M.C. Beaton: Death of a Gentle Lady

“Well…”

“I’m afraid I got unnecessarily upset over a joke played on me by a silly policeman.”

“Tell me all about it,” said Priscilla, and she led the author from the office and into the bar.

♦

“I’m going to interview the family,” said Jimmy that morning.

“Who’s all going to be there?” asked Hamish.

“There’s daughter Sarah, and son Andrew with his wife, Kylie, their two children, John and Twinkle – ”

“And what ?”

“Believe it or not, Twinkle is her name. There’s also a nephew, Mark Gentle.”

“Take me with you,” urged Hamish.

“Well, sit in a corner and keep your mouth shut.”

♦

Mrs. Gentle had had the speech and manners of an upper-class lady. Her daughter, Sarah, although tall and rangy, had the same accent as her mother – the result of a good finishing school in her late teens. Andrew Gentle and his wife, Kylie, came as a surprise. Andrew was stocky and very hairy. His thick brown hair grew low on his forehead and he had hair on the back of his hands, making them look like paws. He was wearing an open-necked shirt displaying a great tuft of chest hair. His accent showed traces of cockney. Kylie was tall and anorexic-thin. She had a stiff, expressionless face – Botox, thought Hamish – and masses of artificially red hair. Her vivid blue eyes were the result of contact lenses. Her unexpectedly generous breasts, revealed by a low-cut blouse, hung on her skeletal figure like ripe fruit on a withered tree. Her accent was highland – or maybe more island, decided Hamish after listening carefully. Although soft, it held the fluting tones of the Outer Hebrides.

Andrew, it transpired, was fifty years old and his wife, forty-eight.

Daughter Twinkle was twenty-five. She had a classy accent, but that was the only thing classy about her. She had inherited her father’s stocky figure. Her skin was sallow, her eyes brown, and her large mouth set in a perpetual pout.

Son John was twenty-three, tall, willowy, and effeminate. He had dirty-blonde hair worn long. His voice was pleasant but was marred by a faint lisp. Hamish noticed that he looked frightened.

Nephew Mark Gentle had a London accent. He was handsome in a rugged way: well built with a good head of blonde hair and clear grey eyes. His hands were red and callused. Hamish wondered what he did for a living.

Jimmy said he would interview them one at a time, starting with Andrew, and asked if there was a suitable room. Andrew suggested the study.

Jimmy, flanked by Andy MacNab, was to conduct the interview. A policewoman was there to take notes, even though the interviews were to be recorded. Hamish sat in a corner of the study and looked around with interest.

He doubted whether Mrs. Gentle had ever used the room. It had a masculine flavour. There was a large Victorian desk and several hard chairs. Sporting prints hung on the walls; a stuffed fox snarled in its glass case on a cabinet by the window. The room was very cold.

Jimmy shivered. “Before we begin the questioning, Mr. Gentle, is there any way of heating this room?”

Andrew left and came back with an old-fashioned two-bar electric heater decorated with fake coals on the top and plugged it in.

“How is the rest of the place heated?” asked Hamish.

“Coal fires in the rooms,” said Andrew.

But not in Irena’s, thought Hamish.

Glaring at Hamish, Jimmy began the questioning. He already had in front of him a list of names, ages, and addresses. After the usual preliminaries for the tape recorder, he began. Where had Andrew been during the last week? Andrew said he had been at his office in the City of London.

“You visited your mother for a family reunion,” said Jimmy. “What was that all about?”

“She wanted to discuss her will. It was very straightforward: half to me and half to my sister, Sarah.”

“Was your mother afraid of anyone?”

“No.”

“Did you speak to the girl we now know as Irena when you were here?”

“Of course. She was the hired help. I’d ask her to fetch me a coffee, things like that.”

“What time did she get off?”

“I don’t know. Sarah’ll probably know. She was staying here before Mother turfed her out.”

“When you were here, are you sure nothing was said to upset or frighten your mother in any way?”

“Not a thing,” said Andrew.

Lying, thought Hamish.

Jimmy persevered with a few more questions and then asked Andrew to send his wife in.

Kylie tottered in on her very high heels. She crossed her legs, letting her skirt ride up. The room was still cold, and her nipples stood out sharply against the thin fabric of her blouse.

No bra. Boob job, thought Hamish. Proud of it, too. Would rather die of cold than cover them up.

“Now, Mrs. Gentle…”

“Call me Kylie.”

“Your accent sounds local. Are you originally from around here?”

“I was brought up in South Uist.”

“And how did you meet your husband?”

“I got out of South Uist as soon as I could and got a job as an air hostess. I met Andrew when he was on a business flight to the States.”

“Think carefully, Kylie. Was there anything at the family reunion to upset Mrs. Gentle?”

“Get one thing straight. My mother-in-law specialised in upsetting people, not the other way round.”

“Did she upset anyone?”

“All of us. Let me see, her beloved Andrew was the only one who escaped. She constantly referred to me as the stick insect, she sneered at Sarah because Sarah hadn’t yet found a job and was desperate for money, she called my daughter, Twinkle, Twinkle Little Tart, she called my son a poofter, and she told Mark it was no use him hanging around, he wasn’t getting any money.”

“What about the girl, Irena?”

“Treated her like a slave. I don’t know why she put up with it. Quite a beauty. I think she was jealous of the girl. Margaret always was a jealous bitch. I hated her, but I didn’t murder her.”

“With all these insults flying around, surely someone threatened Mrs. Gentle.”

“Nobody dared. She didn’t tell us the terms of the will until we were all ready to go. Everyone was frightened of not getting a penny.”

“Why should the nephew, Mark Gentle, expect anything?”

“He’s Andrew’s uncle’s boy. Couldn’t make him out. You’d better ask him.”

Hamish spoke up from his corner. “Who was Mrs. Gentle married to?”

“A financier, Byron Gentle.”

“When did he die?”

“Just after Sarah was born.”

Jimmy glared at Hamish but Hamish ignored him.

“What did he die of?”

“A heart attack. That’s where Ma Gentle got all her money from.”

Jimmy interrupted. “Where were you during the past few days?”

“I was in London with my husband. We’ve got a live-in maid. You can ask her.”

“Thank you. Please send in Mark.”

When Kylie had left, Jimmy rounded on Hamish. “What was the point of your questions?”

“I just wondered if there was something in the family’s past that Irena had overheard, something that she thought she could blackmail someone with.”

Mark Gentle strolled in. He seemed very much at his ease.

“Were you invited to the family reunion?” asked Jimmy.

“Yes, I wouldn’t have come otherwise. Aunt Margaret always had a soft spot for me.”

“And yet she left you nothing in her will.”

“As a matter of fact, she did.”

“But we understand that she was leaving her money equally divided between her son and daughter.”

Mark gave a lazy smile. “That was her intention. But the old will still stands, and in it I get a whack of money.”

“Do the rest of the family know this?”