M.C. Beaton - Death of a Prankster

“Jealous…of you?” raged Melissa. “I don’t care who Paul runs after. He’s nothing to me. You’re all sick!”

Hamish Macbeth wondered what was going on as Melissa erupted from the drawing room, but he had decided he had better tell Blair about Jim Gaskell, the gamekeeper, and so he went on into the library.

Blair swore when he heard about the trick played on the gamekeeper. “There’s damn suspects comin’ oot o’ the woodwork,” he groaned. “Anderson, fetch that gamekeeper in here. And Macbeth, arnae you neglecting the duties o’ your parish? There’s no need for you here fur the rest o’ the day.”

“If it hadn’t been for me,” said Hamish stiffly, “you’d never haff heard about the gamekeeper.”

“Aye, aye, laddie. Jist piss off and take that mongrel wi’ ye. You should know better than to take your pet on a murder case.”

“I told you before,” said Hamish. “This is a trained police dog.”

“If thon thing’s a trained police dog, then I’m Lassie,” hooted Blair. “Off wi’ ye.”

Hamish muttered under his breath as he and Towser scrambled into the police Land Rover. It was already dark, the north of Scotland seeing very little daylight during the winter. As he approached Lochdubh, he thought of calling on Priscilla and then changed his mind. She had called him a moocher. She would think he had only called at the hotel to cadge a free drink. He drove on towards the police station. At the end of the waterfront, the Lochdubh Hotel stood dark and empty. It was usually closed for the winter, but rumour had it that it was being put up for sale because the competition from Tommel Castle was killing off trade.

He parked the car and let himself into his kitchen, noticing as he switched on the light that frost was forming on the inside of the window and that last night’s dirty dishes were still in the sink.

He lit the kitchen stove and cooked some kidneys for Towser and then walked up and down rubbing his hands, waiting for the room to heat up.

There was a tentative knock at the kitchen door. He thought it was probably the minister’s wife, Mrs Wellington, who expected payment in fresh eggs from Hamish’s hens for walking Towser.

But it was Priscilla who stood there, and she was holding a foil-covered dish.

“Truce,” she said. “I brought you dinner. Venison casserole. It only needs to be heated up.”

“Come in,” said Hamish eagerly. “I’m sorry I snapped at you, Priscilla, but Blair drives me mad and I wass hungry and…and it’s grand to see you.”

“That’s more like it.” Priscilla put the casserole into the oven and sat down at the kitchen table. She slipped off her wool coat, which crackled with electricity from the frosty air. “Turned cold again,” she said. “Damn winter. I’m sick of it. I would like to go and lie in the sun on a beach somewhere.”

“Like Jeffrey Trent,” said Hamish. He sat down as well and told her what had happened that day, ending up with, “I don’t like the way Titchy Gold is going on. But then I don’t like Titchy.”

“Why?” asked Priscilla.

“I don’t know. She’s such a mixture. One minute she’s as hard as nails, the next she’s playing the vamp…and neither of those characters ties in with the one which was sick with fright over the appearance of that headless knight.”

“I think I know why. A lot of theatrical people are very superstitious, Hamish. Do you think she did the murder and then calmly went to bed with her lover?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know,” he muttered. “But when I see her, I see death.”

“But to get the body in the wardrobe in the first place, you would need someone very strong…or two people,” pointed out Priscilla.

“Aye, They could all have done it, to my mind. Of course, the whole setting is unnatural, Priscilla. There’s that overheated house, the ghastly noisy carpets and furnishings, all in the shadow of the mountain…so I’m looking at all these people through a distorting glass.”

“What about Jan Trent? Instead of getting the servants to clean up to protect her son, she could have been protecting herself. She loves money, you said.”

“Aye,” agreed Hamish. “Then there’s the daughters, Angela and Betty. Odd couple. One of them couldn’t have done it, but two…although Angela Trent’s a hefty woman. Mind you, both had a generous allowance from the old man while he was living. If they did not know what was in the will, why kill him and kill the goose that was laying the golden eggs?”

“When there are millions to be inherited,” said Priscilla, “even a generous allowance can begin to seem like a pittance.” She went to the oven and took out the casserole and served the contents deftly on to a plate. We’re like an old married couple after all the passion has long died away, thought Hamish, at first privately amused, and then, for some reason he could not fathom, angry.

He had a sudden childish desire to push the food away and say it was not very good. He then wondered uneasily if he was coming down with some sort of virus. He always got tetchy just before a bout of the flu.

“Anyway, I’m out of the case,” said Hamish. “Blair has ordered me back. I don’t see much hope of solving it long-range.”

“I know Angela Trent very slightly,” said Priscilla. “Daddy took me to Arrat House on a visit when I was a child. I could always go over there to offer my sympathies and tell you what’s going on.”

Hamish brightened. “I wouldn’t mind a fresh eye on the case,” he said eagerly. “Also, you could keep an eye on Melissa. She’s a nice little thing and I worry about her.”

“Oh, really? The one with the pink hair?”

“Yes. It’s an odd thing, but the pink hair suits her. She’s got nice eyes.”

“And Miss Pink Punk wouldn’t hurt a fly?” demanded Priscilla sarcastically.

“In my opinion, no,” said Hamish, his mind too deep in the case to notice the sarcasm.

Priscilla got up and put on her coat with brisk nervous movements. “I’m off, Hamish. I’ll think about going over to Arrat House, but there’s a lot to do at the hotel.”

Hamish looked at her in hurt surprise. “But I thought ye said ye were going!”

“Well, we’ll see.” Priscilla went out and banged the kitchen door behind her with unnecessary force.

♦

A sort of torpor seemed to have descended over Arrat House the next day. The hard frost of the night before had given way to a thin weeping drizzle driven in on an Atlantic gale. Blair was restless and tired. He had been commuting between Strathbane and Arrat, leaving late at night and arriving early the next morning. Soon he would need to take final statements and let them all go. He could charge Jan Trent and Enrico with interfering with the evidence, but he was perfectly sure the hellish Spaniard would promptly send that tape to his superior.

He settled down in the library and rustled through his notes. Surely he should be concentrating on the one likely suspect and that was Titchy Gold. She was a murderess and therefore the one person who was likely to kill again. He looked up at Anderson. “Get that actress in here again,” he said gruffly, “and let’s see if we can get mair oot o’ her.”

Anderson walked out. Titchy was not with the others, who were sitting morosely in the drawing room. He asked if anyone had seen her.

“She’s probably still asleep,” said Betty, knitting ferociously, the light from a lamp above her head shining on the busy needles.

Anderson went down to the kitchen and asked Enrico to take him up to Titchy’s room.

“I put her in another of the guest bedrooms,” said Enrico as he led the way up the stairs. “She no longer wanted to share a room with Mr Charles.”