M.C. Beaton - Death of a Glutton

So Matthew and Mary and Jenny watched as Crystal was led back in for more questioning, all three wishing it were their turn so that they could get the ordeal over with.

Hamish slipped out of the interview room and went in search of John Taylor. He found him in his room, sitting in an armchair by the window reading the newspapers.

“What is it now?” asked John wearily.

“I just wanted to make sure you didn’t really remember which one it was you once saw in court.”

“No, and now I don’t think I really recognized anyone. There is a great deal of the theatre about us barristers and a desire to show off. Not very worthy motives.”

“I do not want to upset you,” said Hamish kindly, “but I really would like to know why, at your age, you were thinking of starting a family again.”

The window was open and a line of pine trees outside bent in the rising wind. Clouds covered the mountaintops. A bleak and alien landscape, thought John. Here no bird sings. He longed to be home again. He thought Hamish looked a decent-enough fellow, but he had no intention of telling him the truth.

“You are a young man,” he said. “I am old and no longer feel immortal. I have a craving for a family life again. My wife died when the children were young and I brought them up. It was sometimes tiresome and sometimes arduous, but always rewarding.” He suddenly remembered little bright images, Brian scoring a century at cricket for his school, Penelope going off to her first dance. To his horror, his eyes filled with tears and he brushed them angrily away.

“I am sorry to have disturbed you,” said Hamish awkwardly. He went downstairs and back to the library just as Jenny Trask was being brought in for questioning. Crystal had obviously survived the second bout of interrogation.

Jenny sat down facing Blair, disliking his heavy features, his truculent look. She looked around for Hamish, but he was sitting behind her.

“Now, Miss Trask,” said Blair, “you have caused us a great deal of trouble. Whit…what possessed ye to leave all the windows and the sunroof open in that Volvo?”

“It was hot when I drove back,” said Jenny, “and I forgot about it. I was tired. I went to bed.”

“The barman said you had drinks in the bar wi’ one o’ the forestry workers. Old friend?”

“No, I had only met him that day…in Lochdubh.”

“Oh, a pick-up,” sneered Blair, and Jenny winced.

Please God, she thought, don’t let the barman have seen us both going upstairs. But he had been off somewhere. The place looked empty.

“Right, Miss Trask. Now tell us what you were doing on the evening Mrs Gore was murdered?”

“Oh, that. I took one of the hotel cars and drove…”

“You what!”

“Oh.” Jenny put her hand to her mouth and paled. “It was the Volvo, but I went to the police station, didn’t I, Hamish?”

“And what were you seeing this Romeo of the Heilands aboot…or shouldn’t I ask?” demanded Blair.

“I was only going to tell him that I felt uneasy, that I thought there was someone mad in the castle. Didn’t I, Hamish?”

“Yes,” agreed Hamish, “but you told me later that you thought you were mistaken. Miss Trask only stayed about fifteen minutes,” he said to Blair. “She must have left about nine-thirty.”

“And did you go straight back to the castle?” asked Blair.

“Yes.”

“Did anyone see you?”

“Yes, the barman. I went straight to the bar for a coffee.”

“We’ll check that. See here, Miss Trask, I don’t like coincidences, and you had that car out twice and you left it so that any clues would be destroyed.”

“You mean that was the car used by the murderer?” whispered Jenny.

What is she playing at? thought Hamish crossly. She knows very well it was that car.

“Yes, and if that murderer was you, I would advise you to confess and get it over with,” shouted Blair suddenly.

Jenny burst into tears and Blair gave a sound of disgust and ordered MacNab to take her out.

“Who’s next in this poxy lot?” growled Blair, consulting his list. “Let’s see. Matthew Cowper. Send him in.”

But at that moment, the phone beside Blair rang. He picked it up and listened intently. A slow, evil smile spread across his face. When he put the phone down, he looked triumphantly around. “Ah’ve found the killer,” he said, his Glaswegian accent at its broadest. No need to toady any more to the nobs. The great Blair had found the murderer.

“Oh, aye,” said Jimmy Anderson cynically. “Who?”

“Mary French.”

“Aw, away wi’ ye,” said Jimmy MacNab, startled into impertinent insubordination. “Thon’s naethin’ more than a wee bittie o’ a schoolteacher.”

“She’s killed afore,” said Blair with a grin. “That was the Yard. She was up in court for murder ten years ago. She killed her own mither.”

“Did she go to prison?” asked Hamish, startled.

“Naw, she got off. Said her mither was dying o’ cancer and had begged her to give her an overdose of sleeping pills. And the jury believed her. Mercy killing. Pah! They kill once, they’ll kill again.”

“And was John Taylor prosecuting?”

Blair glared at Hamish. He had forgotten to ask. “That disnae matter now. Get her in here and we’ll charge her.”

“Wait a minute,” said Hamish. “There iss no proof!”

“Ah’ll get proof, laddie. You mind yer place and get back to your polis station and check on yer sheep-dip papers and leave this tae the big yins.”

Mary French was led in. Blair began to caution her as Hamish Macbeth walked out.

He went in search of Priscilla and eventually found her outside, supervising the building of the new gift shop.

“What’s the matter, Hamish?” she said when she saw his face.

“Blair’s charging Mary French with the murder.”

“Why?”

“She killed her mother and got off with it. The woman was dying of cancer and the jury chose to believe it was a mercy killing. Blair’s a fool. I’ve been ordered back to the police station.”

“Look, Hamish, there’s really not much I can do here. Daddy phoned in a rage. Says he’s not coming back till it’s all over. I could come down to the police station with you.”

“Why?”

“Well, I’ve helped you to sort things out before. We could sit down and have a cup of tea and – ”

“No, I’m far better off on my own,” snapped Hamish.

He marched off, cursing himself for having been so rude but yet unable to go back and apologize. Blair’s stupidity had rattled him. Also, he remembered the days when he had been so yearningly in love with Priscilla and he did not want to put himself in any danger of those days returning.

Mary French was being led out to the police car. Her face was tight with strain, but she looked grim and composed. A little huddle of people at the door watched her go. Maria, John, Jenny, Matthew, Sir Bernard, Jessica and Deborah.

They watched in silence until the police car disappeared down the drive.

Deborah approached Hamish as he reached his Land Rover. “I say,” she gasped, “why are they taking Mary away?”

“I don’t know,” said Hamish testily. “I’m not on the case.”

“I mean, why would Mary kill Peta?”

“God knows,” said Hamish, unlocking the car door.

“You don’t think she did it!” cried Deborah. “You think they’ve made a terrible mistake.”

“Aye, maybe.”

“I say, gosh, this is exciting. Here’s your chance to make your mark. With my help, we could probably find out who did it.”

Another Watson, thought Hamish sourly, and the wrong one. “Policing should be left to the police,” he said coldly. “Don’t interfere, Miss Freemantle.”