M.C. Beaton: Death of a Prankster

With trembling hands she picked it up. The seams had been neatly sliced. Only a few threads had been left to hold it together.

Hate for old Mr Trent boiled up in her. She had played up to him to please Charles. She had made eyes at the old fright and had only giggled when he had felt her bottom.

She searched frantically through her other dresses. Four had been similarly treated.

They were all gathered in the drawing room before dinner when Titchy marched in, an armful of dresses over her arm. She flung them down in front of Mr Trent and screamed, “You miserable old fart. That’s hundreds of pounds of my best clothes you’ve ruined, you senile old fruit.”

In all her amazement, Melissa nonetheless noted that Titchy had dropped her breathy Marilyn Monroe act and looked as hard as steel. Mr Trent’s startled cry of ‘I had nothing to do with it’ went ignored by the angry actress.

“I don’t know how I’m going to get out of here, but I’m going to manage it somehow,” raged Titchy. “I’ll send you the bill when I get to London. Who the hell do you all think you are anyway? Parasites, that’s what you are. But I work for my money. “Be nice to the old man,” says Charles, so I have to put up with insane jokes and your dirty old man’s hands fumbling at me. You can keep your money-bags. Stuff the lot of you!”

There was a deathly silence when she left. Then Paul began to laugh. “Don’t you see how right she is?” he cried.

“Paul!” said Jan furiously. “Remember where you are.”

She looked uneasily at Mr Trent. He had sat impassive during Titchy’s tirade. Now he looked slowly around the room, his old eyes glittering in a reptilian way. Melissa shuddered. Tomorrow she and Paul would be far away. Hang on to that thought.

To their surprise, Titchy appeared at the dinner table, icily calm. It was a silent meal. Mr Trent sat brooding at the head of the table, his eyes occasionally travelling from one face to the other.

They filed back to the drawing room afterwards. Everyone longed to escape from the heavy atmosphere but it was as if the power of the old man’s personality was keeping them prisoner.

Then Charles whispered to Titchy, “Come outside. We need to talk.”

“Very well,” said Titchy. “But it won’t do you any good.”

Wrapped up warmly, she and Charles went outside into the courtyard. It was a bright night with a hard frost.

“Titchy,” pleaded Charles, “don’t go. There’s no way you can leave yet.”

“I don’t care,” said Titchy. “I don’t care if I only get as far as the village. I’ll find a room there. I’m not staying with that madman.”

“Titchy, I do love you. We’re going to be married.”

“And live on what?” demanded Titchy. “Look, Charles, that old fruitcake could live for ever. I’m not a fool. I can’t act for peanuts, and after my looks go, I’ll get a few television quiz shows and then that’ll be that. I don’t want to end up married to a man I have to keep supporting.”

“But I have a job!”

“Selling vitamin pills? When did you last sell any? You’re just about to drop that job like you dropped the others. It’s no good, Charles. I’ve had it.”

Charles’s usual sunny optimism deserted him. “I hate that old bastard,” he muttered. “Why doesn’t he die? God, I’d like to stick a knife in his guts.”

“Come off it,” said Titchy wearily. “Start thinking seriously about making some money yourself. Thank God, I haven’t any rich relatives. You’ve no idea how sick you all seem, hovering around that dreadful man waiting for him to pop off.”

Upstairs, Melissa began to pack as many of her belongings as she could into the rucksack Paul had given her. At one point she looked out of the window. The two figures were still there below, Titchy and Charles, pacing up and down, arguing.

The door opened and Jan walked in. Melissa swung round and stared at her defiantly.

“Just a little chat, dear,” cooed Jan. “As one woman to another, I must appeal to you to do something about Paul.”

“I don’t think anything needs to be done,” said Melissa.

“But surely you must see he is jeopardizing his future. Charles is a hopeless case. Andrew Trent must see that Paul is the finer person. Although Andrew has appointed a managing director to run his factories, someone has to take over when he dies.”

Melissa was horrified. “Paul is a very good scientist. You would not like to see him waste his education by selling baby food.”

“Running a multi-million operation is not selling baby food,” said Jan acidly.

“It’s no use coming to me,” retorted Melissa firmly. “My advice to Paul would be to have nothing to do with the Trent fortune.”

Jan’s face hardened. “I should have known better than to try to talk sense to a common little slut like you.”

“You’d better leave before I slap you,” said Melissa in a voice which to her fury she realized was trembling.

Jan got up. “What a nightmare this is,” she said half to herself. “The old fool shows no signs of dying. I could kill him myself and not suffer one qualm of conscience. Oh, why am I wasting time with a Communist prig?”

She went out and slammed the door behind her.

Melissa sat down abruptly, feeling sick and shaken.

♦

“Did you cut up Titchy’s dresses?” Betty was asking.

“I didn’t cut them up,” said Angela gruffly. “Just opened up the seams. She can stitch them up easily enough with a needle and thread.”

“W-e-l-l-l,” breathed Betty in reluctant admiration. “I wouldn’t have guessed you’d have had the backbone. All that mannish talk of yours is usually empty bluster, sister dear.”

“You nasty ferret,” said Angela. “I’m going down for a nightcap. All you can do in life is back-seat drive, Betty. It’s all you’ve ever done. Point out everyone else’s faults but never look at your own. If anyone in this house had any guts, they’d put dear Dad out of our misery for once and for all.”

“Words, words, words,” jeered Betty.

♦

Titchy joined the others over the drinks tray in the drawing room to warm up a bit after her talk with Charles. Everyone kept saying good night and then coming back in. Jan approached Mr Trent and whispered to him. Then her place was taken by Jeffrey, who had a low-voiced conversation with his brother. Then Angela. Then Betty. Charles watched them all. Mr Trent rose to his feet and hobbled to the door. Charles made a half-move towards him, then shrugged and helped himself to another drink. Angela and Betty said good night and went out together. Jan and Jeffrey followed them. Then, ten minutes later, Angela returned, saying moodily she would like to wring Betty’s neck, and sat down by the fire. Melissa had finished her packing and joined Paul, who was drinking whisky. He said something to her and shot out of the room, to return some fifteen minutes later. It’s like a French farce, thought Melissa, people coming and going.

At last she decided she had better get some sleep. She went up to her room and carefully felt the end of the bed. There was a lump. She put her hand under the covers and drew out a stuffed hedgehog, and with an exclamation of disgust she opened the window and threw it out into the snow. She set her alarm for six o’clock – she had agreed to meet Paul downstairs at six-thirty – and then got ready for bed.

Titchy, too, went to her room. She was feeling much better. She had discovered her dresses only needed restitching. It was a pity about Charles. He was the nicest, handsomest man she knew, but there was no future in marrying him.

She went to the large Victorian wardrobe to get out her clothes and pack them ready for her escape in the morning. As she swung open the door, a body wearing a monster mask and with a large knife stuck in its chest fell towards her. Trembling, she leaped back and then she stared down at the horror in disgust. Frightful Mr Trent had played his last trick on her. After tomorrow, she would never see Charles or any of his dreadful relatives again. She stepped over the figure and took her clothes down from their hangers and then carried them to the bed and packed them all neatly in one large suitcase. She had a leisurely bath and then climbed into bed.