M.C. Beaton - Death of a Prankster

Melissa found herself trotting after him as he headed back to the house with long strides. He emanated a sort of sane kindness, she thought. “Could you look after Towser for me?” asked Hamish. “See if Enrico can give him a bone or something.”

Melissa took Towser’s leash, glad of the dog’s company, glad of a chore to do which would keep her away from Paul. “Enrico will be at the reading as well,” she said cheerfully, “so Towser and I will raid the larder.”

Hamish eased himself into the library and stood at the back. They were all there, tense and eager. Not a dry eye in the house, he thought cynically, but then Andrew Trent did not deserve grief or mourning.

The lawyer, Mr Bright, seemed determined to live up to his name. He was a small fat man with round glasses and an air of determined cheerfulness.

He began by making a speech about what an amazingly fun-loving person the dear deceased had been, about how his japes and pranks had delighted all, while the roomful of relatives and police listened in stony silence.

Hamish was almost prepared to find out that this will was Andrew Trent’s last great joke on his family. But as the will was read out, it transpired that there was only one disaster.

Charles was to inherit absolutely nothing.

Andrew Trent had left instructions that his house, estates and factories were to be sold. The proceeds, along with his money in the bank, were to be divided equally among his daughters, Angela and Betty, his brother, Jeffrey, and, surprisingly, Paul Sinclair. Generous bequests had been left to the Spanish servants and outdoor staff, including Jim Gaskell.

Charles was quite white with shock. He reached for Titchy’s hand. Titchy seemed as stunned as Charles.

The rest were obviously finding it very hard to control their glee. Freedom at last, thought Jeffrey. I’ll leave the bitch to rot. Her son can take care of her if he wants.

Hamish noticed that Blair had a gloating look which he recognized of old. Blair obviously thought he knew the identity of the murderer.

When everyone had finally filed out, leaving the police behind, Hamish turned to Blair. “You’ve found something,” he said.

“You’ve found something, sir ,” corrected Blair nastily. “Aye, it’s in the bag. We’ll have her in here in a minute.”

“Her?”

“So-called Titchy Gold. We’ve been getting background fast. Take a look at this. Good thing the old man’s got a fax machine.”

Hamish read it curiously. Titchy Gold had been born plain Martha Brown, mother Mrs Enid Brown, late father, Terence Brown, unemployed. Titchy, or Martha, had appeared in the juvenile court at the age of fourteen. She had stabbed her father to death. The reason she had stabbed him was because he had raped her. She had served a short sentence in a juvenile detention centre. She had never gone home again and refused to have anything to do with her mother. At eighteen, she had become the mistress of a television producer, changed her name by deed poll and started getting small parts, ending up with the plum part in the present crime series in which she appeared.

Hamish raised his eyes. “There iss a lot of difference between stabbing a father who’s raped you and stabbing an old man you hardly know.”

“When they start killing, they go on killing,” said Blair, rubbing his fat hands. “She thought Charles Trent would inherit, didn’t she? Ye can sit in on the interview, Hamish,” he added magnanimously.

Hamish hesitated. He felt he ought to tell Blair about the gamekeeper, Jim Gaskell. Then he decided it would be better if he questioned Jim Gaskell himself first.

“No, I’ll leave it to you,” said Hamish, He could not bear to see the bullying and haranguing that would go on. But he privately thought Blair was in for a surprise. Titchy Gold was much harder and tougher than the detective knew.

And so it turned out. Blair was sweating by the time Titchy had finished with him. She used the foulest language he had ever heard in his life. She reminded him that she was a celebrity and that the press were outside. She would let them know about his methods of interviewing and no doubt some television research team would be interested in questioning him . She did not deny a thing in the report. Her father had been a degenerate. She had carved a career for herself and no one was going to take that away from her. She ended by saying that he either charged her and produced immediate evidence for doing so, or let her go, or she would get a lawyer flown up from London to sort him out. Furthermore, she was packing her bags and leaving the next day.

Hamish stood for a moment outside the library door, listening with relish to the noisy altercation from within, and then he went out in search of Jim Gaskell.

The gamekeeper and his wife were both at home. Mary Gaskell was just putting the infant down to sleep.

Hamish talked easily of this and that and then slid round to the question of practical jokes. “That was a bad business about the baby,” he said. “Did you know he was leaving you something in his will?”

“I neffer thocht it for a minute,” said Jim.

“But you obviously know now. You’re not surprised. Who told you?”

“Enrico. The wee Spaniard came running right over tae tell me.”

“But you didn’t know before. Mr Trent didn’t say anything?”

“Of course he did. He was aye telling me and Enrico and the others that we’d come in for a bit, but only Enrico believed him.”

“You must have been sore angry at him over that joke he played on you.”

“I could hae killed him,” said the gamekeeper simply, his large powerful hands resting on his knees. He was a giant of a man. “But I got my revenge.”

“How?”

“Blackmail,” said the gamekeeper with a cheery grin. “I had Mary here write down tae Inverness tae the lawyers and doctors and psychiatrists and then I told auld Trent I wass going tae sue him. Danger tae Mary’s health, shock, trauma, the lot. He settled out o’ court.”

“For how much?”

“Ten thousand pounds. I’m no’ a greedy man. After that, every time he wanted help wi’ one o’ his jokes, I’d charge him a fee. It was me that wass the headless knight. Aye, auld Trent hated ma guts. He wanted me tae leave, but was frightened tae make me for he was scared o’ me.”

The powerful hands on his knees tensed and relaxed.

“Man, man, why stay on in all this hate and madness?” cried Hamish.

“It suited me. I’m a canny man. Money disnae grow on trees and we had the flat here for free. You know what they say about us Scots.”

“The trouble with you mean Scots,” said Hamish angrily, “is that you claim it as a national virtue, which gives the other ninety-nine generous per cent o’ the population a bad reputation. I wass sorry for you when I heard about the trick Trent played on ye, but you’re just as bad as your master ever was, in my opinion.”

“Aye, but your opinion doesnae matter, laddie. It’s that cheil, Blair, that’s running the investigation. I ken you. You’re nothing but the village copper frae Lochdubh and a damned crofter as well.”

Hamish left with a decided desire to find Jimmy Gaskell guilty. He made his way down to the kitchen. Melissa was sitting at the table eating sandwiches and Towser was lying beside an empty bowl on the floor, asleep again.

“I was looking for some scraps for Towser,” said Melissa. “I could only find a little bit of cold meat because I didn’t want to annoy Enrico by taking anything bigger. But he came down after the reading of the will, asked what I was doing and when I told him, he gave Towser a pound of liver. How did it go?”

“Jeffrey and Jan, Paul and the Trent sisters are all going to be verra, verra rich. Enrico and Maria and the outdoor staff all get generous legacies. Charles Trent gets nothing.”