M.C. Beaton - Death of a Prankster

“Do you both have British nationality now?”

“Of course.”

“How long had you been in this country before you came up here?”

“Two years,” said Enrico.

“Where are you from originally?”

“Barcelona. But,” added Enrico proudly, “we now own two villas in Alicante which we rent out to holiday-makers.”

“Mr Trent must have paid good wages.”

“He did.” Enrico looked vaguely bored by all this questioning. “Our food and lodgings were paid for. We do not smoke or drink. There is nothing to do up here. And so we invested our wages, made a profit, and bought property.”

Hamish looked from Enrico to the downcast Maria. “But if you own property, why continue to work as servants for a difficult boss? What of all his practical jokes?”

“We were used to them,” said Enrico with a shrug. “We wanted to leave but Mr Trent said he had not long to live and he would leave us a lot of money in his will.”

“Now to the murder,” said Hamish. “Where were you both last night between eleven and midnight?”

“Mostly in the kitchen. We went up to the drawing room about ten-thirty to make sure everyone had drinks and no one needed anything else and then we retired. I think by eleven-thirty we were in bed.”

“Can you confirm this?” Hamish asked Maria.

She gave him a wide-eyed, frightened stare and then looked pleadingly at her husband, who said, “She confirms it.”

“Tell me about when the body was found.”

Enrico said that there had been a lot of loud screaming and shouting. He and Maria had been setting the breakfast table. They had run upstairs. Everyone was clustered round the body. Angela Trent said the police should be called immediately and went to do so. It had been assumed at first that the old man had fallen on the dagger during one of his practical jokes. No one but Miss Angela appeared to think it was murder at first.

“Now the main question. Why on earth was the body taken down and laid out? Surely you must know that nothing should have been touched.”

Maria burst into a noisy flood of Spanish. Hamish caught the name Señora Trent.

“Which Trent was that?” he asked sharply.

“Mrs Jeffrey,” said Enrico. “She was most upset. She ran to look for her son and then came back and said it was horrible to leave Mr Trent lying there. My wife is very religious. She wanted to lay out the body. I called in one of the gamekeepers, Jim Gaskell – he lives over the stables – and together we took Mr Trent’s body downstairs.”

“Where is his shirt? The blood-stained one you took from the body?”

“Maria washed it. She did not know any better.”

“But you must have known better!”

“I was in shock,” said Enrico calmly.

“How busy you both were.” Hamish leaned back in his chair and surveyed them. “You have aided and abetted the murderer by moving the body and cleaning Miss Gold’s bedroom.”

“It was Mrs Jeffrey’s suggestion,” said Enrico. “She said there was no need to be slack about our duties and that the rooms needed cleaning as usual. With our master dead, we naturally took our orders from Mr Jeffrey and his wife.”

“Well, don’t touch anything else. Send Mrs Jeffrey in.”

Anorexic? wondered Hamish, looking at Jan. She was wearing a black dress, short-sleeved, showing arms like sticks. Her face was gaunt and her rather protuberant eyes showed no traces of weeping.

“This is a waste of time,” she began, sitting sideways on the very edge of a chair and crossing long thin legs. “Your superiors will soon be here and I see no reason to go through this ordeal twice.”

Hamish ignored that.

“Why did you tell the servants to remove Mr Trent’s body?”

“I did not tell them precisely to do that. I simply said that it was dreadful to leave Andrew lying there. I mean, it may not be murder. Have you considered that? He may have been hiding in that wardrobe to scare Titchy and stabbed himself by accident.”

“And the cleaning of the bedroom?”

“Again, I did not specifically tell them to clean that room. I merely said that they should get on with their duties. Servants must be kept up to the mark, you know,” remarked Jan.

“How many servants do you have, Mrs Trent?”

“I don’t have any, but these are Spaniards and inherently lazy.”

Hamish often wondered how the myth of the lazy Spaniard had arisen. In fact, he had been taught at school that the farther south you went, the lazier people got, and yet he had never seen any evidence to support that dubious fact.

In the Highlands and islands, it was another matter. He remembered when there had been another of those drives to bring work to the north and a factory had been opened on one of the Hebridean islands. It had not lasted very long. The workers had downed tools one day and walked out en masse, never to return. Their complaint was that a whistle had been blown to announce their tea-break and another whistle to signal time up. They did not like the sound of that whistle, they had said. The factory owner had damned them as lazy. Of course it could, on the other hand, be the quirky bloody-mindedness which was often the curse of the north.

“Tell me about your son, Paul,” he said suddenly.

Jan went quite rigid.

“What about Paul?”

“Why did he leave?”

Jan shifted uncomfortably. “You saw his letter. It was these terrible practical jokes. No one in their right mind could stand them for very long.”

“But you are still here.”

Jan assumed an air of frankness. “You must know we all came here because Andrew said he was dying. A lie, as it turned out. But he is worth millions and quite capable of leaving it to that young fool, Charles. Paul is honest and upright and hard-working. I felt sure Andrew would be impressed by him.”

“And was he?”

Jan laughed bitterly. “He was the same callous old fool he’s always been.”

“Tell me about Melissa Clarke.”

“Some weird creature who works with Paul at the atomic research station. I think she ought to be investigated. Her clothes look lefty. She has pink hair. Pink hair, I ask you. As far as I could gather, this was the first time he had asked her anywhere. I think she is a corrupting influence.”

“Your son being easily corrupted?”

“I didn’t mean that. I meant, Paul is naive and unworldly, thoroughly honest and straight. He thinks everyone else is the same.”

“Where were you between eleven and midnight last night?”

“I was in the drawing room.”

“Did you leave it at any time?”

“I went up at one point to…er…use the bathroom.”

“Before Mr Trent retired to bed or after?”

“I can’t remember.”

“That will do for now. Send in Miss Gold.”

Titchy Gold had changed into a low-cut black blouse and long dark skirt. She seemed nervously excited.

“Miss Gold,” said Hamish. “I will need to take you through this again. I want you to tell me all about your visit from the beginning.”

Titchy gave him a competent and brief summary of everything that had happened, right to the finding of the body.

“There is just one thing,” said Hamish, “you said you were talking outside to Charles Trent for a long time. What about?”

Titchy fluttered her eyelashes. “Come now, Constable, what do lovers usually talk about?”

“Yet you say he joined you in your bed later. Would that not have been a more comfortable place to discuss things?”

“Hardly, copper. We were otherwise occupied.”

“Is Titchy Gold your real name?”

“Yes. Quaint, isn’t it? Mummy and Daddy were Shakespearian actors.”

“I cannae call to mind a Titchy Gold, anywhere in Shakespeare.”