M.C. Beaton: Death of a Prankster

Priscilla looked stubborn. “I think you should concentrate on Paul Sinclair. With a father like that – ”

She stopped and stared at Hamish.

“What’s the matter?” he asked. “You look as if you’ve been struck by lightning.”

“Who were Charles Trent’s real parents?”

“We couldn’t find any adoption papers. Besides, what does it matter? You’ve got a bee in your bonnet about this hereditary thing.”

“But wouldn’t it be interesting?”

“I would hardly know where to start,” said Hamish. “Wait a bit. Perth. That’s where old Trent must have been when he adopted the boy. But I can hardly rush off to Perth tomorrow. I’ll be expected back at Arrat House first thing.”

“I could phone up Strathbane and say you were sick. They won’t really mind. The place is crawling with detectives and policemen and forensic teams. I’d take you to Perth myself.”

“We’ll probably only discover that his old neighbours, if they’re still alive, hated him as much as everyone else,” said Hamish gloomily. “On the other hand, I don’t like the thought of my mind getting bogged down in the atmosphere of Arrat House. One day wouldn’t matter, I suppose.”

“I’ll phone now,” said Priscilla.

Blair listened to her explanation that Hamish Macbeth was suffering from a virus infection.

“And is this his mother speaking?” he asked with heavy sarcasm.

“You know very well who is speaking,” said Priscilla coldly. “If you are unable to take this message, put me though to Superintendent Peter Daviot.”

“No, no,” said Blair hurriedly. “Jist ma wee joke.” He knew Daviot, a snob, would hit the roof if he thought Priscilla had been insulted.

Priscilla returned to the kitchen. “Well, that’s that,” she said cheerfully.

“It still seems a bit daft,” said Hamish. “What are you hoping to find? That Charles Trent’s parents were maniacs?”

“Something like that,” said Priscilla, unruffled. “At least it would be a start.”

∨ Death of a Prankster ∧

7

If your lips would keep from slips ,

Five things observe with care .

To whom you speak; of whom you speak;

And how, and when, and where .

—William Edward Morris

For the first time in years the bedroom doors at Arrat House were locked at night. Jan and Jeffrey Trent still shared the same bedroom, lying without touching, the air between their bodies twanging with hate. Not particularly an unusual state of affairs in a marriage but adding to the tense and frightening atmosphere of Arrat House. The wind had got up, that famous Sutherland wind, howling and baying and shrieking, taking away any feeling of security engendered by thick walls, thick carpet and central heating, raising dormant fears in civilized minds of the days when Thor, the god and protector of warriors and peasants, rode the heavens. The old gods and demons of Sutherland had taken over, tearing through the countryside over the cowering heads of petty men.

And women.

Melissa Clarke lay awake. One particularly furious blast of wind boomed in the old chimneys and shrieked across the roof.

She switched on the light. They would never return here, she thought. They would go on honeymoon to Italy or France.

The wind dropped for a few seconds and she heard a soft shuffling noise from the corridor outside her room. Then the wind returned in force. She lay rigid, staring at the door.

As she looked, the handle of the door began to turn slowly. This was not a horror movie, she told herself sternly. Police were patrolling outside and a policeman was on guard in the hall downstairs. But she was unable to move.

The doorknob turned again. She looked wildly around. There must be some sort of bell to ring the servants. Yes, there was one over by the fireplace. But she was paralyzed with fear. There was no way she could get out of bed and walk over to that bell. And then she noticed that the doorknob was still again, unmoving, the light from the lamp beside her bed winking on the polished brass.

She lay there for a long time, listening to the heaving, shrieking and roaring of the wind, and then, quite suddenly, she fell asleep.

When she awoke early in the morning, the wind had dropped. She hoisted herself up on one elbow and looked in a dazed way at the door, wondering if she had imagined it all. And suddenly the room was filled with hellish, mocking laughter. Her terror grew as she realized it was not mechanical laughter from one of old Mr Trent’s machines. It was from the world of dark nightmare. It was from the sulphurous pit where the demons dwelled. Sobbing with fear, but somewhat emboldened this time by daylight, she found strength to leap from the bed and run to that bell and lean on it, ringing and ringing the bell, sweat pouring down her body. She heard the sound of footsteps running up the stairs and then a hammering at the door. Whimpering with relief, she went to it and turned the key and flung it open. Enrico was there, with a policeman behind him.

“I’m haunted,” gasped Melissa. “That laughter.”

Both men stood and listened. Nothing.

“I heard it,” wailed Melissa.

And suddenly, the hellish laughter started again.

Enrico went to the fireplace and peered up the chimney.

“Jackdaws,” he said in disgust. “And I took a nest out of this chimney only last year.”

“You must be a townee,” said the policeman. Melissa sank down on the edge of the bed. “It’s dreadful,” she said. “Are you sure it’s only jackdaws?”

“Yes,” said the policeman. “Right nasty noise they make.”

“I’m sorry to have troubled you, but I was so frightened. You see, someone tried the handle of my door last night.”

“What time was this?” asked the policeman.

“About two o’clock this morning.”

“You should have rung the bell then,” he said severely.

Melissa put a hand up to her head. “I was so frightened, I couldn’t move. The only reason I found courage to ring that bell this morning was because it was daylight.”

Paul Sinclair appeared in the doorway. “What’s going on, Melissa?”

Melissa told him about the turning doorknob and the jackdaws.

Paul blushed. “Actually, I tried your door last night. I wanted to talk to you.”

“At two in the morning?” asked the policeman suspiciously.

“I couldn’t sleep,” said Paul defiantly, “and we are engaged to be married.”

Enrico straightened up from the fireplace. “I can prepare you an early breakfast if you would like.”

“Oh, that would be nice,” said Melissa, feeling a little surge of power, despite her recent distress, at being able to give orders to a servant. “Some scrambled eggs and coffee, Enrico, and what would you like, darling?”

“Just toast and coffee,” said Paul. “I’ll see you downstairs, Melissa. Won’t be long.”

After they had all gone, Melissa began to wash and dress. They would have servants, she thought. Perhaps a couple to live in. Not British. A couple of foreigners. Of course, only the terribly rich could afford servants, but Paul would be very rich if he did not give all that money away to his mother. Melissa’s soft lips moulded themselves into a hard line. Why should he? Why should Jan have everything? They could have a flat in town and perhaps a nice old farmhouse in the country. That would be nice. Chintz and beams, and put the car away, Costas, and tell Juanita to bring in the drinks for our guests. Yes, all that should be hers. And clothes like those worn by Priscilla. Expensive, subtle clothes. Real materials, silk and fine jersey wool and chiffon velvet. But seats at the theatre, a box, even. First nights. Little parties. Villa in the south of France. Send the servants ahead with the luggage and tell them to get things ready. Plane to Marseilles and Costas waiting with the white Rolls-Royce to run them along the coast to where their summer home was perched on a thyme-scented hill above the blue of the Mediterranean. Parents at the wedding…