M.C. Beaton: Death of a Prankster

She drove back to Arrat House thinking perhaps it was as well Hamish was off the case. Melissa was a nice little thing, but too silly and susceptible. She parked the car at the side of the house. Melissa and Paul climbed out. And then ambling around the side of the house came Hamish Macbeth. Melissa let out a glad cry and ran straight into his arms, babbling about the second murder and about how frightened she had been, but now that he was back everything was all right, while Priscilla and Paul looked bleakly on.

Hamish disengaged himself quickly. “You’d best get indoors, Melissa, before Blair finds you were out of the house. A word with you, Priscilla.”

Melissa stood and stared as Hamish and Priscilla walked off together. They were both tall and looked at ease with each other.

“Have you been flirting with Melissa?” Priscilla was asking.

“I wass chust being my usual charming self,” said Hamish. “I am back on the case. The rest are having lunch but I wanted a bit of fresh air.”

“Where is Towser?”

“Being looked after by Mrs Wellington. Priscilla, there’s been another murder, and right under the noses of the police, too. I’ve mair to worry about than one spoilt mongrel. What did you find out?”

“Not much. Betty asked me to pick up some wool for her from the village and Melissa and Paul begged a lift. It’s a difficult business. There they all were and one of them a possible murderer. But with the atmosphere of Arrat House and the horrible furnishings, anyone looks like a murderer. Enrico is creepy. He hangs about listening, have you noticed? Paul Sinclair is a drip, in my opinion. He seems, at a guess, to be using that Melissa to try to get free from his mother. Hamish! I’ve suddenly thought, who was Mr Sinclair? I mean, who was Paul’s father? There might be insanity in the family, something like that.”

“There’s a point,” said Hamish. “The rain’s started again. We’re getting awfy wet, Priscilla.”

“There’s a summer-house thing over by the woods. We’ll go there.”

They walked into a rather damp and dilapidated summer house and sat down together. “I was reading an article about genes and heredity,” said Priscilla.

“That’s all verra well,” put in Hamish, “but I’ve never noticed murder running in families.”

“No, but insanity does.”

“Maybe,” he said slowly. “I’ll ask Anderson. He’s been ferreting into everyone’s past.”

“I can do it easier than that,” said Priscilla eagerly. “I’ll just ask Paul.”

“What? If his father was bonkers?”

“No, silly. I’ll ask if his father is still alive, and if so, where, and if not, what did he die of.”

He gave her a slow smile. “My, my,” he mocked. “Quite the detective. And here’s me thinking you didnae want tae come to Arrat House.”

“I found I had less work at the hotel than I thought,” said Priscilla primly.

Hamish clasped his hands behind his head and looked meditatively at the ceiling. “Aye,” he said dreamily, “that Melissa iss a nice wee lassie.”

“Hamish Macbeth. Unless you are seriously interested, leave her alone. She’s upset, young and far from home, and highly susceptible.”

Hamish grinned. “I wass only teasing,” he said, but Priscilla had already risen to her feet. “One of us had better do some work,” she said sharply, and walked out of the summer house.

Melissa, watching from the drawing room window, saw her approach, saw the long easy strides, the immaculate hair, the well-worn but well-cut tweeds, the air of assurance and clasped her arms about her body and shivered. It was always the same. She would find some man to dream about, some man to hope for, and then just when she began to imagine she had a chance, some female appeared over the horizon and took the man away. She gave a little sigh. The Melissas of this world always had to settle for second best. “Don’t look so gloomy,” came Paul’s voice from behind her. “We’ll soon be out of this nightmare.”

The drawing room door opened and Priscilla came in, holding the parcel of wool she had bought for Betty. “Where is everyone?” she asked.

“They’re all in the dining room,” said Melissa. “Neither of us felt like eating anything.”

“I’ll go and give this to, Betty,” said Priscilla. She hesitated in the doorway. “Is your father still alive?” she asked Paul.

He blinked at her in surprise.

“No,” he said curtly. “He died shortly after Mother divorced him.”

“I am sorry,” said Priscilla. “What did he die of?”

“A broken heart,” snapped Paul. “So go and report that to your policeman friend.”

“There’s no need for you to get so worked up,” said Melissa when Priscilla had left. “And what makes you think she is spying for Hamish?”

“Because she goes off with friend Hamish and then comes back for the express purpose of trying to find out about my father. It was all Jeffrey’s fault. He took Mother away.”

“Try not to get so upset.” Melissa took his arm. “Maybe we should get some food after all.” She smiled up at him. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you.”

His eyes filled with tears and he took off his glasses and scrubbed at them with his handkerchief. “Thank God you’re here with me,” he said in a choked voice. “Oh, Melissa, will you marry me?”

She stared back at him. Somewhere at the back of her brain a tiny warning voice was crying that Paul wanted a substitute mother, that her remark, “I’ll take care of you,” had sparked the proposal. But there were louder voices and bright images. He was a tolerably personable young man with a good job. He was a millionaire. She would have a diamond ring. Mum would be ever so pleased. White satin. Who would be her bridesmaid? Church. Bells ringing. Modern home. Shiny kitchen. Herself in apron. Had a good day, darling? “Yes,” said Melissa.

♦

They were drinking coffee when Priscilla entered the dining room. Betty accepted the wool with a cry of delight and begged Priscilla to join them. “Did you have a terrible time getting past the press?” asked Charles.

“Not really,” replied Priscilla. “I kept the car windows closed and let the people guide me through.”

“It shouldn’t be allowed,” said Angela. “Ghouls and vultures.”

“Understandable,” put in Jeffrey. “I mean, Titchy Gold and people like her cultivate publicity. You can’t turn it off like a tap just because she’s dead.”

“The press have descended on us in hordes,” said Charles evenly, “not because of Titchy’s publicity hunting but because two murders have been committed in this house.”

“Yes, yes, dear,” said Betty hurriedly. “But let’s not talk about it.”

“As you wish,” said Charles, “but not talking about it isn’t going to make the problem go away.”

“It’s because each one of us is a suspect that we’re all so frightened and nervous,” said Jan, “and that’s ridiculous. Andrew Trent tormented the villagers and the outside staff as well. This house is never locked, neither are the bedrooms. Anyone could have come in from outside.”

Charles glanced out of the window. “You may have your wish,” he said. “That gamekeeper, Jim Gaskell, is being marched in for interrogation. The police lunch-break is obviously over.”

Enrico, who had just brought in a fresh pot of coffee, said smoothly, “Perhaps the police now know that Jim Gaskell had more reason than most to want Mr Trent dead.”

“How? Why?” demanded several voices.

Enrico told them about the trick played on the gamekeeper.

“There you are!” said Jan triumphantly when he had finished.

Charles shrugged. “Let’s hope he keeps the police busy for the rest of the day. I’m tired of questions.”