M.C. Beaton - Death of a Prankster

“Oh, that’s wicked,” said Melissa. “Poor Charles. Surely the others will give him something.”

“I’ll be verra surprised if they do,” said Hamish, pouring himself a cup of coffee and sitting down beside her at the table. “Don’t you want to congratulate Paul?”

“No, I don’t feel like it,” said Melissa. “I just want to go home.”

“Stick it out,” urged Hamish. “Oh, here’s Anderson.”

Detective Jimmy Anderson wandered into the kitchen. “Anything to drink down here, Hamish?” he asked. “I went into the drawing room where they’ve got the drinks, but the new millionaires told me to get lost.”

“I’ll ask Enrico,” said Melissa. “He’s in his quarters.”

“Leave him,” said Anderson. He rummaged through cupboards and found a bottle of cooking sherry and poured himself a large glass before sitting down at the table with them.

“Ah, that’s better,” he sighed, after taking a great swig.

“Rough time with Titchy?” asked Hamish sympathetically.

“Rough! That little lady knows more swearwords than the whole of Her Majesty’s armed forces put together. She comes tripping in, batting her eyelashes at Blair and oozing sex. He rips into her. She takes a deep breath and bingo! Out goes Marilyn Monroe, in comes Lady Macbeth.”

“What other reports did you get?” asked Hamish.

Anderson looked pointedly at Melissa. “Never mind her,” said Hamish. “I’ll get you some Scotch.”

“You’re on. But how?”

“Wait.” Hamish went up to the drawing room. There were bottles stacked on a trolley in the corner. He picked one up after the other while everyone watched him nervously. Then he seized a bottle of malt whisky, said, “Aha! Fingerprints,” and marched out of the room with it.

“You’re a genius,” breathed Anderson, tossing back the remains of his sherry and filling the glass up with whisky. “Right, let me see. Charles, the adopted son. Can’t find any adoption papers in the house. Cheerful layabout, popular, loads of girlfriends, usually of the upper-crust sort, until he met Titchy. One job after another. He always leaves, though. Bored. Doesn’t get fired.

“Jeffrey Trent. Running into financial trouble. Wife of his eats money. Best address, best gowns, best jewels, latest in Jaguar cars, his is up here, hers down in London. So Jeffrey needed money badly.

“Angela and Betty Trent. Old maids. In their fifties, both. Angela the older. Live together. Had fairly generous allowance from Pops. Nothing there, except women at the menopause can go weird. Didn’t like their dad and made no secret of it.

“Paul Sinclair.” He looked at Melissa. “Are you ready for this?”

“Go on,” said Melissa quietly. “I don’t care any more.”

“OK. Bright boy. First in physics at Cambridge. Good worker. Clean habits. One nasty scene at his Cambridge college, Pembroke. Got drunk at college dinner and punched someone who called him a swot. Engaged to a girl student, Anita Blume. She dumped him. Broke down the door of her college room and wrecked the place, tossing the furniture around and screaming. In danger of being sent down but survived the scandal because brilliant student. Nothing else.”

“Paul violent? ” Melissa looked amazed. “You should see him when he’s working at the atomic research station. Mild-mannered, serious, polite.”

“Well, maybe mild-mannered Paul Sinclair jumped intae a phone booth and emerged as…Supermurderer. Ta-ra!” cried Anderson, waving his whisky glass.

“Paul? Oh, no. No, he couldn’t have,” said Melissa, looking sick again.

“Run along, lassie,” said Hamish. “I think you could do with a lie-down. Or get a book and go somewhere quiet by yourself.”

Anderson grinned at Hamish after Melissa had left. “Are we getting a bit soft about Miss Punk Head?”

“No, but I think she’s a decent girl.”

“Aren’t they all,” said Anderson gloomily.

“What’s the pathologist’s report?” asked Hamish.

“Stabbed through the heart with great force. Some time after dinner. Since he was seen alive at eleven o’clock and there was a body on the floor o’ Htchy’s room at midnight, then it stands to reason he was killed sometime during that hour.”

“But is he sure of that?” asked Hamish. “We’d best have a look for that dummy, the one that was used before to frighten Titchy. Someone could have used it first and then dragged the dead body along later.”

“That someone would need to be crazy. What if Titchy had screamed the place down when she saw the dummy, just like before?”

“Yes,” said Hamish thoughtfully. “But I think we are looking for someone crazy.”

Melissa came back into the kitchen. She looked at Hamish. “Titchy wants to see you,” she said.

Now what? thought Hamish. He asked Melissa to look after Towser. “Where is Titchy?”

“In the bedroom, Charles’s bedroom.”

∨ Death of a Prankster ∧

5

I wish I loved the Human Race;

I wish I loved its silly face;

I wish I liked the way it walks;

I wish I liked the way it talks;

And when I’m introduced to one I wish .

I thought What Jolly Fun!

—Sir Walter A. Raleigh

“I feel I can talk to you,” said Titchy Gold to Hamish Macbeth.

“What about?” asked Hamish cautiously. Titchy was sitting in a chair by the window of the bedroom she shared with Charles. Hamish had learned from the police report on Titchy that she was actually thirty-five. She certainly did not look it. Her skin was smooth and unlined and fresh. Her eyes, however, when her guard was down, held an odd mixture of cynicism and coldness. Again he found himself disliking her but could not figure out why. It was not that she had killed her father. Only Titchy knew what dreadful cruelty she had had to put up with until driven to that desperate resort.

With a sudden flash of intuition, he realized that it was because Titchy did not like anyone: one of those rare creatures who have a bottomless loathing for their fellow man or woman. He was surprised she had thrown such a fit of hysterics over the first trick played on her and over the headless knight, particularly the headless knight. Being an actress, she must be used to stage effects. Perhaps it was because she threw scenes as easy as breathing, or perhaps she was unbalanced.

“I just want to make sure I can walk out of here tomorrow without that fat detective trying to stop me,” said Titchy.

“You’ve made a statement,” said Hamish. “If the police want you, they can visit you in London. But why tell me?”

“Because I am not telling anyone else,” said Titchy. “I want to get away from here and forget I ever knew any of them. Charles will fuss and fret and say I’m dumping him because he’s not coming into any money.”

“And would that be true?” asked Hamish.

“Of course. I’ve got my future to think of. If I married Charles, I’d end up working for the rest of my life to support him and I’m not the maternal type. Mind you, there’s always dear Jeffrey.”

“He’s married.”

“For the moment,” said Titchy cynically. “Haven’t you noticed the way he looks at that wife of his? He’ll get rid of her now, I bet. Yes, Jeffrey might be an idea.”

“You’d better go easy,” said Hamish. “It is my belief that the murderer is in this house.”

“And it could be Brother Jeffrey? Don’t you believe it, copper. That sort only dreams of violence.”

There was a noise from the corridor outside. Hamish ran to the door and whipped it open. No one was there.

“I think someone was listening at the door,” he said slowly.