M.C. Beaton: Death of a Prankster

The dream began to splinter. Mum and Dad would need to wear nice clothes and be very, very quiet so that no one could hear their accents. And smelly old Auntie Vera was definitely not coming. Hairbrush poised above her head, Melissa thought, why get married in church at all? Simple service in a registry office, brief visit home to Mum. Surprise, surprise. Got married. Isn’t it fun? So no embarrassment of working-class parents and relatives at the wedding. Yes, that was the way to do it. Now to get Paul to keep that money. Why should both of us work? If he loved her, he would surely rather please her than his mother. Give the old trout something, but not all.

Dreams of wealth were so rosy that they kept the fear engendered by the murders at bay and so the more highly coloured they became in Melissa’s mind.

She went down the stairs determined to start work on Paul right away.

♦

Jeffrey Trent wandered into his nieces’ bedroom later that morning. “What a storm last night!” he said. “I could hardly sleep.”

Betty was sitting at the dressing-table unrolling old–fashioned steel curlers from her head. Angela was sitting up in bed, reading The Times .

“I slept through it all,” said Betty to Jeffrey’s reflection in the mirror. “Are you still set on leaving Jan?” she went on. “I mean, it does seem rather odd in someone of your age.”

“Meaning I shall shortly die an unhappy man anyway? No, Betty, I plan to enjoy myself.”

Angela put down the paper. “I’ve often wondered why you married Jan in the first place. I liked your first wife, Pauline. Very sweet.”

“She was all right,” said Jeffrey, “but a bit frigid, if you must know. That was the attraction about Jan. She hooked me into bed half an hour after she had first met me.”

“Jeffrey!” Betty looked at him in distress.

“Well, it’s the truth. Manipulating bitch that she was. Oh, it was a successful marriage right up until the money began to dry up. Now I’m going to get my revenge. It’s a pity I can’t talk Paul out of giving her any money.”

“Talking about money,” said Angela, “I do think it’s awful that Charles hasn’t got anything.”

“I suppose we could give him some,” said Betty. “What do you think, Jeffrey? I mean, we’re going to have millions each, aren’t we?”

“Yes, even after death duties. I think I’ll give him something myself…and tell Jan.”

Angela looked uncomfortable. “You mustn’t be so spiteful. After all, you’re getting your freedom. Leave the woman alone. Why so bitter?”

“You haven’t been married,” said Jeffrey, “so you don’t know what it’s like to be sucked dry of money. That parasite deserves every pain I can give her.”

♦

“Jeffrey is being quite horrible,” said Jan to her son. “He seems determined to ruin me.” Paul pushed at the frame of his glasses with a nervous finger and looked owlishly at his mother. “You’d best get a divorce, and quickly,” he said, “and then you’ll be shot of him. Why are you still sharing the same bedroom? Enrico could find you another.”

“I’m not going to let him off easily,” said Jan. “I’m going to make him pay and pay.”

“If he beetles off to South America, as he’s threatening to do, you won’t be able to get anything out of him. Don’t worry. Haven’t I promised to give you my share?”

Jan’s eyes misted over with grateful tears. “You are the very best son any mother could have. What is it, Melissa? I didn’t see you standing there.”

“I just wanted a word with Paul,” said Melissa.

Paul took her hand. “Go on,” he said. “We’re listening.”

“In private, Paul.”

Paul smiled at his mother and then went out with Melissa, who led him upstairs to her bedroom. She locked the door behind him. “Just so that we’re not disturbed. The police have started their damned questions again.”

“What do you want to talk to me about?” asked Paul.

“Well, it’s about us. You’ve asked me to marry you and yet we’ve never made love or anything.”

Paul blushed. “Plenty of time for that after we’re married.”

“But you might kiss me or something like that.” Melissa gently took off his glasses.

Paul, who was a virgin, was not destined to remain so. If anyone had told him that a bare quarter of an hour after kissing Melissa he would be lying in bed naked with her, he would not have believed them. But that was how it happened. Quick, sharp, clumsy, but most satisfying. He felt marvellous. He felt ten feet tall.

“What do you say to a flat in town and a cottage in the country, somewhere near the research station, when we’re married?” he realized Melissa was saying.

“Take a lot of money for that,” he said sleepily.

Melissa took his hand and laid it on her breast. “But you’ll have a lot of money,” she pointed out.

He caressed her breast, marvelling at the smoothness of her skin. “Trouble is, I’ve promised Mother the lot.”

“Now that’s silly,” cooed Melissa. “I mean, she doesn’t need it all. A bit for her and the rest for us. That’s fair. You wouldn’t want to deprive our children of a good education.”

“Children,” said Melissa softly. “Lots and lots of them and we may as well start now.”

She did a few ecstatic things to his body. Paul’s last thought before another wave of red passion crashed over his head was that his mother was not going to be very pleased.

At last he fell asleep, wrapped in her arms. Awake, Melissa stared at the ceiling and thought hard. It was not that she was mercenary, she told an imaginary Hamish Macbeth. It was just that if Paul was going to get all that money, why should she let him give it away? Like most women of low self-esteem, Melissa was like six characters in search of an author, always looking for a role to play to keep reality at bay. The new one was to be wife and mother. But rich wife and mother.

♦

Hamish Macbeth and Priscilla were speeding down the A9 to Perth. “I feel a bit guilty about this,” said Hamish. “It’s like a holiday. It’s like not having to go to school on exam day.”

“We might find out something,” said Priscilla. “Thank goodness, they haven’t had the snow down here as bad as we did in Sutherland.”

“I’ve never asked you,” said Hamish curiously, “what you think of being stuck in Lochdubh all year round. I mean, you used to go off to London for most of the year.”

“Oh, I like it. It suits me. It was a bit of a shock at first, I mean having to live permanently in an hotel. It’s not as if we ever close down. But ever since Mr Johnson took over as manager, things have been much easier. Daddy’s had the architects in. We’re going to build a gift shop next to the hotel and I’m going to run it. No tourist trash. I’m going to have all the best Scottish stuff I can find. After all, the sort of guests we have can afford to pay for the best. I can always go and stay with a friend in London if I feel I want a break from Sutherland.”

“It was just what Charles Trent said started me thinking. I mean, your father’s English.”

“Never let him hear you say that,” said Priscilla in mock horror. “He’s ordered a kilt – evening dress. He says the guests will like it. What do you think of them all at Arrat House the further away you get from it?”

Hamish gave a groan. “They all seem quite ordinary. Now if old Mr Trent had been alive and someone else had been killed, I would point to him and say, “There’s your murderer.” I mean, you have to be wrong in the head to want to go on playing awful jokes like that and know everyone hates you for it.”

“I wonder if he did know,” said Priscilla. “There’s Blair Atholl Castle. Not far to go now. I mean, everyone toadied to him in a way. Look, no snow here at all and the sun is shining. Another world.”