M.C. Beaton: Death of a Prankster

Titchy gave a musical laugh. “Silly. I mean they were bohemian, extravagant people. It was just like them to think up an odd name for me.”

“Where are they now?”

“Both dead.”

“Of what?”

“They died in the Paris air crash of ‘82.”

Titchy whipped out a handkerchief and dabbed her eyes.

I don’t like this woman one bit, thought Hamish suddenly.

“When is the will being read?” demanded Htchy suddenly.

“That I do not know. Strathbane police will no doubt call the solicitors in Inverness and ask them to send someone here. Why? Surely you do not hope to inherit?” asked Hamish, being deliberately stupid.

“No, but Charles will. He must. He’s the son.”

“Adopted. Besides, Mr Jeffrey says that Mr Andrew Trent may have planned his last joke by leaving the lot to a cats’ home.”

Something unlovely flashed in Titchy’s eyes and was gone. “Any more questions?”

“Not for now. Send in Miss Angela Trent.”

Despite her mannish appearance, Angela Trent was the first one of them, apart from Maria, that Hamish had met who seemed distressed.

“I will not keep you long,” he said gently. “Where were you last night between eleven and midnight?”

She looked at him in genuine bewilderment. “The drawing room. I suppose. Oh, I went down to the kitchen and asked Enrico to bring up some sandwiches because Dad said he wanted some – brown bread and smoked salmon. Then I was a bit upset. I went up to my room and sat down for a little. You see, there had been all those jokes and rows and then that little actress accused Dad of having cut up her dresses and she was so mad she looked as if she could have killed him.”

Hamish gave an exclamation. He ran to the door and shouted for Enrico and when the manservant arrived he told him to tell Miss Gold not to touch any of the clothes that had been damaged. Forensic would want to examine them.

He returned to Angela, who had heard the exchange and looked pale.

“It’s amazing what they can get fingerprints from these days,” said Hamish. “Now, Miss Trent. Who, in your opinion, would want to kill your father?”

She shook her head in a bewildered way and then her eyes hardened.

“That cheap actress.”

“Titchy Gold? Why?”

“Because she’s going to marry Charles. She thinks Charles will inherit. That low, common sort of person would do anything.”

“What were your relations with your father?”

“A trifle strained,” said Angela gruffly. “It was those jokes of his, you know. Sewed the bottoms of my pyjama legs together and punctured Betty’s hot-water bottle. He’d always played tricks on us, even when we were small.”

He asked her several more questions about where the other guests had been during the crucial time and then asked to see Betty.

Betty Trent looked small and crushed and mousy. Angela had found a dark blouse and skirt to wear, but Betty was wearing a pink wool twin set with a green tweed skirt. She said she had been in and out of the drawing room and could not remember exact times. She said she did not believe her father had been murdered. He had meant to play a trick and the heavy door of the wardrobe had slammed on him and driven the knife into him. She said she estimated that PC Macbeth was in his thirties and if a policeman was in his thirties and had not yet been promoted, it showed he was a village hick with no brains at all. Furthermore, she would not waste any more time with him, but would wait for his superiors.

“Chust a minute,” said Hamish. “Who do you think cut Miss Gold’s frocks?”

“Probably Dad,” said Betty crossly, “although I must admit it was a new departure in jokes.”

Hamish was about to take her through the finding of the body more out of sheer bloody-mindedness than anything else, for Betty’s remarks had riled him, when the noise of a helicopter filled the air.

The police from Strathbane had arrived.

♦

Detective Chief Inspector Blair was a heavy-set Glaswegian. Hamish had worked with him before. Blair knew Hamish had solved several cases in the past and had allowed Blair to take the credit. But every lime he saw Hamish again, he convinced himself it had all really been luck on Hamish’s part. This lanky gormless Highlander could surely not compete with the sharper brains of a Lowland Scot. Blair was flanked by his pet detectives, Jimmy Anderson and Harry MacNab.

“Came by the chopper,” said Blair and settled himself into an easy chair in the library with a grunt. “So the auld fart his bin knifed.”

“You knew him?” asked Hamish.

“Heard o’ him and his damp jokes. Forensic’s on the way. Right, laddie, let’s have whit you’ve got.”

Hamish took out his notebook and Blair guffawed with laughter. “Have ye never heard o’ a tape recorder? How did ye get here? On a bike wi’ square stone wheels?”

Hamish ignored him and began to read out the brief statements he had taken. Blair listened intently. When Hamish had finished, Blair slapped his knee and exclaimed, “Man, man, you’ve got your murderers!”

“Who?”

“Them Spaniards, o’ course. Always sticking knives into people. They destroyed the evidence, didn’t they? They hope to inherit. Anderson, get on to thae lawyers in Inverness and get one o’ them up here fast. I bet the pair of them get a chunk o’ the old man’s money in that will.”

Hamish groaned inwardly. Blair, he knew, had a deep mistrust of all foreigners. “Look, they’re both very correct servants,” said Hamish. “They’ve been in this country for a long time. They speak English better than you…”

“Just watch your lip, laddie.”

“I would also advise you to go easy on the racist remarks you usually make about foreigners,” said Hamish firmly. “Enrico could easily get you in trouble. He’s no fool.”

“You mean the Race Relations Board,” sneered Blair. “That lot o’ Commies don’t know their arse from their elbow. I’m no’ scared o’ them. Further-mair, whit’s a village bobby doing advising me? Bugger off, Sherlock, and leave me to wrap this up.”

Hamish walked stiffly from the room. If, just if, he solved this case, then he would go out of his way to expose Blair for the crass fool he was. But, said a voice in his head, that would mean promotion and leaving Lochdubh and your cosy life.

When Enrico was summoned again to the library, his sharp dark eyes ranged about the room. “Speaka da English?” asked Blair with heavy irony.

“I am looking for the tape recorder,” said Enrico. “This is, I take it, the official interview. So it should be recorded.”

“You listen tae me, you cheeky pillock,” roared Blair. “I’ll conduct this interview any way I like and any more complaints from you and I’ll have you deported.”

“You cannot,” pointed out Enrico. “I am a British citizen, as is my wife.”

Blair launched into a series of bullying haranguing questions punctuated with insults about greasy Spaniards. Enrico answered when he could and what he could and then got to his feet. “I hivnae finished,” roared Blair.

“I think I had better leave you to consider your manner and behaviour,” said Enrico. He took a tape recorder out of his pocket. “I have recorded this interview. Unless you conduct yourself in a polite manner, this tape will go to your superiors at Strathbane.”

Blair’s eyes bulged with fury. Jimmy Anderson stepped forward. “Run along,” he said to Enrico. “We’ll call you when we want you again.”

“Jeezus,” groaned Blair.

“Aye,” said Jimmy, “can you imagine what Superintendent Daviot would say when he heard that? He’d kick ye out so hard, you’d be skidding on your bum frae here to Glasgow.”