by AlanÔs snigger.

Snared | JL Merrow

ÑGood. Then IÔll see you tomorrow, lad. Good day to you,

Mrs. McPherson.Ò Brodie rose, and Mrs. McPherson saw him

out with a prim smile before heading back into the kitchen.

ÑWell, now. IÔll be getting supper ready just now, so if

you donÔt mindÈ?Ò

Martin stared at herÐthen belatedly realized this was

her polite way of telling him to stop taking up space in her

kitchen. ÑOh! Sorry. IÔll, erÈ right.Ò Grabbing his rucksack,

he escaped into the hall and finally managed to take off his

boots.

Young Alan had become a lot more friendly since finding

out that Martin had been injured helping a wildcat. ItÔd been

a mixed blessing; he took advantage of his captive audience

over supper to have a bloody good rant about farmers who

set snares.

ÑWildcats canÔt be tamed,Ò Alan told Martin earnestly,

the effect slightly marred by the tomato soup moustache he

was currently wearing. Martin made a mental note to check

in the mirror later to make sure he hadnÔt managed

something similar. ÑEven if theyÔre reared in captivity they

keep their wild nature. Bite your hand off soon as look at

you, they would. ThatÔs why your one attacked you. ItÔs their

instincts, you see? They donÔt trust you not to turn on them

again. And theyÔre not wrong.Ò His ears reddened as he

became more heated. ÑWildcats only hunt because they need

to eat. I think people who set snares ought to try getting

caught in one themselves. See how they like it!Ò

Martin recoiled inwardly at the violence of the boyÔs

tone. If Mrs. McPherson was murdering guests, he thought

only half-jokingly, young Alan was definitely in on the plot.

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