M.C. Beaton - Death of a Glutton

“It’s all right,” said Peter, taking her hands in his. “The fact is, I told Maria I thought we’d make a pretty good pair. Stupid way to propose, isn’t it?”

Jessica’s grey face became suffused with colour and her eyes shone. It was her one moment of beauty. She clasped his hand tightly.

“The police from Strathbane will soon be here,” said Hamish. “I will go and question the cook. Then I will return and take statements from you one after another, if they have not arrived by the time I’m through with the cook.”

Mr Johnson led him to the cook’s bedroom and unlocked the door.

“I’ll be all right,” said Hamish. “Go and ask the staff if they saw anyone on the tower stair and if there is any sign of that missing light bulb. Priscilla said the light would not come on, so I suppose someone removed it.”

Sean was sitting crouched on the end of his bed. He was fully dressed.

“Now, Sean,” said Hamish severely, “I’m not going to be able to keep quiet about that cat anymore. You threatened to kill Peta. You threatened to kill Deborah Freemantle and, lo and behold, someone takes your meat cleaver and does just that. I suppose it is your meat cleaver?”

“Aye, it’s gone,” said Sean wearily. “Johnson took me to look for it when ah got back frae the village.”

Hamish’s eyes sharpened. “Back from the village?”

“I wus down fur a wee dram wi’ Dougie, the gamekeeper.”

“Where?”

“The bar. There wus a lot in, so they kep’ it open late.”

“When did you get back?”

“Dougie waud know. It was himself that ran me back. I came in the door and Johnson grabs me and drags me off to the kitchen yelling about the meat cleaver. It’s gone, so he says ah’ve tae stay in my room till the polis comes.”

Hamish wondered why he should feel so relieved that this unlovely cook had an alibi. Probably for Priscilla’s sake, he decided after a moment’s reflection.

“As long as you’ve got witnesses to say you weren’t in the castle, you should be all right.” Hamish looked down at him thoughtfully. “How bad was the attack on your wife?”

“Oh, her, broke her jaw.”

“Why? Were you drunk, man?”

“Naw, ah fixed the Sunday dinner. Sole a l’ltalienne , it wus.”

“And?”

“The silly cow looks at it and says, “Whaur’s the ketchup?” So I let her have it.”

“Your last job, I remember from your file, was at the Glasgow Queen. Why did you leave?”

Sean stared at the floor.

“Out wi’ it. I’ll find out anyway.”

“The boss’s missus – we called her auld tattie-heid – says ah was spending too much time ower the soups. Ah says they had to thicken and she says ah was tae thicken them up wi’ cornflour. Sacrilege, that! I telt her she wus a greasy penny-pinching auld whore.”

“Oh, my. Look, Sean, when this is over, if it iss ever over, you should watch that tongue o’ yours. You’ve got a comfy billet here and Johnson’s a good man. You can stay in here until Blair arrives, for I cannae trust you not to do something stupid like running away.”

He went out and locked the door and pocketed the key.

He found Priscilla and asked her to lead him to the tower stair.

He peered up at the empty light-bulb socket. It was above where he stood on a half-landing and could easily be reached by someone of normal height.

“I’ll need to search for that light bulb,” he said. “If, say, a light bulb goes dead in one of the guest’s rooms, do they ask you for a replacement?”

“Not usually,” said Priscilla. “There are spare light bulbs in all the rooms in the shelf under the bedside table.”

“Show me, but not Deborah’s room. That’d better be left alone till the forensic team arrives.”

Priscilla led the way along the narrow corridor below the tower room. “Here’s an unoccupied guest room,” she said, opening the door. “In fact, Hamish, there are going to be a lot of unoccupied guest rooms next week. Cancellations have been coming in. This has hit us hard. Oh, why didn’t you answer the door when I called? If I’d told you what Deborah was up to, you might have thought it worthwhile coming back to the castle with me to warn her.”

“You might haff warned her yourself,” said Hamish stiffly. He went into the room. Three 60-watt light bulbs lay in their packets on the ledge under the top of the bedside table.

“Three in each room?” he asked.

“No, sometimes two, sometimes one, sometimes four. It varies.”

“Wait a minute, if someone wanted to hide the light bulb taken out of the tower stair, they couldn’t just leave it lying alongside the packets.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, but they could. Often there are empty packets, or packets with used light bulbs in them. Some guests put in a new light bulb and put the old one in the packet and then replace it with the others. Or they simply throw the old light bulb into the wastepaper basket. But a used light bulb would not be a sign of guilt.”

“Damn. Damn this whole case. There’s something wrong, something nagging at the back of my mind, something someone said.”

He went back to the lounge and began to question the guests again, where they had been at the time Deborah was attacked. They all said they had been in their bedrooms but had no witnesses and, apart from Sean, no one had an alibi.

The contingent from Strathbane arrived headed by Superintendent Peter Daviot, who looked tired and cross. Jimmy Anderson took Hamish aside and explained that Mary French had called for a lawyer immediately she had arrived in Strathbane. Mr Daviot had sat in on the questioning and it had soon transpired that Blair had not a shred of evidence against her. Her lawyer pointed out that a ‘mercy killing’ in the past was no proof that she had anything to do with the murder of Peta Gore, who, until this visit north, had been a complete stranger to her. And Mary French was out for blood, threatening to sue for damages. “She’ll be back in today,” said Jimmy ruefully. “I wish she had done it, for she’s a nasty piece o’ work.”

Hamish was called into the library by Mr Daviot. He gave the superintendent a brief summary of what had happened. “I also had to interview Matthew Cowper as to his movements on the night of the murder,” added Hamish, not without a tinge of malice. “He appears to have been overlooked in all the excitement.”

Blair gave Hamish a lowering look but remained silent.

“While the forensic team search all their rooms again,” said Mr Daviot, “we had best have them in again, one after another. One of them’s a killer, and we are going to stay here until we find out.”

The members of Checkmate and Crystal found Mr Daviot’s questioning worse than Blair’s. Blair was so rude and angry, one could always react and hit back. But Mr Daviot went on and on persistently, question after question, seemingly tireless. The cool Crystal broke down and confessed that she had been worried Auntie meant to change her will, that her parents had said that when she returned from the north, she was to train for a job, and that she didn’t want to work. Jenny told him all about the forestry worker. Everyone told Mr Daviot an awful lot more than, they felt, they had ever told anyone about themselves in their lives before, while the tape recorder hummed and a policewoman from Strathbane sat in a corner and took shorthand notes, Mr Daviot not trusting what he called ‘these new-fangled machines’.

By breakfast time none of them had been to bed. Despite the fact that one of them was possibly a killer, they huddled together against the forces of law and order.

Priscilla prepared the breakfast for them all, as the police had just begun a lengthy questioning of Sean. She felt exhausted and wondered why she had gone to all the trouble to feed them when they only picked miserably at their food. Then her mother phoned, alarmed to learn the latest developments, and said she would be home immediately, but the receiver was snatched out of her hand by Colonel Halburton-Smythe. Priscilla repeated her story. Her father said again it was due to her folly that Checkmate had been allowed to come in the first place. He was not going to come back to be badgered by the press as he had been before when there had been that unfortunate shooting, which he was still convinced had been an accident, despite the fact that Hamish Macbeth had proved it to be murder and the murderer had confessed to the killing. Priscilla would just need to cope. There was no question of her mother’s returning. It was selfish of Priscilla to be so unfeeling.