M.C. Beaton - Death of a Prankster

He pushed open a door. Both men looked inside. Titchy was lying in bed on her side, her blonde hair tumbled over the pillow.

“You’d better wake her up,” said Anderson.

Enrico called, “Miss Gold!”

The figure in the bed did not move.

The manservant approached the bed. He took a tissue from a box beside the bed and then shook Titchy’s bare shoulder with one tissue-covered hand.

Anderson was amused. “I’d heard butlers and folk like that werenae supposed to touch the mistress’s bare flesh when waking her in the morning, but this is the first time I’ve ever seen anyone do it.”

Enrico straightened up and turned to face the detective. “I think Miss Gold is dead,” he remarked.

“Whit? She cannae be, man.” Anderson strode to the bed and jerked down the covers. He felt Titchy’s body and then uttered an exclamation. The actress was cold and rigid.

“Get Blair,” snapped Anderson. “Man, man, this is terrible.”

While he waited for Blair, he bent over the body again. He saw no signs of violence. There was a cup and saucer beside the bed. He bent over the cup and sniffed it. It smelt of chocolate.

Blair came crashing in, his eyes bulging out of his head.

“Tell me she’s had a heart attack,” he roared, “but jist don’t tell me there’s been another murder.”

♦

An hour later, Superintendent Peter Daviot gazed bleakly around the assembled police and detectives in the library. He looked like a younger version of Jeffrey Trent.

“So,” he said, “a murder was committed under your noses. Were any police on duty last night?”

“Two patrolling outside last night and two mair this morning,” said Blair. “There’s nae accommodation here, sir, and – ”

Daviot held up his hand for silence. “Now the preliminary opinion of the pathologist is that she died from a possible overdose of sleeping pills. Who in this house takes sleeping pills? I just hope it turns out she did it herself.”

Anderson opened his notebook. “Angela and Betty Trent,” he said, “and Mr Jeffrey Trent. A bottle of some stuff called Dormadon is missing from Jeffrey’s bathroom cabinet, but the servants say the Trents never locked their bedroom door and so anyone could have got in.”

“Have you interviewed any of them yet?” demanded Daviot.

“No,” oiled Blair. “The minute we heard you were coming, we decided tae wait.”

“Right,” said Daviot. “We’d better see Charles Trent first. I gather he was heard threatening Miss Gold, or so Mr Jeffrey Trent obligingly told me as I arrived.” He paused. “Where’s Hamish Macbeth?” he asked.

“He’s back at Lochdubh,” muttered Blair.

“Whatever for? He’s covering this area for Sergeant MacGregor. He knows the locals. It may not be an inside murder. Get him back over here immediately.”

Anderson raised a hand to hide a grin as Blair reluctantly picked up the phone and dialled Lochdubh police station and then in strained, polite tones asked Hamish Macbeth to return to Arrat House and briefed him on the death of Titchy Gold.

A man from the forensic team popped his head round the door. “No fingerprints on that cup,” he said cheerfully.

“Well, that’s that,” said Daviot gloomily. “You are not going to persuade me that a suicide wiped that cup clean. Get Charles Trent.”

Charles Trent looked strained and shaken. “Sit down,” said the superintendent. “We have reason to believe that your fiancée did not take her own life. Now you were heard to threaten her yesterday. You said something like, “I could make you very, very sorry.” And when Miss Gold asked if you were threatening her, you replied, “Just think what I could do to you,” or words to that effect. What did you mean?”

Charles put a hand up to his brow. “I was miffed because she was dumping me, and quite heartlessly, too. I wanted to get back at her. I meant that I could sell my story about our relationship to one of the sleazier tabloids, that’s all.”

“Did you go to her bedroom last night?”

He shook his head. “There didn’t seem to be any point. It’s all my fault, in a way. She was happy enough with me before I roused her expectations about that damned will. She got greedy, that’s all. But why would anyone kill her?”

“Did she upset anyone apart from you?” asked Daviot.

“I believe she was making a play for old Jeffrey, and that upset his wife. You’d better ask her.”

“We will.” Charles was then questioned exhaustively about his movements the day and night before. He seemed to gain composure rather than lose it as the questioning went on.

At last Daviot sent him away and asked for Enrico to be brought in.

Had anyone, he asked the Spaniard, used the kitchen the night before? Enrico said that Miss Angela had come down about eleven o’clock in the evening for a glass of hot milk. Earlier, Mrs Jeffrey Trent had come in to make herbal tea, Charles Trent had wanted a sandwich, and Melissa Clarke had asked for a flask of tea for her room.

Blair interrupted, his voice loaded with sarcasm. “Whit’s a’ this? Don’t these grand folks just ring the bell and ask fur ye to bring whatever it is they want upstairs?”

Enrico looked mildly amused. “It is not the Middle Ages,” he said in his precise English. “Maria and I had served dinner. It is generally understood that we are off duty after that.”

“Quite, quite,” said Daviot hurriedly. “It is believed the sleeping pills, if that’s what they were, were put into a cup of hot chocolate. Where is the chocolate kept?”

“In the large cupboard in the pantry off the kitchen with the other dry groceries.”

“And was the carton of drinking chocolate still there this morning?”

“Yes, members of the forensic team took it away.”

Daviot then questioned him all over again about what time he had gone to bed and if he had heard anyone moving about the kitchen. Enrico said that he had gone to bed about midnight and that he and his wife would not remark particularly if they heard any sounds from the kitchen. They would assume one of the guests had come down for a late drink or snack. No, he could not remember any particular sounds. He had gone to sleep almost immediately.

Daviot glanced through the file he had already read on the road up. “Let us go back to the first murder. I see here that you removed the body of Mr Trent and laid it out in the games room and then cleaned the bedroom upstairs. Can you tell me in your own words why you did that?”

Enrico’s eyes flicked briefly to Blair. “It was understood at the beginning that Mr Trent had been the victim of one of his own practical jokes. My wife and I did what we thought was fitting.”

Daviot swung round to Blair. “Would you say that was correct as far as you could judge from your investigations?”

“Aye,” said Blair and mopped his forehead. He was dreading the arrival of Hamish Macbeth. What if Hamish told Daviot about Mrs Trent’s paying the servants to clean up? Daviot would wonder why they had not been charged.

Daviot questioned Enrico further and then dismissed him.

“Now,” said Daviot, “I would like an independent witness.” He studied a list of names in front of him. “Let’s have the Clarke girl in.”

Melissa felt she was living in a nightmare. She clung to the hope that it would turn out that Titchy had murdered old Mr Trent and then had taken her own life. She was vaguely relieved that the questioning was started by Blair’s superior and not Blair.

“Now,” said Daviot, “take your time. We need you to tell us what went on yesterday.”

In a shaking voice, Melissa said, nothing in particular. All she wanted to do was to get away from this roomful of policemen. But Daviot probed on and on, question after question, until Melissa found she was telling him everything about Titchy’s flirting with Jeffrey, about Jeffrey’s saying he was leaving his wife, about Paul’s attacking Jeffrey, every little thing until she felt weak and exhausted and near to tears.