M.C. Beaton - Death of a Glutton

Deborah pouted and bounced off in a huff. She had hitherto led an uncomplicated life, without many ups or downs. But Sir Bernard’s rejection of her had hurt. If only she could find the murderer. Now in a detective story she had read recently, the clever detective, Sir Bartholomew Styles, had caused the murderer to betray himself at his cousin’s stately home by letting everyone there think he knew who the murderer was.

Then Deborah remembered a game she and the other girls had played in the sixth form at the expensive boarding-school she had attended. One of them would say to one of the girls in the fifth, “I saw you. You shouldn’t have done that. I think I’ll have to tell someone.” If it didn’t work on that girl, it was tried on another, but it usually worked, schoolgirls having often been up to some small sin they didn’t want found out. Deborah and her friends would then award a prize of ten pounds at the end of the term to whichever one of them had ‘scored’ the highest.

Why not try it on this lot? thought Deborah, bouncing with excitement.

She started with Matthew Cowper. “I saw you, you know,” she whispered and then walked quickly away. Matthew stared after her, his hands clenched. He had stolen a bottle of old malt whisky out of the bar when no one was looking. He could easily have paid for it, but it had given him a kick to take it. Damn! What if she told that manager? He would tell the police. Matthew decided to borrow a car and go and see if he could buy a bottle of the same brand and replace it. That must have been what Deborah meant. She could not possibly mean anything else. She couldn’t have seen anything else. Could she?

“I saw you,” said Deborah reproachfully to Jenny. “But I haven’t told the police yet.”

Jenny thought she meant the episode with Brian Mulligan and her face went white. “You say one word,” she hissed, “and I’ll wring your neck.”

“I saw you do it,” said Deborah to Sean, the cook. He was chopping meat. He raised the cleaver, “I’ll shut yer mouth for ye, you stupitt bitch, and I’ll take this cleaver through your heid.”

Deborah squeaked with fright and fled from the kitchen. But Sean’s reaction had elated her. Deborah was young enough to feel immortal. Besides, she was convinced that the murderer would not now murder anyone else, but might, with her ‘stirring up’, become rattled enough to betray himself – or herself.

“Isn’t there something you should be telling the police?” said Deborah to Maria and had the satisfaction of seeing Maria start and flush guiltily.

Next came Jessica. Her reaction, too, was satisfying, as was that of Peter Trumpington.

John Taylor said crossly, “Saw what? Oh, never mind, run along.” That made Deborah pause, for he had made her feel like a silly schoolgirl, but she then saw Sir Bernard approaching and the temptation was too great. “I know everything about you,” said Deborah, “and gosh, am I glad I decided not to marry you. I know what you did.”

Sir Bernard’s face turned dark with anger and he marched off without replying.

As Deborah watched him go, a pang of rejection pierced her again. Priscilla was working at the reception, sitting behind a computer making out bills, for the rest of the guests were free to go provided they left their addresses, and most had decided to leave.

“I saw you,” said Deborah.

Priscilla looked up.

“What?”

“I saw you.”

“Saw me doing what?”

“You know,” said Deborah mysteriously and walked away.

When they all sat down to dinner that night, the atmosphere was strained. It should have been relaxed, now that someone had been arrested, but Deborah kept discussing the case, chewing over every little morsel, saying over and over again that she happened to know that Mary had not done it.

“You’re just showing off,” said Sir Bernard.

Deborah glared at him and tossed her head. “That’s all you know,” she said defiantly.

After dinner, everyone seemed to be avoiding everyone else, with the exception of Peter Trumpington and Jessica Fitt, who appeared to have become inseparable.

They were all sitting around the lounge, but well away from each other, when John Taylor finally stood up. “I’m going to bed,” he announced to no one in particular. He strode to the doorway and then paused, “Good heavens! With someone arrested for the murder, that means we can all go home!”

They all brightened. Home! Outside, a chill wind was blowing and a log fire had been lit in the lounge. Home to buses and tubes and noise and streets, and crowds and crowds of people. Home to London, far away from this weird, twisted countryside of mountain, loch and moorland where the old gods rode the wind.

“Don’t go,” called Sir Bernard suddenly to John’s retreating back. “I’ll order champagne for everybody.”

John came back and sat down. Sir Bernard pushed down an old-fashioned china bell-push on the wall and the barman came in to take the order for champagne. They all chattered and laughed. Matthew Cowper told some really dreadful jokes which everyone, inebriated with relief and champagne, enjoyed immensely.

Deborah began to feel ashamed of herself. If Mary had not done the murder, then some madman had come across Peta on the moors. Not one of these sane, regular people could attack anyone, let alone murder them.

She set herself to enjoy the impromptu champagne party and was one of the last to leave the lounge.

Only Jessica and Peter were left when she rose to go to bed.

“Aren’t you tired?” Peter asked Jessica.

“A little,” she replied. “But it’s warm and bright and cosy here. I feel safe. But once I get to my room, all the fears come back.”

“Do you think Mary did it?”

“I don’t know,” said Jessica slowly. “But I can’t help hoping so. It would be awful to think there was a murderer still amongst us.”

♦

It was nearly midnight, but Priscilla decided to call on Hamish. She wondered why he had been so angry and if she had done or said anything to offend him. Then she was worried about Deborah. Priscilla had attended an English boarding-school and knew all about the ‘I saw you’ game. She was sure Deborah had tried it on the rest. In any case, she would feel easier if she told Hamish about it.

Hamish heard the hotel Range Rover arrive. He recognized the sound of the engine. Priscilla.

He was on the phone to Rory in London and taking down notes on the background of the members of Checkmate. He decided to stay where he was and not answer the door. He did not want to see Priscilla, did not want any more intimate midnight chats until he had got his feelings under control again. He ignored the banging at the kitchen door. Rory was saying, “Yes, Mary French was found not guilty of the death of her mother, and yes, John Taylor was the prosecuting counsel. What else? Oh, there were some nasty rumours floating around that Sir Bernard Grant had been dealing in arms, but nothing really came of that. Peter Trumpington’s been in the gossip columns, but nothing sinister. John Taylor once punched a policeman outside the Old Bailey for not showing him ‘due respect’ when all the bobby had been trying to do was to stop him parking on a double-yellow line. But nothing odd about that. He’s a great old character. Mary French hit the newspapers again when she made a speech to the pupils advocating the return of caning. But you don’t think she did it.”

“I didnae say that.” Hamish heard the Range Rover drive off and felt suddenly bleak. “What about Peta Gore herself?”

“Married to millionaire Bobby Gore, who died in ‘82 and left her a fortune. A few society snippets, that’s all.”

“And Maria?”

“Nothing on her background. Only a little piece on the society page of the Express saying that it was through Checkmate run by Maria Worth that Lord Bullsden met his bride.”