M.C. Beaton - Death of a Prankster

“Pah,” snorted Jeffrey. “She threw herself at me. And men like John Sinclair don’t turn raving mad because a stick insect like Jan has left them. They’ve been raving mad all along.”

Were they all as dreadful as they sounded, thought Hamish, or was the brooding presence of the two murders making them seem worse than they were?

He almost regretted having been called back from Lochdubh. He felt he could get a dearer perspective if he could get away from Arrat House and think. He glanced out of the windows of the library. The rain had stopped and a thin pale sunlight was filtering through the glass. Charles Trent and Priscilla were walking up and down outside, talking. He wondered what they were talking about.

♦

“I wish I could get away from here,” Charles was saying. He had accompanied Priscilla outside after she had said her goodbyes. Sunlight was sparkling on the slushy snow and the air held a hint of warmth. “It’s so far from everything. I never felt at home here and it wasn’t entirely because of Father and his dislike of me or his hellish jokes. Sutherland is a foreign country, a different race of people, a different way of thinking. Outside that overheated house, I was always aware of the vastness of moorland and mountain. I love the city, the lights, the theatres, the bars, the noise and bustle. Sometimes when you walk out into the country here at night, the silence is so complete it hurts your ears. The land is so old, so very old, thin earth on top of antique rock.” He shivered. “Why am I telling you all this?”

“Because I’m a stranger,” said Priscilla gently. “Because I’m not a murder suspect. Did you really love Titchy?”

He gave a rueful laugh. “If you had asked me that twenty-four hours ago, I would have said yes and meant it. That’s what’s so awful. She’s dead, murdered, gone for ever. I didn’t really know her at all. That detective, the foxy one, Anderson, he told me that she had been sentenced for killing her own father. Maybe I’m a shallow person. I take everyone at face value. She was blonde and beautiful and everyone envied me, or I thought they did. We were always in the newspapers and I liked that. I don’t think about anything very deeply when I’m in the city, but up here…well, there’s nothing to hide behind, no trappings of civilization. Then who would murder Titchy? Not one of us, surely. They keep hinting that I hated my father. They can’t seem to understand that I didn’t have any strong feelings about him whatsoever. If I’d been unhappy at school, it might have been different. Can you understand that?”

“Yes, I think so,” said Priscilla cautiously. “When are the police going to let you go?”

“Soon, or we’ll have a team of lawyers up here making sure they do. Doing anything tonight?”

Priscilla looked at him in surprise. “Are you asking me out?”

“Yes, why not? Drive off somewhere for a bit of dinner.”

“Well…”

“Priscilla, might I hae a word with you?” The quiet voice of Hamish Macbeth sounded behind them.

Priscilla found to her annoyance that she was blushing like a schoolgirl caught out in some misdemeanour. “Yes, certainly,” she said. “Charles, would you excuse us?”

“Let me know about dinner,” he said and loped off.

“What is it, Hamish?” asked Priscilla.

“I haff to go back to Lochdubh tonight and I was hoping for a chance to discuss the case wi’ ye. Of course, if you prefer to go jauntering off with a murder suspect…”

“Don’t be silly, Hamish. I haven’t even had time to think. All right then, I’ll pick up some food for us on the road home and I’ll be waiting for you at the police station about seven, say.”

“Fine.” Hamish’s hazel eyes swivelled to the entrance of the house where Charles was lounging, watching them curiously.

“So I’ll deal with my admirer, if you deal with yours,” said Priscilla.

“Who?”

“Melissa, just coming around the corner of the house.”

Priscilla walked off as Melissa strolled up to Hamish. “Heard the news?” demanded Melissa.

“What news?”

“Paul and I are engaged to be married.”

“Why?”

“Why?” echoed Melissa. “What an odd thing to say. Aren’t you supposed to offer the lady your felicitations?”

“I suppose. You don’t look like a woman in love.”

“What does a woman in love look like, Hamish?”

“She looks happy. You don’t look happy, Melissa.”

“How in the hell am I supposed to look happy when I’m living in a place where two murders have been committed?” Melissa turned on her heel and strode off. Could Hamish…might Hamish…be a little jealous? Melissa’s steps faltered as her heart yearned towards that thought, but then she strode on as common sense took over, or what she decided was common sense. The Melissas of this world, she told herself sternly, were not destined to fall in love and get married. The lucky Melissas of this world settled for a nice man with money. A man given to outbursts of rage , taunted a voice in her head, and she shook it impatiently, as if to get rid of that mocking voice, and concentrated on a happy vision of a white wedding instead.

♦

Priscilla collected the key to the police station from Mrs Wellington, listened politely to the minister’s wife’s complaints that she could not go on looking after ‘that mongrel’, collected Towser and then let herself into Hamish’s narrow kitchen and began preparations for the meal. Why on earth didn’t Hamish Macbeth get himself a gas cooker? she thought, not for the first time, as she lit the black iron stove. Hamish’s large brood of little brothers and sisters over at Rogart were doing well, and so was his parents’ croft. They did not make demands on his money any longer, that she knew, but the years of necessary thrift had bitten deep into Hamish, she supposed. She made a simple meal of grilled lamb chops, baked potatoes and a large salad. It was almost ready by the time Hamish arrived.

How intimidating she looks, thought Hamish, as he paused in the kitchen doorway and removed his peaked cap. She had changed into a plain wool dress the colour of spring leaves and was wearing green high-heeled shoes of the same colour. Not a hair of her smooth blonde head was out of place. A dumpy little woman in an apron with mussed hair would have looked much more at home in his dingy kitchen.

“Tired?” she asked.

“A bit,” said Hamish, sinking down into a chair and patting Towser. “Rather, my brain’s tired. I cannae get the feel of anyone. One minute I think it’s your beau, Charles, the next I think it’s Paul. Oh, Melissa’s to marry Paul. I wonder if I can talk her out of it.”

“The only way you’re going to talk her out of it is by offering yourself as a substitute,” said Priscilla, putting the food on the table. “I brought mineral water to drink. I thought we would need all our wits about us.”

“Aye, that’s grand. What was Charles Trent talking about?”

“He was quite interesting,” said Priscilla. “The red-currant jelly is by your elbow.” She told him all that Charles had said.

“He’s probably being very clever and hoping you’ll repeat all this to me.”

“Could be. But I didn’t get that impression. I think he’s usually a carefree sort of chap who’s been rocked by all this murder and mayhem. I think, when it’s all over, he’s about the only one who will come out of this untouched by it.”

“No sane person could come away from two murders and remain untouched by it,” said Hamish. “And talking about insanity, I think Paul Sinclair’s got a bad temper, that’s all. I don’t really believe much in all this business of insanity running in families. People so often go mad with alcohol or drugs or Alzheimer’s disease or things like that.”