M.C. Beaton - Death of a Glutton

Priscilla wearily put down the phone and went in search of Mr Johnson. “My father’s still not coming back,” she said, “not until this is all over. We’ll have to house this lot until the police give up their questioning. I suppose the next thing is that the servants will be giving notice.”

“Not them,” said Mr Johnson cynically. “This is meat and drink tae them. I’ve even had women phoning up from the village tae ask if I need any extra help. They’ve never had such a good gossip in years. We’ll need tae work shifts. You go tae bed first and I’ll call you in five hours’ time and then get a bit o’ sleep myself. Would ye look at that!” He pointed out of the window. Bus-loads of uniformed police were arriving.

They both walked to the window and looked out. Not only were there uniformed police but a team of frogmen. “We’re not looking for another body, are we?” he asked.

“Peta’s luggage and typewriter,” said Priscilla. “When I was in for questioning, Mr Daviot was furious that a thorough search had not been made for it. The frogmen will be here to search the lochs and tarns and rivers.”

“Aye, well, off you go and get some sleep.”

Priscilla went up to her room, but she lay awake for a long time, her mind racing. At first the whole hotel venture had been exciting, and the idea of repairing the family fortunes exhilarating. But now she wished she had her home back again, that the lounge could once more be the drawing room and the bar the morning room, and all the signs taken down. And they could do it. For the colonel had invested well and wisely this time, thanks to a good broker in the City. But she knew her father would make this set-back an excuse to keep the hotel going. Saved from the hard work by Mr Johnson and herself, he was left free to take all the credit, which he did. It was sad to discover that one’s father was a silly, selfish man. The wind of Sutherland was moaning outside, great clouds scudding quickly across a vast sky. The odd and unusual summer was over. It was a time for settling down, for comfortable fishing parties, and shooting parties. She had not even Hamish to turn to, Hamish who would go around collecting drips of little girls like Jenny, Jenny with her so-called sensitive feelings about madness. Priscilla’s weary mind called up the faces of the suspects. The only one who seemed at all odd was Mary French, with her mixture of arrogance and stupidity, a woman who had killed before. Perhaps Blair had been right all along, thought Priscilla just before she fell asleep.

♦

By evening, Mary French was back, and as the party had been united in their resentment against Peta, now they were united against Mary French and her long, vindictive tales of how she would sue the police and how she had phoned her third cousin, the Earl of Derwent, mark you, and he had been horrified at this evidence of police brutality. Matthew Cowper wondered why on earth he had thought even for a minute that she would make a suitable partner. He felt he would like to strangle her.

And the questioning went on. Mr Daviot would go off for a rest and the questioning would be taken over by Blair. Even John Taylor, who had been haughty and outraged at the beginning that they should dare to suspect him, had become quiet and subdued. Maria’s cheerful face had grown lines of worry and she had become fidgety and irritable. Crystal wandered around in a dressing-gown, not even having bothered to do her hair or face, and was sitting moodily drinking a great deal of champagne. Peter Trumpington and Jessica Fitt sat very close together, but not saying anything. Jenny felt so alone and frightened. She longed for an opportunity to speak to Hamish but he did not emerge from the library.

And then, to her surprise, Matthew Cowper came up to her and said, “Let’s get out of here.”

“We’re not allowed to leave,” said Jenny wearily.

“I thought instead of having dinner here, we could go down to that Italian place in the village,” said Matthew. “We can tell that super where we are.”

“Oh, all right,” said Jenny wearily, “only don’t murder me on the road.”

Matthew gave a surprised laugh but went to the library.

He returned a few moments later. “We’re fixed,” he said. “They say we can go. We can take my car.”

They went out in silence, conscious of the watching eyes of the policemen, who had returned from a futile search of the moors and were now standing beside their buses, joking and laughing.

“What are they so cheerful about?” asked Jenny as she got into the passenger seat of Matthew’s car.

“Overtime,” he said briefly.

He accelerated past the press, who were huddled outside the castle gates, and drove down to Lochdubh. How it had changed from an idyllic village, thought Jenny. Great waves were surging down the loch, which was lit with fitful gleams of sunlight. Boats bobbed crazily at anchor. Rose-petals from the cottage gardens were blowing down the waterfront and the wind held a chill edge.

The restaurant was full of locals. “I am looking forward to some Italian cooking,” said Matthew.

It was a small restaurant, formally a craft-shop, with chequered table-cloths and candles in wine bottles. It was quite full, but they found a table in a corner. The prices were very cheap, which meant that the locals had begun to patronize it. The restaurant was a mixture of British and Italian cooking.

Jenny and Matthew settled for spaghetti Bolognese and a bottle of Chianti.

“Do you think we’ll ever get home to London?” asked Jenny drearily. “I’ll need to phone the office and tell them I’ve got to be here for a few more days at least.”

“I’ve already phoned mine,” said Matthew. “They’re all right about it but I am going to have to put up with some pretty tiresome jokes about signing up with a marital agency.”

“Me, too,” said Jenny. “Why did you join? Can’t you get a girl on your own?”

“Don’t be rude,” said Matthew huffily. “I’m a pretty common sort of chap but I want to go far and I need a wife with a good social background. What about you?”

“I’m too shy. I got tired of dating and hoping for Mr Right to come along. It seemed an exciting idea. Also I knew I would be meeting men who were in the same boat. I never thought I would land up in the middle of a murder investigation.”

She looked at Matthew. His normally unexceptional face looked sinister in the flickering candle-light and she added suddenly, “Did you really steal that whisky?”

“Of course not,” said Matthew hotly, and then, in the same moment, he was overcome with a desire to tell the truth. “Well, I did,” he said in the next breath. “I’ve never stolen anything in my life before and I could easily have afforded to pay for it. I went down to the bar late and they had forgotten to lock it up. I was going to ring the bell and get someone to fetch me something and then I found myself looking at all those bottles, just lying there. It was like turning a kid loose in a sweetshop. I had pretty poor beginnings and I remember when my mother died, longing for a stiff drink to kill the pain and not being able to afford one. I got an excited feeling, just from pinching it, and then I had the safe knowledge that if I were caught out, I could make some excuse and pay for it. The maids must have seen the bottle in my room, for I never even bothered to hide it. Have you ever stolen anything?”

“No,” said Jenny, and then coloured. “Just the once. I was going out on this date and one of the other secretaries had this marvellous new shade of lipstick. I noticed she had left it on her desk. So I took it. I was to meet my date in a pub in Chancery Lane, so there I was all lipsticked up and do you know, he stood me up. And the next day, the other secretary raised a song and dance about that missing lipstick. I could have said, “Oh, sorry, here it is. I was going on a date and I borrowed it.” But the words stuck in my throat. And she did go on to the senior partner, on and on, and I began to be terrified she’d call the police. I could almost see that lipstick through the leather of my handbag. At lunchtime, I threw the wretched thing into a rubbish bin in the street.”