M.C. Beaton: Death of a Prankster

Hamish took out notes he had made on the case and studied them until Priscilla drove into Perth. “We’ll start with the hospital,” said Priscilla. “Have you got Charles Trent’s date of birth?”

“Yes, he told Anderson it was November 5, 1964.”

The main hospital had no record of a Charles Trent or in fact a Charles anything having been born at the right time. Adoption societies seemed to be housed in the larger towns like Aberdeen, Edinburgh and Glasgow.

“This is a waste of time,” said Hamish. “All this way on a wild-goose chase.”

“Let’s have lunch,” said Priscilla, “and find out what to do next.”

“As long as I’m paying,” said Hamish. Her remark about him being a moocher still rankled, though why this latest remark should rankle when previous ones had not he had not worked out – or did not want to work out.

“What about a burger then?” he asked.

“Don’t insult me. I meant a proper lunch. Mr Johnson said there was a good wine bar in the centre.”

The wine bar turned out to be very good indeed, and to Priscilla’s relief the prices were modest. Hamish began to enjoy himself. Perth, he thought, was a little gem of a town – good shops, good restaurants and the beauty of the River Tay sliding through its centre.

They were sitting over cups of excellent coffee when Priscilla called the waitress over and asked her if there were any hospitals on the outskirts of Perth, or maternity homes. “There’s a wee cottage hospital on the road out to the west,” said the waitress. “It’s called the Jamieson Hospital. Blaimore Road.”

“There you are,” said Priscilla triumphantly. “We can try there.”

“Before we do,” said Hamish, “let’s go to where Andrew Trent used to live and see if any of the neighbours can remember him.”

Andrew Trent’s former home was on the outskirts of the town, a large brown sandstone double-fronted house, with a bleak gravelled stretch in front of it ornamented with dreary laurels in wooden tubs. A legend above the door proclaimed it to be the Dunromin Hotel. As they approached the main doors, they could see various geriatric guests peering at them from a front lounge window, like so many inquisitive tortoises.

The air inside had an institutional smell of Brown Windsor Soup, disinfectant and wax polish.

The girl at reception fetched the owner, who turned out to be an old lady of grim appearance. “Well, out with it!” she demanded. She jerked a gnarled thumb in the direction of the lounge. “Whit’s that lot been complaining about now?”

“We are not here because of a complaint,” began Priscilla.

“Just as well,” said the owner. “They’re never satisfied. Always phoning up their nieces or nephews or sons or daughters to say they’re being cheated or getting poisoned or some such rubbish.” Priscilla gathered Dunromin was one of those sad hotels which catered for permanent elderly residents cast off by their families, who did not want the indignities of the nursing home and so settled for the indignities of the cheap hotel instead.

“What we wanted to ask you, Mrs…?” said Hamish.

“Miss Trotter.”

“What we wanted to ask you, Miss Trotter, was whether you bought this house from Andrew Trent, who used to live here in the early sixties.”

“Aye, I did. And what’s it to you, may I ask? I paid a fair price for it.”

“Look,” said Priscilla patiently, “Mr Macbeth here is a policeman investigating the murder of Andrew Trent. Did you not read about the murder in the newspapers?”

Miss Trotter’s eyes gleamed. “Oh, it was him, then. I thought it was someone else. That’s a bit of luck. Mrs Arthur at Ben Nevis next door is always bragging about how the chap that mugged old Mrs Flint once stayed there. I’ll have a murdered man. She’ll be green with envy. Yes, that will put madam in her place. In fact, I’ll just get my coat and run over there.”

“Before you go,” said Hamish, “did Mr Trent have a baby in the house when you came to buy it?”

“Not that I can recall.”

“What about the other neighbours?”

“You could try Mrs Cumrie, two doors away on the right. She was here when I moved in.”

Mrs Cumrie was very old, wrinkled and frail, but with bright sharp eyes. Yes, she said, she remembered Andrew Trent and had not liked him one bit. No, he hadn’t played any tricks on her. She had thought him a bully. He always seemed to be shouting and complaining about something or another. Yes, she remembered the baby. She did not know he had adopted it. She had assumed it belonged to some relative who was staying in the house. The baby had had a nanny, but she couldn’t remember the woman’s name or whether she had been a local.

“So that’s that,” said Hamish.

“Not yet,” pointed out Priscilla. “We’ve still got the Jamieson Hospital.”

Her spirits sank, however, when they arrived outside the hospital. It was small but new, certainly newer than thirty years.

They asked for the matron and put their request to her. She shook her head. “I would help you if I could,” she said. “But the hospital was burnt down ten years ago aind all the records were lost in the fire.”

They gloomily thanked her and rose to go. They were just getting into the car when the matron appeared at the entrance and called them back.

“I’ve just had a thought,” she said. “My mother was a midwife in Perth for years. She might be the one to help you. Even if she can’t, she’d be right glad of some company. Wait a minute, and I’ll write the address down for you.”

“I suppose we’d better try everything since we’re here,” said Hamish as they drove off. “I’d clean forgotten about midwives. Charles Trent’s mother could have had the baby at home.”

The matron’s mother was a Mrs Macdonald. She lived in a small neat council house, new on the outside, but belonging to an older age on the inside where it was furnished with horsehair-stuffed chairs and bedecked with photographs in silver frames. Although very old, Mrs Macdonald was a tiny, agile woman. She insisted they had tea and as soon as it was served began to hand them one photograph after another, telling them about deliveries long past and their difficulties. “I was a great amateur photographer in my day,” said Mrs Macdonald. “These were all taken with a box Brownie. Now that little laddie there is now Bailie Ferguson. He sometimes comes to see me, yes. You’ll be having children of your own one day, Miss Halburton-Smythe, but I suppose you’ll be going into the hospital. It’s become fashionable again to have babies at home, though. Funny how the old ways come back.”

“Mrs Macdonald,” said Hamish desperately. “I am a policeman, investigating the murder of a Mr Andrew Trent. You may have read about it in the newspapers.”

“And this one here,” said Mrs Macdonald, apparently deaf to his question, handing a photograph to Priscilla, “is Mary McCrumb. She calls herself Josie Duval now and runs a wee French restaurant in Glasgow. She never did like the name McCrumb. Pretty baby and an easy delivery.”

“Andrew Trent,” said Priscilla firmly. “A baby was born in Perth and he adopted it.”

“And this is Jessie Beeton. Lovely wee dress, that. Nun’s veiling. Cost a fortune.”

Hamish signalled with his eyes that it was all hopeless.

They rose to go. “You must excuse us,” said Priscilla. “Thank you for the splendid tea.”

Mrs Macdonald’s childlike eyes showed disappointment. “I’ll just see you out then,” she said. “I talk too much, I know that, but I get lonely, although my daughter’s a good girl and comes as much as she can. Watch the step there. What was you saying? Trent. Ah, yes, poor little Miss Trent.”