M.C. Beaton: Death of a Prankster

With the exception of Betty, who was knitting furiously, they all looked at Jan.

“No, not Mrs Jeffrey Trent,” said Hamish. “Miss Betty Trent.”

Angela’s mouth fell open. Betty continued to knit.

“Betty Trent gave birth to Charles in Perth twenty-eight years ago.”

“Oh, God,” said Charles.

“Angela Trent was abroad for a long time. She did not know of the pregnancy. Andrew Trent did. He was appalled. He considered it a terrible scandal. He arranged for a midwife to deliver the baby and Betty was kept indoors before the birth so that no one would guess her condition. When the baby was born, he sold the house in Perth, bought Arrat House and a flat in London for Betty and her sister.”

“But we had always been asking him if we could live in London,” protested Angela. “Betty wrote and told me she had finally persuaded him. Betty would have told me if she were pregnant!”

All looked at Betty, but she knitted on.

“I think you will find from Charles Trent’s birth certificate that Betty is his mother, father unknown. He was never adopted. Betty had to suffer seeing her father’s indifferent treatment of the boy, not to mention inflicting some of his terrible jokes on the child. But if she told Charles she was his mother, then not only would she be penniless but her son would inherit nothing. I believe that is what she was told.

“The way she murdered Andrew Trent was like this. I think Andrew may have told her that he was going to leave Charles nothing. She had a great idea. She prepared the knife and then suggested to Andrew – who must have been furious with Titchy for having been accused by her of ruining those dresses – that instead of a dummy in Titchy’s wardrobe, why did he not hide there himself? And that’s the way she did it.

“Titchy Gold was not going to marry Charles, and Betty poisoned her with an overdose.”

“Wait a bit,” interrupted Detective Jimmy Anderson. “Thon blow to the auld man’s chest was direct. I mean he must have been struck by someone of the same height if he was killed in the wardrobe.”

“I’ve considered that,” said Hamish, beginning to think bleakly that speculation was piling on speculation in his account of how the murder had taken place. “She would stand on a chair, once Andrew Trent was up in the wardrobe, and tie the mask on for him. When he turned round, she stabbed him.”

All looked at Betty, except Charles, who had his hands over his face.

♦

Upstairs in her bedroom, Melissa struggled awake, yawned and looked at the clock. She got out of bed, noticing, as she did so, the glass of milk by the bedside. She had only sipped a little bit of it before deciding she had never in the past liked hot milk and nothing had changed. A skin was lying on top of the now cold milk and she shuddered in distaste before taking the glass into the bathroom and pouring the contents down the toilet. Then she washed the glass clean under the hot tap.

She felt much better than she had done for days. It was all very simple. She was not going to marry Paul. To get rid of all those silly dreams of wealth was like coming out of a nightmare. She would leave this terrible place and return briefly to her job while she found another as far away from Paul Sinclair as possible.

Melissa searched through her small stock of clothes for something to wear. There was a long white dress from her university days when it was fashionable to wear long skirts with bare feet. She put it on as if donning an old and comfortable identity. Cheered and feeling defiant, she went back to the bathroom and applied dead-white make-up to her face and purple eyeshadow to her eyes.

She wandered downstairs. No one was about. She opened the front door and looked out. The day was dark and miserable, with low clouds flying over the mountains above the house. She saw the police cars outside and she also saw Hamish Macbeth’s white Land Rover. Her heart lifted. She would tell Hamish all about it. The detectives must be in the library. But was Hamish there? She would go outside and look in at the library window…just to see.

♦

Betty put down her knitting and spoke at last. Her voice was steady and calm. “I admit Charles is my son,” she said. She looked at him, her eyes blazing with love and affection, but he still had his face buried in his hands. “But as to the rest, it is pure fantasy, Constable. Where is your proof?”

“Aye,” said Blair, rubbing his fat hands. “How are ye going to prove it, Macbeth?”

Hamish felt like a fool. He had gone about it the wrong way. Perhaps he should have got Betty on her own and bullied her, as Blair would have done, suggested that he had concrete evidence, lied, anything to break her.

Betty gave him a little smile and picked up her knitting. As she did so, she looked at the window and then turned quite white. Her hands shook and the knitting dropped to the floor and a ball of that bright magenta wool that Priscilla had bought her rolled to Charles’s feet.

Hamish followed her gaze.

Melissa Clarke was framed in the window against the darkness of the day outside. Her white face appeared to float and the wind blew her dress about her.

“Go away,” screamed Betty suddenly. “Go away. I’m sorry now. I’m sorry. He deserved to die. They all deserved to die.”

In a flat voice, Hamish cautioned her. Then he said to the others, “You can all leave.” But Betty wailed, “No, Charles must hear. I did it for him.” Nobody moved. Melissa had disappeared. The wind howled outside. Betty dabbed at her mouth with a handkerchief.

“It was worse than that. He told me that he had left everything to Charles in his will, but that he had changed his mind. He said he was going to phone the lawyers on the following day and change the will. He said Charles was no good. He enjoyed telling me. He was laughing. I’d long dreamt of killing him. I fixed the knife just like you said. When Titchy accused him of ruining her frocks, I knew he was angry with her. So I went up to him and suggested he frighten her to get even. He liked that. He climbed, into the wardrobe, giggling like a schoolboy. ‘The mask,’ I said. ‘You’ve forgotten the mask.’

‘No, I haven’t,’ he said, and drew one of those plastic monster masks from his pocket. ‘I’ll put it on for you,’ I said, and as he was standing up in the wardrobe, I brought forward a chair and stood on that. I tied the mask. He turned around and grinned at me. ‘Give me the knife, Betty,’ he said. So I gave it to him. ‘Here you are, you old bastard,’ I said, and I plunged the knife into his chest and slammed the door. I couldn’t believe what I’d done. I saw myself reflected in the glass of the door. I looked…ordinary.”

“And Titchy?” prompted Hamish gently.

“She was dumping Charles because he hadn’t any money and all because Dad had had the final laugh. He never meant to leave anything to Charles at all. So I took the tablets out of Jeffrey’s cabinet and took them to her.”

“And Melissa?” asked Hamish. “Why Melissa?”

Jan screamed and Paul started up. “Not Melissa!” he shouted. “We saw her at the window.”

“That was her ghost,” explained Betty with mad patience. “I knew then that I must confess or they would all come back to haunt me. It worked. I confessed and she went away. You see, Charles said he fancied her and she is mercenary, just like Titchy. Angela and Jeffrey and I were giving Charles a share of our money. I did not want Melissa to get it, so she had to die, too. Paul said the engagement was back on but I did not believe him. She was after Charles.”

“How did you kill her?” asked Hamish.

“I had some of those sleeping tablets left. I only used half the bottle to kill Titchy. I had sewn the rest into the hem of my dress. I had crushed the bottle to powder and put the powder into one of those lavender sachets in my underwear drawer. So I took Melissa a glass of milk last night.” She turned to Charles. “She wouldn’t feel a thing, you know. I’m glad it’s all over. Oh, my dear son, come to Mummy.” She held out her short plump arms.