M.C. Beaton - Death of a Glutton

Matthew raised his glass and grinned. “Partners in crime,” he said.

Jenny did not return the toast. She looked at him seriously. “Who did it?” she asked.

He shrugged. “I don’t know. But I think the police are making a mistake focusing solely on us. Why should it be one of us? Look at it this way. Peta was in a sulk and probably wanted to leave. So she decided to borrow the hotel car and drive to London through the night. But she couldn’t resist eating and so she took a hamper of goodies with her for the journey. But being a glutton, the quarry was as far as she got. She was sitting there, stuffing her face, when some local madman came on her.”

“If only that could turn out to be the case,” said Jenny wistfully.

“Oh, forget the murder. Tell me about yourself.”

Jenny told him about her idea of taking her law exams, and to her surprise and delight, he was enthusiastic. “Of course you should,” he said warmly. “You’re a bright girl. You could go far.”

And as Jenny talked on, he eyed her speculatively. If she got over that shyness and diffidence of hers, she would probably be successful. She looked bright enough. And there was bound to be money in the background. As a pair, they could grow together, go far.

The spaghetti arrived, enormous portions of it, and soothed with carbohydrate and alcohol, they talked on until they found they were the last in the restaurant.

“Time to go,” said Matthew reluctantly.

He drove her back to the castle. He thought it might be a start if he kissed her. Perhaps just before they went into the castle. Then they might have a cosy drink in the bar. Then…who knows?

But as they approached the castle, Superintendent Peter Daviot came out to meet them, his face stern in the half-light. Behind him stood Blair, Hamish, Anderson and MacNab.

“Matthew Cowper,” said the super, “will you come with us to the library? We have some further questions to ask you.”

“No,” said Jenny desperately. “You must have made a mistake.”

Mr Daviot ignored her. “Mr Cowper?”

Head down, Matthew allowed himself to be ushered into the library. “Sit doon!” barked Blair menacingly.

Matthew sat down in a hard-backed chair facing the long desk behind which the detectives and Hamish were ranged. He felt like the little Cavalier boy in that well-known painting, When Did You Last See Your Father?

“Now,” said Mr Daviot, studying a sheaf of notes, “during an extensive interview, you said you did not know Peta Gore, had never known her or heard anything about her.”

“Yes,” croaked Matthew, his small eyes ranging wildly from face to face.

“The brokerage firm for which you work is Waring’s, one of the biggest in the City, is it not?”

“Yes.”

Mr Daviot leaned back in his chair.

“Would it surprise you to know that Peta Gore was one of your firm’s biggest clients?”

Matthew looked at the floor.

“And that she once paid a rare visit to the office and was seen talking to you? Shall we start at the beginning again, Mr Cowper? And try to be truthful this time.”

∨ Death of a Glutton ∧

8

When constabulary duty’s to be done,

The policeman’s lot is not a happy one!

—W. S. Gilbert

“Oh, THAT Mrs Gore,” said Matthew feebly.

“My theory is this,” said Mr Daviot. “You were handling shares for Peta Gore and you embezzled her money and you killed her to silence her.”

Hamish noticed that a look of relief flashed across Matthew’s eyes. “No, that’s not the case,” he said. He dabbed at his mouth with his handkerchief and then leaned back in his chair, as if forcing all his tensed muscles to relax. “Waring’s is too good a firm for anything like that to happen. There are checks and double-checks. Besides, it’s a huge company. I have nothing to do with Mrs Gore’s money.”

“But one of the office juniors distinctly remembers her visiting the office and you talking to her.”

That would be Mandy, thought Matthew bitterly. Always gossiping about something.

“Look, I’ll come clean with you,” he said. “I didn’t know the Peta Gore here was anything to do with a visiting client I met several years ago. She wasn’t as gross then. Had she been, I would have remembered her right away.”

“And when did you remember?”

“It was right after she was killed. It all came back into my mind. But she never had had anything to do with me, so I thought, well, why bring it up?” demanded Matthew with a feeble perkiness. “Can I go now?”

He rose from his chair.

“Sit down,” said Mr Daviot quietly. “We haven’t even started yet.”

Three hours later, Matthew crawled from the room. It had been like some dreadful confessional. They had dragged every bit of his life out of him. How quiet the castle was! The wind had died. He reached his room and stood gloomily in the doorway, surveying the mess. Grey fingerprint dust lay everywhere. His ransacked drawers were open. They were supposed to put everything back the way they found it, or that’s what usually happened in the films. The fact that they hadn’t made him feel like a criminal. He undressed quickly, switched out the light, and stood at the window for a moment. Moonlight bathed the castle gardens. Beyond the gardens were the moors and above them the mountains. It was all so weird, so strange, like being somewhere far from civilization. His shabby Teddy bear, which went everywhere with him, had been propped neatly on the pillow. He could only be relieved that they hadn’t taken it apart.

He climbed into bed and clutched the Teddy to him, praying to the God in whom he never really had believed to get him safely out of Sutherland.

♦

Hamish Macbeth was awake as well, dragged out of sleep by the insistent ringing of the phone in the police station. He crawled to the receiver and picked it up.

“Hello, copper!” came the breezy voice of his cousin, Rory Grant.

Hamish groaned. “Don’t you ever sleep?”

“I’m on the dog-shift. Nothing’s happening. Nothing like what’s going on in your neck of the woods. Madmen running around a castle with meat cleavers. Why I’m calling is that I’ve had our City chap dig around a bit. Do you know this Peta owned a big block of shares in Rag Trade Limited, and Rag Trade Limited is one of Sir Bernard’s companies, a company it was once hinted was a front for arms dealing? Now if this Peta had decided to pull out, she might have ruined him. His shares would certainly have slumped.”

“I’m sick and tired o’ suspects,” said Hamish waspishly. “All I want iss one murderer.”

“You’re ungrateful. Solve the bloody case yourself then.”

“I’m sorry,” said Hamish wearily. “How’s your friend, the one who went to the funny farm?”

“Back at another funny farm. They let him out. Psychiatrist said there was nothing up with him apart from stress. Then today, he mooned at the editor.”

“You mean he looked silly?”

“No, you old-fashioned thing. He dropped his trousers and waved his bare bum at the editor. Editor phones funny farm in a rage and psychiatrist says editor must have provoked him. So another nut-house is quickly found and guess who had to take him there? Me!”

“You’re a tolerant lot,” marvelled Hamish. “I would haff thought he would just haff been fired.”

“Well, he’s been with the paper for yonks, and a very respected soul. Just went round the twist sudden-like, although I suppose there have been pointers for a time. He came in with a tonsure last year.”

“Surely that told ye something?”

“No. Men and women get a reputation of being great eccentrics and in the meantime no one really notices they’re stark-raving bonkers.”