M.C. Beaton: Death of a Prankster

Half an hour later, Charles opened the door of her room. A pink-shaded lamp was burning beside the bed. Titchy was lying asleep, her fluffy blonde curls shining in the lamplight. Intent on his purpose, he did not appear to notice the dark figure on the floor beside the wardrobe, for it was lying outside the pool of light cast by the little lamp.

He took off his dressing-gown and crept into bed beside Titchy and took her in his arms. She murmured a sleepy protest. He began to make love to her feverishly until she responded, finally feeling he had excelled himself. He tried to get her to promise she would now stay, but Titchy said evasively, “We’ll see.”

He went off to his own room feeling happier.

♦

Melissa awoke with her alarm and quickly got ready and then went downstairs. Paul was already waiting for her with the skis and boots. Giggling with excitement, they strapped on their boots and carried the skis outside where they put them on.

It was still dark but a clear moon was shining down on the glittering landscape. They pushed their way forward until they were on top of the rise leading down into the village.

“Race you!” shouted Paul, and off they both went, the skis hissing over the snow, the clear air streaming past them, and the shadow of Arrat House falling away behind them.

Melissa had never known such exhilaration, such freedom. Paul was waiting for her when she came to a stop in the middle of the village.

“You know,” panted Melissa, “I’ve just realized it. Mr Trent frightened me.”

Paul looked at her solemnly. “Yes,” he said slowly. “There was an awful atmosphere in that house. Well, we’re away now and we’re not going back. Not ever!”

♦

When Titchy awoke, the sun was blazing into the room. She stretched languorously. Then she sat up in bed and yawned and rubbed her eyes. She glanced distastefully at the crumpled figure on the floor and then went very still. There was something very…well…human about that body. And…and…the blood which had seeped and was staining the dummy’s white shirt-front looked very real and not at all like stage blood, or Kensington Gore, as it was called.

“Nothing but a trick. Nothing but a trick,” she said as she edged out of bed. She stooped down over the dummy and reached behind and untied the strings that held the ridiculous monster mask in place.

The dead face of old Andrew Trent looked up at her.

♦

Although Police Constable Hamish Macbeth had Sergeant MacGregor’s area around Cnothan as well as his own to cover, the sergeant being away on holiday, he had been undisturbed by crime of any kind. The village of Lochdubh seemed asleep under its blanket of thick snow.

January had been an unusually mild month but February had turned out miserably cold. Hamish lit the stove in the kitchen and wondered, not for the first time, whether he could persuade headquarters at Strathbane to put in central heating.

And then the phone through in the office began to ring. He expected it was a friend. He hoped it was Priscilla Halburton-Smythe, a particular friend. He had not seen her for some weeks and had begun to wonder why she was keeping away from him.

“Lochdubh police,” said Hamish in his gentle Highland accent.

“Murder!” screamed the voice.

“Now then,” said Hamish quickly. “Easy now. What murder? Who’s been murdered?”

“Andrew Trent at Arrat House.”

“Indeed!” said Hamish coldly. Once Mr Trent himself had phoned and said there was a dead body in his library. Sergeant MacGregor had been away then as well, so Hamish had gone himself, the village of Arrat being part of MacGregor’s beat. There was indeed a body in the library, covered in blood. He was just bending over it when the body had jumped up and had given him the shock of his life. It was the manservant, Enrico, covered in fake blood.

“Are you sure it iss not a practical joke?” asked Hamish, whose voice always became more sibilant when he was upset or excited.

“No, you fool! This is Mr Trent’s daughter Angela. I’m telling you, someone has stuck a knife in him.”

“I’ll be over there as quick as I can. What are the roads like?”

“Good God, man,” squawked Angela’s voice. “How the hell should I know? Still blocked, I suppose. Use a helicopter or something.”

Hamish rang off. He picked up the phone again to call the headquarters in Strathbane, but then he slowly replaced the receiver. He had done that after the call about the body in the library and had been made to look a fool when the heavyweights from Strathbane and a whole forensic team had arrived. He put on his uniform and placed his skis and boots in the back of the police Land Rover.

This time he would make sure it really was a murder.

∨ Death of a Prankster ∧

3

A joke’s a very serious thing .

—Charles Churchill

Hamish did not have to use his skis. The snow-ploughs had been out in force. He found himself hoping desperately, as he drove slowly along narrow roads banked by snow-drifts, that it really was another of old Mr Trent’s practical jokes.

He was met at the door of Arrat House by Enrico, who inclined his head in the best English butler manner and asked if the constable would like to view the body.

“Good Heffens, man, that’s what I’m here for,” said Hamish testily, and then felt himself begin to relax. It was surely all a joke.

He still thought it was a joke when he was led down to the games room. Mr Trent was neatly laid out on the billiard table, with tall candles burning on either side of his head. His hands holding a crucifix were folded on his breast.

Maria, Enrico’s wife, was kneeling on the floor, a rosary slipping between her fingers, mumbling prayers.

Hamish approached the body gingerly, quite prepared for Mr Trent to leap up cackling with laughter. But that face was so very dead. Hamish bent down and listened to Mr Trent’s chest. Then he rose slowly, his face a picture of outrage.

“He iss dead!”

“Yes,” said Enrico. “Of course he is dead. Brutal murder.”

“How was he killed?”

“He was stabbed with a knife…here.” Enrico pointed to the dead man’s chest. Hamish looked down at the pristine white of the shirt-front.

“Where was he murdered?”

“Upstairs. In the wardrobe in Miss Gold’s bedroom.”

“Good God, man. You moved the body! ”

“It was only fitting.”

“And you changed his clothes?”

“Of course. His shirt was covered in blood.”

“You are an idiot,” exclaimed Hamish, horrified. “This is murder. You should have left everything untouched. Who is in this house? Miss Angela Trent made the telephone call.”

“There is Mr Jeffrey Trent and his wife; Miss Angela and Miss Betty; the adopted son, Charles; his lady friend, Titchy Gold; and Mrs Jeffrey’s son, Paul Sinclair; and his lady friend, Miss Clarke.”

Hamish walked to a phone extension in the corner of the room. He phoned police headquarters in Strathbane and reported the murder, telling an outraged Detective Chief Inspector Blair that the body had been moved and laid out in the games room by the servants.

Then he grimly asked to be taken first to see Mr Jeffrey Trent.

But the door opened and Jeffrey walked in. He gave a wincing look at the body.

Hamish introduced himself and then said severely, “Surely you, sir, could have stopped this? Nothing should have been touched.”

“They did it without asking me,” said Jeffrey plaintively. He held up a plastic bag. “I’ve got the knife here that was taken out of his chest.”

Hamish took it from him and studied it. The haft was of painted wood and belonged to one of those trick knives where the dummy blade slides up into the haft. But this one had had a thin sharp steel blade substituted. It was still smeared with blood.