M.C. Beaton - Death of a Prankster

“How was she murdered?”

Betty’s composure suddenly broke and she stared in an anguished way at Priscilla, opening and shutting her mouth.

“Sit down, Betty,” said Jeffrey. “I’ll explain. Titchy Gold was found dead in bed. A cup beside the bed was found to have been wiped clean of prints. A bottle of my sleeping pills has gone missing. We are waiting for the pathologist’s report and can only pray it turns out to be natural causes. If it hadn’t been for someone wiping that cup clean, then we might have supposed she murdered my brother and then took her own life.”

“And I suppose the police suspect one of you,” said Priscilla. There was a shocked silence. But why are we so shocked? thought Melissa. We’ve known all along one of us did it.

“I think it was that Spaniard, Enrico,” said Angela at last.

“Why?” asked Priscilla. Melissa suddenly experienced a fierce stab of resentment against this cool and beautiful blonde who asked questions with the impersonal incisiveness of a policeman.

“Why?” echoed Angela. “Cos he’s greedy and he’s got money in the will. Oh, stop snivelling, Betty. You’re getting on my nerves. No guts, that’s your problem.”

“And you’re an insensitive moron,” howled Betty.

Charles’s voice cut across the row. “Now look what you’ve done, Priscilla,” he said. “We’ve all endured a morning of questioning and then you come along and pour salt on all the wounds.”

Priscilla flushed. “I am sorry,” she said. She felt like an amateur. Hamish Macbeth would never have been so abrupt. She began to talk to Angela of her memories of her visit to Arrat House. Angela said she thought she had some old photographs taken during that visit and brought out an album. Priscilla bent over it. Yes, there she was herself, about age six, and there were Angela and Betty with their father, who was roaring with laughter about something. The small boy was recognizable as Charles. He was clinging on to the skirts of both sisters and looking over his shoulder with a look of horror on his face.

“What frightened you?” Priscilla asked Charles. He crossed the room and bent over the album. “Oh, that day. That was the man hanging in the tree.”

“One of Dad’s jokes,” explained Angela bitterly. “He had one of the gamekeepers pretend to be a hanged man. Frightened poor little Charles out of his wits.”

“And me,” said Priscilla, suddenly remembering that day clearly. She had felt sorry for Charles. Her furious parents had promptly taken her away and she had wondered for a short time afterwards what it was like to have to live with a parent who played such infernal tricks. Betty, who had recovered, said she had heard about Tommel Castle being turned into an hotel and asked how the business was going. Priscilla talked away while all the time she stored up impressions of the people gathered in the drawing room to tell Hamish. Charles had a sort of bland ease of manner over an undercurrent of nervousness. Jan was silent, strained and fidgeting the whole time. Betty was listening to the tales of running the hotel as if they were the most interesting stories she had ever heard. Angela was sitting four-square, her hands on her knees, staring into space. Melissa and Paul were having a low-voiced conversation at the window. Jeffrey was the only one who seemed at all at ease, as if the macabre goings-on at Arrat House had nothing to do with him.

Enrico reappeared and said that Charles was wanted in the library and the others exchanged looks as he walked out.

Priscilla rose to go. “I gather you are all being kept indoors,” she said to Angela. “Can I get you anything from the village?”

Angela said there was nothing she needed but Betty brightened. “Perhaps you could get me some more wool in this shade from Mrs Tallisker’s at the end of the village. It’s no use asking Maria. She always comes back with the wrong colour.”

Happy to have an excuse to return to Arrat House, Priscilla went out into the hall. Melissa followed her, with Paul close behind. “Could you smuggle us out past the press in your car?” asked Melissa.

“It might upset the police,” said Priscilla. “They’ll probably want to interview you all over again.”

“Just for a short time,” begged Melissa. “I feel I’ll go mad if I don’t get out of here. Paul, too.” Paul blinked at Priscilla myopically. Melissa was now feeling quite motherly and protective towards Paul. He had apologized to her that morning for his behaviour. He had begged her to help him get through this ordeal.

What would Hamish expect her to do? wondered Priscilla. Perhaps she might gain some useful information from Melissa and Paul.

She made up her mind. “All right, then. But you’d both better crouch down in the back seat until I get past the press. Where do you want to go?”

“There’s a little cafe-restaurant in the village,” said Melissa eagerly. She saw Enrico hovering in the shadows of the hall and lowered her voice. “Where is your car?”

“It’s a white Volvo, round the right-hand side of the house,” whispered Priscilla.

“We’ll go out the back way and meet you,” said Melissa urgently.

Soon Priscilla was driving carefully down to the village, with Melissa and Paul crouched down under travelling rugs in the back seat.

“Here we are,” she called over her shoulder as she parked outside the café. “Won’t the gentlemen of the press find you?”

“Not in a café,” said Melissa, popping up from under the rug. “They all go to The Crofter, the pub further along.”

“I’ll go and get Betty’s wool,” said Priscilla, “and then I’ll join you both.”

“Nice girl,” said Melissa as she entered the café with Paul.

“Yes,” agreed Paul, “and very beautiful.”

Melissa did not like that comment much. “Now, Paul,” she began, after they had ordered cups of coffee, “you must try to pull yourself together. The killing of Titchy can have nothing to do with you or me. We’ve only got to survive another day or two of questioning and then they’ll need to let us go.”

He drew patterns on top of the wax table-cloth with the edge of his teaspoon. “What if Mother did it?” he said.

Melissa took a deep breath. She privately thought Jan was capable of murder, but she said, “Of course she didn’t do it! Why should she? You know, Paul, your mother is quite capable of looking after herself. I wouldn’t run mad and give her all your money, but certainly enough to make her independent. I know: Tell her to go off on a cruise. That way you would be free of her for a bit and get a chance to settle down.”

Paul blinked at her mistily and took her hand. “That’s what I like about you, Melissa, your strength.”

Melissa gently disengaged her hand. She knew she was not a strong person. A strong person was like Hamish Macbeth. She wondered what it would be like to be a policeman’s wife. She wondered why he had never married. She dimly realized Paul was speaking.

“I’ve always been dominated by Mother, Melissa, and the time has come to really break free. I can’t do it right away while she’s upset over this break-up with Jeffrey. But once she’s settled, I’ll see less of her. That cruise is a good idea.”

They were joined by Priscilla. “I managed to get that wool,” she said cheerfully. “I’ll need to take you back soon or Blair will start howling and cursing.”

“Do you know Detective Chief Inspector Blair?” asked Melissa.

“Yes, I have met him. We had a murder in Lochdubh last year.”

“Lochdubh? Oh, you must know Hamish.”

A slight tinge of frost crept into Priscilla’s eyes. “Yes, he is a friend of mine.”

“Oh.” Melissa looked at her doubtfully and then her face cleared. Beautiful rich girls like Priscilla did not have anything to do with village constables. “Ready to go?” asked Priscilla, who had suddenly decided that it would be a waste of time to keep them out longer by interrogating them.