M.C. Beaton - Death of a Glutton

“What job does this friend of yours do on the paper?”

“Religious correspondent.”

“Oh, dear. Well, if you can dig up any madness that applies to any of them up here, let me know.”

“Expect more guests, that I do know,” said Rory.

“Who?”

“Crystal Debenham’s parents are rushing up to collect their chick, or that’s what they said when interviewed today. Jenny Trask’s mother is also heading north, and Mr and Mrs Freemantle, Deborah’s parents.”

“I could do without them,” said Hamish. “I’ll see if I can get them billeted elsewhere. I’ve got enough people on my hands and I don’t want my suspects diluted.”

He said goodbye to Rory and went back to bed. If only he could solve the case before these relatives arrived on the scene.

The faces of them all and what they had said went running through his mind.

He awoke suddenly at six in the morning and stared at the ceiling. It had been there, in his dreams, the clue to it all. There was one piece that did not fit. He was looking for a madman or madwoman, that he now knew. Jenny had been right. One of them was mad, mad enough to hold Peta down and shove an apple in her mouth.

He washed and dressed and went down to the harbour, where the fishing boats were coming in. He needed two men, two men who were prepared to lie. Archie Maclean was too much of a risk. He would gossip about it all beforehand. Then he saw the Nairn brothers, Luke and Paul, walking along the harbour. They were both huge men, over six feet tall, with mild, childlike eyes.

“Could you come back to the police station with me?” said Hamish.

“Whit hae we done?” demanded Paul suspiciously.

“Nothing. I want you both to do me a favour.”

They followed him along to the police station and into the narrow kitchen at the back.

“Now,” said Hamish, “I want you both tae tell one great whopping lie for me.”

“And whit’s in it for us?” asked Luke.

“You will be helping to trap a murderer.”

Luke leaned back in his chair so that he could look through the inner open door of the kitchen which led into the living room.

“My, thon’s the grand TV set ye hae there, Hamish,” he said. “Paul and me dinnae hae one. We’re lodging at Mrs Gunn’s ower the back and she willnae let us watch hers. Keeps it in her bedroom.”

“This iss the blackmail,” said Hamish hotly.

“Aye, well,” said Paul as he and his brother rose to their feet, “we’d best be off.”

“Wait!” said Hamish. “All right, you can have the TV. Sit down and I’ll tell you what you have to do.”

♦

Priscilla could feel her bad temper rising. Another lousy night’s sleep and Sean too hungover to help with the breakfast. The maids were there, but they were too over-excited and gossipy and kept dropping things and forgetting things.

Then she had to deal with the guests. “Are we ever going to get out of here?” demanded John Taylor. He was on edge.

“I’m afraid that is up to the police,” said Priscilla. “But unless an arrest is made today, I think they will probably go on questioning you all.”

“It’s all snobbery,” said Mary French crossly, but her twitching face showing her nervousness. “I don’t believe they have bothered to question any of the staff. That man Blair has a chip on his shoulder. He wants to get at us because we are his social superiors.”

“So much for John Major’s classless society,” said Matthew. “Can’t see that ever happening with people like you around, Mary.”

“Oh,” retorted Mary nastily, her eyes narrowing, acumen replacing vanity in her distress, “you were only sucking up to me because you wanted a foot up the social ladder, or perhaps we shouldn’t mention that!”

“What did the police want to see you about, Matthew?” asked Sir Bernard.

“They found out that Peta dealt with the company I work for and that I had once met her,” said Matthew. “I really didn’t remember I’d ever met her until after the murder and then I thought it might look a bit suspicious. God, they’re digging into backgrounds all over the City. I’ll be lucky if I have a job to go back to.”

Sir Bernard stared at the table-cloth. “Bastards,” he muttered.

Only Jenny looked at all composed. She knew her mother would be there that day. She would see the police and take her home. Her mother had said on the phone that she had contacted the law offices where Jenny worked and they had agreed that Jenny could have a few days at home to recuperate. She glanced at Matthew Cowper. Prince Charming had turned into a frog. She noticed his too-wide mouth and too-small eyes, his showy cravat, and the badge of his blazer, which did not stand for any school, club or university, only the product of some designer’s mind. And yet, last night he had seemed so likeable, a soul mate, and if the police hadn’t been waiting on the doorstep, she would have let him kiss her.

Deborah had lost a lot of her bounce. She was glad her parents were coming. It had all been a nightmare. Priscilla was pouring coffee. Deborah summoned her by snapping her fingers. Jenny noticed that Priscilla’s mouth tightened a little but she went over to Deborah and said politely, “Miss Freernantle?”

“There is still no light on the tower stair,” said Deborah. “See to it.”

Priscilla nodded and moved off. What a terrible job she has, thought Jenny. Imagine having to endure being spoken to like that.

Priscilla found Mr Johnson. “King George the Second is complaining about no light on the tower stair. I’ll go and fix it by taking one of the bulbs out of the bedrooms.”

“George the Second?”

“Deborah Freemantle.”

“Aye, she’s got a look o’ the House of Hanover. But don’t take one out of the bedrooms; I’ll give you one from the stock in the office.”

“Why?”

“Saving money. A 40-watt’s good enough for the stairs and passages; 60-watt for the bedrooms.”

“But that means – ” Priscilla wrestled with her thoughts – “that we’ve been looking for a 60-watt bulb, not a 40-watt.”

“So what? They didn’t find anything.”

“Wait a minute. All someone had to do was to take the 40-watt bulb out of the tower stair,” said Priscilla, “and then take it to their room, unplug one of the 60-watt and leave it lying harmlessly on the bedside table and put a 40-watt, put the lampshade over it, and there you are!”

“And here’s the police,” said Mr Johnson.

Hamish was coming into the entrance hall with the detectives from Strathbane. Priscilla rushed to him and explained about the light bulbs.

The superintendent was listening as well. He ordered a policeman to inform the guests that they were not to go up to their rooms until they were told they could do so.

“I think I know whose bedroom to go to first,” said Hamish. Right up until Priscilla had told him about the light bulb, he had been planning to send Paul and Luke, who would arrive in a few moments, home. If he was wrong, then Paul and Luke would be in bad trouble and he would need to get them out of it by telling Daviot he had bribed them to lie. “I’m pretty sure who the murderer is.”

“Tell us,” sneered Blair.

“That bedroom first,” said Hamish.

“I’ll go up with Hamish,” said Mr Daviot. “You stay down here, Blair, and make sure none of them escapes.”

Blair cast a look of loathing at Hamish.

Hamish led the way into one of the Checkmate party’s bedrooms and looked around. There was one overhead light with a 60-watt bulb in it. But there were two lamps, one on either side of the bed. He lifted the shade of the first and felt a sour taste of failure in his mouth. 60-watt. He went slowly to the other while Mr Daviot watched him impatiently. Hamish felt like a man with one last chance at the Sixty-Four Thousand Dollar Question. He raised the lampshade and drew a long breath. “It’s a 40-watt bulb,” he said.