M.C. Beaton - Death of a Prankster

When she had been dismissed, Daviot frowned down at his notes. “We seem to be getting more suspects by the minute instead of less. Oh, well, we’ll have Jan Trent in next.”

Jan was wearing a severe tweed suit with a white blouse and sensible brogues. She slid into the chair opposite Daviot, folded her skeletal hands on her lap, and waited.

“Now, Mrs Trent,” began Daviot, “your husband told you publicly that he was leaving you. Is that not true?”

Jan gave a slight shrug. “He said something like that. But Jeffrey has been extremely overwrought.”

“He also said he might take Titchy Gold with him. He was attacked by your son.”

“Jeffrey was behaving outrageously. I fear the murder of his brother has turned his mind. My poor Paul has been in an understandable state of nervous tension.” Her voice sharpened. “I will not have you bullying him.”

Daviot questioned her closely about her movements the previous night and then took her back through her movements on the night of the murder of Mr Trent. Throughout the interview, Jan seemed to come under increasing strain. She pleated a handkerchief between her long fingers, then smoothed it out on her knee, and then began to pleat it all over again.

The superintendent watched her closely. He became sure that she might have committed murder in the hope of getting money through her husband.

After he had finished with her, he decided to interview the dead man’s daughters.

Betty was the first. She seemed strained and shocked. Her dumpy figure was encased in correct mourning and her eyes were red. “I am not sorry about the death of that silly girl,” she said. “In fact, I’m glad. She was, she must have been, unstable. It stands to reason. She killed Dad and then took her own life.”

“That would be a very comfortable solution,” said Daviot. “Unfortunately, the cup which contained, we think, sleeping pills, was wiped clean. I do not think anyone bent on committing suicide would do that.”

Betty burst into tears and then, between sobs, she said incoherently that the police were fools and simply letting the investigation drag on and on out of sheer sadism.

Daviot gave up trying to question her further and she was led from the room.

She was replaced by her sister Angela, who appeared made of sterner stuff. Angela said roundly that she had thought about the murders and was sure they had been done by some maniac from the village. “There’s a lot of inbreeding in these Highland villages,” she said. “Mark my words, while you are wasting your time questioning us, there is some drooling homicidal maniac loose in Arrat.”

She then grumpily described what she had been doing the night before, movements which Daviot noticed were as vague as everyone else’s. No one so far could put an exact time on where they had been last evening or when they had gone down to the kitchen.

Paul Sinclair was next. His face was white and there were purple shadows under his eyes, but he told them his movements in a quiet, measured voice. “Now let’s go back to yesterday afternoon,” said Daviot. “You attacked your stepfather when he said he was leaving your mother, did you not?”

“The bastard was jeering at her,” said Paul. “She’s my mother, for God’s sake! You wouldn’t expect me to sit there and say nothing.”

“You have a record of outbursts of rage,” said Daviot quietly. “It is possible, you know, that you could have killed Titchy Gold because your stepfather was insulting your mother by suggesting he might take Titchy with him when he left her.”

Paul looked at him wearily. “You can’t pin that one on me. Poisoning is hardly the action of someone given to outbursts of rage. Nor did I kill old Mr Trent. I had no interest in his money. I am going to sign most of it over to my mother.”

“Had you already discussed such an eventuality with her – in the event of Mr Trent’s death?”

“No, of course not,” snapped Paul. “I did not expect Mr Andrew Trent to die. He was as fit as a flea when I arrived. I did not expect to inherit anything. Why should I? I thought it would all go to Charles. I only came up to this hell-hole to please my mother.”

He was questioned about his movements for half an hour before he was allowed to go.

Jeffrey Trent was summoned next. Of all the people Daviot had interviewed, Jeffrey seemed the least affected; in fact, he looked positively cheerful. He said he had had no intention of going off with Titchy Gold but had merely said so in order to get revenge on his wife.

For what?

For years of complaint and humiliation, for the years she had bled him like a leech, said Jeffrey. No, he had not liked his brother Andrew. Yes, he had simply come to Arrat House in the hope of getting something in his brother’s will. He answered all questions in a dry, precise manner but underneath it all ran a current of amusement that Daviot found highly irritating.

“Well, that’s that for now,” said Daviot when he had finished questioning Jeffrey. “We will sit and go over what we have heard while we wait for forensic reports and the pathologist’s report.”

The door of the library opened and a tall, gangly figure wandered in.

“Hamish!” said the superintendent. “Sit down, lad, while we discuss this case.”

Blair shifted uneasily. Somehow, the superintendent had a habit of calling Hamish Macbeth by his first name when he was displeased with him – Blair. What if Daviot were to go back to the laying out of the body and what if Hamish Macbeth were to tell him the truth?

∨ Death of a Prankster ∧

6

It is a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma .

—Sir Winston Churchill

Priscilla Halburton-Smythe had some difficulty getting into the grounds of Arrat House. The narrow road leading to it was crowded with reporters, photographers and television crews. Satellite dishes like giant mushrooms glinted palely in the grey light. Ignoring the questions shouted at her by reporters, she rolled down the window and explained to one of the policemen on guard that she was a friend of the family. This was not true, but Priscilla could hardly explain she had arrived for the sole purpose of helping PC Hamish Macbeth in his inquiries.

At last she was through the crowd of press and inside the gates. Enrico answered the door. Priscilla asked for the Misses Trent and gave her name. Enrico knew the name of every landowner from Arrat to the coast as well as any Highlander and so ushered her into the drawing room. They were all gathered together, all the suspects.

“You won’t remember me,” said Priscilla, advancing on Angela. “I came here as a child. I am Priscilla Halburton-Smythe. I came to offer my condolences. The death of your father is a terrible tragedy. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Decent of you to call,” said Angela, “but there’s nothing to do at the moment. We haven’t had the hearing at the procurator fiscal’s yet and we can’t even plan the funeral. Sit down. Enrico, fetch Miss Halburton-Smythe a drink or something.”

“Too early, and call me Priscilla.”

“I’d better introduce everyone,” said Angela. “I feel I should say, enter first murderer and this is the second murderer.” She gave a shrill laugh.

“Control yourself,” snapped her sister. “I am Betty Trent. The tall young man over by the window is Paul Sinclair and the girl with pink hair is Melissa Clarke. To your left is Jeffrey Trent, our uncle; and to your right, his wife Jan. Charles is over there, by the fire. Now, have you heard the latest news?”

Priscilla shook her head.

“That actress has been found murdered.”

“Titchy Gold!”

“The same.”