M.C. Beaton - Death of a Prankster

♦

Down in his living room, Enrico sat with his pocket calculator and his bank books and counted his savings. “We’ve done very well,” he said in Spanish to his wife, not the lisping Spanish of the south but a hard Catalan accent. “We’ll wait to see what’s in that will and then we’ll leave. Hey, Maria, back to Spain after all these years in exile. We can live like grandees.”

Maria gave him a placid smile. Whatever Enrico did or said was right.

♦

Paul Sinclair crept along to his mother’s room and slowly pushed open the door. Jeffrey Trent was asleep but he could see the glitter of his mother’s eyes in the darkness. “Paul,” she whispered. She got out of bed, wrapped herself in a dressing-gown and ran to him. He went into her arms and she held him tightly.

“Let’s find somewhere where we can talk,” she said urgently. “We’ve got to talk.”

♦

Next morning, Hamish Macbeth ambled up the village street of Arrat with his dog at his heels.

He remembered a Mrs King who lived in the main street. She had once lived in Lochdubh and was an excellent source of gossip. He knocked at the door of her cottage and waited patiently. Mrs King, he knew, was crippled with arthritis. At last the door creaked open and Mrs King peered up at him. She had a face like an elderly toad. “Why, Hamish,” she said. “It iss yourself. Come ben.”

He followed her into her small cramped living room. Towser stretched out in front of the fire and went to sleep.

“It iss the murder that has brought ye,” said Mrs King. “My, my, the auld scunner deserved tae be kilt, and the good Lord forgive me for saying so. The pressmen haff arrived and they are looking for places to stay. That Mrs Angus, her doon the road, hass let her ain bedroom to two fellows from the Sun , but I wouldnae stoop tae such a thing.”

Mrs King looked wistful, all the same.

“Tell me,” said Hamish, “is there anyone in Arrat itself who hated the auld man? Is there anyone who had such a nasty joke played on him that he might kill?”

She folded her deformed hands on top of the handle of her stick and rested her chins on them. “Aye,” she said at last. “But it wass twa year gone.”

“We have the long memories in the Highlands when it comes to insults,” said Hamish. “Who was it? What happened?”

She half-closed her reptilian eyes. “It wass the gamekeeper up at the big hoose, Jim Gaskell, what lives in the flat above the stables wi’ his family.”

Hamish listened in horror as the story unfolded. Jim’s wife had had a baby two years ago in a hospital in Inverness. Jim had not been allowed to go to the hospital because Mr Trent was complaining about poachers on his land and did not want an absent gamekeeper but said he would send Enrico with the car to bring home wife and baby. Jim came in from the hill one day to be told that his wife and new baby were home and waiting for him. His wife, Mary, proudly led him into the little spare bedroom they had turned into a nursery. They approached the cradle and Mary gently pulled back the covers. They found themselves staring down at a small chimpanzee wearing a baby’s bonnet. Mary had fainted with shock and had, struck her head on a chest of drawers as she went down and suffered a severe concussion. Jim found old Andrew Trent hiding in the next room, holding the shrieking baby, and laughing fit to burst. Jim had threatened to kill Andrew, but then it was rumoured that Andrew had paid over money for the baby’s upkeep and so it had all died down.

Hamish sat turning this over in his mind. No Highlander would ever forgive a thing like that. But knifing in such a way? A bullet through Andrew Trent’s brain as the old man was walking through his estates would have been more the way Jim would have killed him.

“Anyone else?” Hamish asked and then listened to a catalogue of the old man’s jokes, from putting a cat in the school piano before the annual concert to nailing up the doors of Jean Macleod’s cottage on her wedding day and making the frantic girl and her family late for church. What a power money was, thought Hamish in amazement. Had Andrew Trent been poor, his family would probably have had him certified as dangerously mad long ago.

He thanked the old woman and went up towards Arrat House with Towser. A group of shivering men and women, like refugees, were huddled outside the gates. The press had arrived.

He politely told them all to put any questions to Blair and walked up the drive. As he was approaching the house, he saw a girl in front of him, a girl with pink hair. “Miss Clarke,” he called.

Melissa swung round, saw Hamish’s uniform, and turned pale.

“It’s all right,” he said easily. “I am not going to question you at the moment.” She had beautiful eyes, he noticed, well spaced and dark grey. He thought her pink hair suited her. “Did Blair give you a hard time?” he asked.

Melissa looked up at him warily but the policeman’s hazel eyes were kind and his ridiculous-looking dog was slowly wagging its plume of a tail.

“Yes, very,” she said in a low voice.

“It was because you went away,” said Hamish. “He wasn’t really after you but Paul Sinclair. You see, Paul’s mother, Mrs Trent, paid the servants to take away the body and clean the room. So Blair figured that the mother knew the son had done it and was covering up the evidence.”

“It was awful,” said Melissa. “I didn’t know the police could be like that. You know, at university, I was in some left-wing groups and they called the police fascist pigs, but I never quite believed it until now. I was brought up in a family which always went to the police when in trouble.”

“Blair’s in a class of his own,” said Hamish. “Wait until the will is read and he’ll be after the beneficiaries. He cannot keep you here much longer, you know. Give it another day and then you can leave your address and go back home.”

They had reached the house. Melissa drew back. “I don’t want to go in,” she said in a shaky voice.

Hamish looked up at the sky. The sun was shining and there was a hint of warmth in the air. The mountain above the house was sharp-edged against the sky, like a cut-out. A pair of buzzards sailed lazily in the clear air.

He turned away from the house and she fell into step beside him. “I want to ask you a question,” said Hamish, his accent suddenly stronger, more Highland, more sibilant, as it always became when he was nervous.

“Must you?” said Melissa. “I’ve had enough of questions.”

“It iss not about the case. Do you see this dog, Towser?”

Melissa looked down in surprise at the great yellowish mongrel, who gave her a doggy grin. “Yes, of course, I see him.”

“I wass here all the day long yesterday because of the murder; I left this animal locked up in the police station all day. The police station iss cold, mind you. He had been fed in the morning and had plenty of water. But on the way home, I couldnae bear the idea of going straight back to a cold house and so I dropped in on a friend whose family hass the big hotel. This friend, she said I wass cruel to leave the dog so long.”

Melissa looked up at him in sudden amusement. “Are you asking me whether I think you were cruel?”

“Yes,” said Hamish.

“Well,” said Melissa cautiously, “what about walks? Was Towser there all day without a walk?”

“No, Mrs Wellington, the minister’s wife, has the key, and she walked him in the morning and the afternoon.”

“No, I don’t think you are cruel. Your dog has a pampered look. You are not really like a policeman, you know.”

“I am verra like a policeman,” said Hamish huffily. “Mair like one than that great bullying fathead inside.” A car swept by them. “The lawyer,” exclaimed Hamish. “I must hear this.”