M.C. Beaton - Death of a Glutton

Biting down on his bad temper, Blair said heavily, “There isnae a detective story on the market which bears any relation tae real life.”

“Oh, really,” said Deborah brightly, “you don’t look like the sort of man who reads anything.” She had not meant to be bitchy, it was meant as a straightforward observation, but she plunged even lower in Blair’s opinion.

Nevertheless, he took her through her movements on the evening Peta had died with a certain amount of civility. Blair saved the worst of his bullying for the lower classes. “I went out for a walk,” said Deborah. “I went over to the stables to see if they had any horses, but they didn’t have any. I met one of the gamekeepers, and he said Priscilla used to have a horse but it died some time ago and that the colonel was thinking of turning the stables into guest rooms.”

“Do you know the gamekeeper’s name?”

“No, but he was small with close-set eyes and red hair. He was wearing…” Deborah was just getting into her lady-detective act when Hamish interrupted. “That’d be Dougie.”

“Aye, we’ll see him later. Now what can you tell us about the others, Miss Freemantle?”

“Gosh! That’s a tall order. Crystal’s an empty-headed type and I don’t think she thinks of much other than clothes. I don’t think she particularly disliked her aunt. Mary French terrifies me.”

Blair looked at her alertly. “Why?”

Deborah giggled. “She’s just like my old form mistress. A real terror.”

Blair frowned. “Go on. John Taylor.”

“Dry old stick. Bit of a bore. Prissy. Couldn’t murder a fly.”

“Jessica Fitt?”

“Oh, her. Dreary.” Deborah leaned forward. “It’s my opinion that Peter Trumpington has an Oedipus complex.”

“Whit’s that, in the name?”

“A man who loves his mother or women who remind him of his mother,” said Deborah loftily.

“Spare me the psychology,” groaned Blair. “Maria Worth?”

“Oh, she’s nice. I mean, what you see is what you get. She wanted rid of Peta, but she wouldn’t kill her.”

“Sir Bernard Grant?”

Hamish saw Deborah’s normally cheerful face harden. “One of those ruthless business types. He could have paid someone to bump her off.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s what that kind of man does!”

“Miss Freemantle,” said Hamish, “on the day of the boat trip you were holding hands with Sir Bernard. Why the change of heart?”

Deborah blushed, an ugly blotchy-red blush. “He was begging me to marry him, but of course Mummy and Daddy would not be pleased. He’s too old and a bit common.”

“Isn’t your change of heart because Sir Bernard was pursuing Peta the minute he learned she was worth three million and you felt your nose had been put out of joint?” pursued Hamish.

“Well, really, what an insane idea!” spluttered Deborah. “You should leave the questioning to your superiors. You do not have the experience for a murder inquiry.”

Blair gave her a more tolerant look. “Aye, well, we’ll be talking to you again later. Send Mr Taylor in.”

“Before you talk to Mr Taylor,” said Hamish quickly, “at the beginning of his visit, he said something about having seen one of the party before, and in court, too, but he could not remember which one.”

“We should know which one for ourselves soon,” said Blair, trying to look uninterested. “The backgrounds on this lot should be coming over the fax soon.”

John Taylor came in and sat down quietly. “I believe,” said Blair, “that you said earlier that you knew one of the party had been in court. Can you tell us which one?”

“No,” said John. “It was just an impression. I have attended so many cases. Probably wrong.”

His legs were crossed and his hands were clasped on one knee. Hamish noticed them tighten as he said this and wondered whether he really had recognized the person.

Blair asked him about his movements on the night of Peta’s death and John said he had gone to bed. He was feeling his years.

“I have to ask you this, sir,” said Blair in a grovelling voice because lawyers terrified him, particularly top-ranking English ones, “why does a gentleman like yourself employ the services of Checkmate?”

“That is simple,” said John. “I am getting on in years. My children left home long ago and are now married with families of their own. I am lonely. I am too old to start dating and it is hard for me to find the right kind of female.”

“Who had Maria chosen for you?” interposed Hamish quickly.

“That schoolteacher, Mary French. Most unsuitable.”

“She certainly is considerably younger than you,” said Hamish.

“That kind of woman was born looking old,” said John drily.

“But,” protested Hamish, who had sneaked a look at Maria’s files before the questioning began, “you said you wanted a woman of child-bearing years. Why?”

“Such information,” said John angrily, “is confidential, and Checkmate undertook never to reveal any of it.”

“They weren’t expecting a murder case,” said Hamish patiently. “Why?”

John Taylor took a deep breath. Oh, what had ever persuaded him to become a client of Checkmate!

“I am not going to tell you,” he said in measured tones, “because it has no bearing on the case. The information in my file must be kept secret from the press, otherwise I will sue Checkmate, and you, too, for breaking confidentiality. Do I make myself clear?”

He had risen to his feet as he said this and looked formidable.

“Now, now,” said Blair in a wheedling tone, “you mustn’t pay any attention to our local bobby, sir. That’ll be all for now.”

When John Taylor had walked out, Blair rounded on Hamish.

“That’s a Queen’s Counsel, you daft pillock. Ye cannae go around asking cheeky questions.”

“The job of a good policeman,” said Hamish primly, “is to ask cheeky questions. He was lying.”

“Havers. Send the next one in, Anderson.”

Peter Trumpington was next. He said that, yes, he had watched a French movie with Jessica. The only reason he could think that someone might have killed Peta was because of sheer disgust. “You didn’t see her,” he said to Blair. “Mealtimes were a nightmare.”

Sir Bernard was next. He said he had gone out for a walk. He was asked whether he had been paying court to Peta and he said frankly it had crossed his mind to try his luck because three million pounds was not to be sneezed at.

“And was that why Miss Freemantle became angry with you?” asked Hamish.

“I suppose so,” said Sir Bernard miserably. “Such a silly little girl.”

“A silly little girl you were holding hands with on the day of the boat trip,” put in Hamish.

“Well, I thought she was a jolly sort, but then I went off her,” said Sir Bernard. “Anyway, what has all this got to do with the murder?”

“We’re just feeling our way, sir,” said Blair, throwing a nasty look at Hamish, a look tinged with jealousy. Hamish’s Highland lack of snobbery and his ability to ask questions of rich and poor without making any difference between them always riled Blair.

Matthew Cowper, Jenny and Mary French were still to be interviewed. Sir Bernard came out but said nothing to them and disappeared into the grounds. They all waited anxiously to be called.

But inside, Blair had just received a phone call from Peta Gore’s lawyers. “Now here’s something,” he said, his piggy eyes gleaming. “On the evening of her death, Peta phoned up her lawyer at home, that’s the senior partner, Mr Wotherspoon, and told him she would be changing her will. He said naturally that she should wait until her return to London and call in at the office and sign the papers, but she said she wanted it done right away and would fax him a temporary will in the morning. “That niece of mine is a useless slut,” she said. But she didnae say who the new beneficiary was. Now if Crystal knew her aunt was about to change her will, there’s a motive. Get her in here again!”