Death of a Glutton (4 page)

‘Peta? My dear girl, I would if I could. We’ll all just need to survive the week.’

‘But she’s repulsive. There’s something awful about her,’ said Priscilla. ‘She’s the sort of woman who gets killed.’

‘No hope of that,’ said Maria.

The boat had swung in towards the shore, bucking up and down in the landswell.

Soon Priscilla recognized the sandy cove which was Seal Bay. It was a beautiful spot, almost inaccessible from the land and barely accessible from the sea except on rare summer days like this.

The
Jaunty Lass
chugged into calm water and then the engines died. Hamish appeared from below and helped Archie to drop anchor and then they lowered the boat’s dinghy, Hamish going first to row the lunch ashore. He had had to do very little preparation. Jenny had fixed everything, even Archie’s breakfast, and Archie, feeling he had had ‘proper’ food, was joining in the holiday atmosphere.

Peta demanded to go ashore before the rest. By common consent, she was allowed the dinghy to herself. Hamish, rowing her ashore, hoped she would not sink the dinghy, for she was so heavy that the stern was dangerously low in the water.

She climbed out, wading through the shallows, and then flopping on the sand like a beached whale.

Soon they were all on shore and Jenny was spreading a white table-cloth on the sand. Peta sat at the edge of the cloth with a fork in one hand and a knife in the other, her piggy eyes gleaming. Priscilla was glad of Jenny’s efficient help, although she knew Jenny was doing it all for Hamish. But then Hamish always attracted that limpet type of female, thought Priscilla sourly.

John Taylor moved around to the far side of the cloth to put a distance between himself and the glutton. But when Peta began to eat, he realized his mistake. He had a perfect view of all that gorging and stuffing. If she would only eat silently, he thought, it would not be so bad. But she snorted and chomped and breathed heavily through her nose.

‘Where’s Crystal?’ asked Priscilla, wondering if she could slow Peta down by engaging her in conversation.

‘Asleep, probably,’ said Peta through a spray of breadcrumbs. ‘Very fond of me, she is. Doesn’t like her parents much and I can’t say I blame her. Pair of old bores.’

‘That does not say very much for her,’ snapped John. ‘Children should honour and obey their parents.’

‘You must have come out of the ark, sweetie,’ said Peta and then roared with laughter. ‘You should be a judge. You know, one of those ones who live in the Dark Ages and says things like, “What does the witness mean by
heavy metal music
?”’

And John, who did not know what heavy metal was but had no intention of betraying the fact, said instead, ‘You have not been very well brought up, Mrs Gore, or rather, that is my impression.’

‘Wine, anyone?’ said Priscilla desperately.

‘Oh, what makes you think that?’ Peta batted her eyelashes at him. ‘I know. You think I am a terrible flirt.’

‘You are indeed a
terrible
flirt,’ he said in his dry, precise voice, ‘in that you have no delicacy of manner. Your eating habits are disgusting.’

They all held their breath. But Peta had noticed a spare salmon steak and that was enough to make her temporarily deaf. She reached out and picked it up with her fingers. It began to disintegrate, but she hurriedly crammed it into her mouth. Then she seized the tablecloth to wipe her hands and everyone’s glasses of wine went flying.

Jessica Fitt found that the very sight of Peta made her feel physically ill. She liked her life to be well ordered. She liked beautiful flowers and beautiful paintings. She did not bother much about the sort of clothes she put on because, like most women of low self-esteem, she did not consider herself worth embellishing.

‘Are you all right?’ she heard Peter Trumpington ask.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I shouldn’t let her get to me. But this –’ she waved a hand around the white sandy beach to the clear blue sea – ‘it’s so perfect, so beautiful, and there she sits in the middle of it like a great pile of excrement.’

‘You mean the Peta woman?’

‘Yes.’

‘Would you like to know what to do about her?’

‘There’s nothing up with her that a well-thrown hand-grenade wouldn’t cure.’

‘Come on, Jessica. Spare me. Look at the size of her. There’d be bits of her splattered from here to America. Can you imagine bits of Peta raining down on New York City?’

Jessica stifled a sudden giggle. ‘What would you do, Peter?’

He leaned behind him and pulled a bottle of white wine out of the crate and then picked up a corkscrew. ‘I’d get drunk,’ he said. ‘Let’s get through this bottle before she gets to it.’

Something sad and repressed and rigid inside Jessica seemed to melt. She laughed and held out her glass. ‘Here’s to sanity,’ she said.

‘Have you ever thought of committing a crime?’ John asked Jenny. His panama hat was pulled down over his face so she could not see the expression in his eyes.

‘Well, no, I don’t think so. I feel like killing
her
.’ She waved a hand in Peta’s direction. ‘But I mean, it’s just a thought. But you don’t mean murder, do you? Do you mean theft or arson or shop-lifting?’

‘I have dealt with so many criminals,’ he said in a tired voice. ‘Very few of them show any remorse. They are angry at getting caught out, that’s all. They go to prison and the taxpayer has to pay for their keep.’

‘You don’t mean you want to see hanging brought back?’

‘Why not? Why should we work and slave all our lives to keep them cosseted in jails, to keep them fed, to pay for prisoners’ rehabilitation, to pay for therapists?’

‘I suppose you have a point,’ said Jenny diplomatically. She looked longingly in the direction of Hamish Macbeth, but he had gone to sleep. ‘Priscilla’s about to dish out the fresh fruit salad,’ she said. ‘I must help her.’

‘Go ahead,’ he said wearily. ‘I’m going for a walk.’

‘But you’ll miss dessert!’

‘I’ll miss the sight of that swine eating it!’

He turned and strode off.

The castle cook, perhaps to ease his conscience, as he had probably decided before preparing the lunch not to go, had made enough fruit salad for twenty, and Peta ate most of it. No one else was hungry. Jessica Fitt and Peter Trumpington were drinking steadily and whispering to each other, snorting with laughter and then looking furtively around like bad children. They were vying with each other over the best way to kill Peta.

At last, gorged with food, Peta fell asleep. She lay on her back with her mouth open, snoring. Maria thought, she’s going to get a horrendous sunburn, but she did not move. Let her get burnt, and with luck burnt so badly that it puts her out of commission for the rest of the week.

With Peta asleep, a relaxed air took hold of the party. John returned from his walk in time to join in the general, lazy conversation. Seagulls swooped and dived for scraps of food.

‘Do you remember that film, I forget the one, but where they killed this chap by tying him into a rowing boat and then tied a fish on his head? The cormorants dived for the fish and split his skull open.’

‘What made you think of a gruesome thing like that?’ asked Priscilla.

‘Oh, nothing,’ said Peter and nudged Jessica, who laughed immoderately and then held out her glass for more wine.

Priscilla applied sun-barrier lotion to her face and arms and then, with a casual familiarity which grated on Jenny, she walked over to the sleeping Hamish Macbeth and started gently putting lotion on his face and arms. Hamish stirred in his sleep and smiled.

When she had finished, Priscilla said, ‘Well, we should think about getting back. Want to help me put the stuff away, Jenny?’

‘Do it yourself,’ said Jenny. ‘That’s your job,’ and then blushed scarlet and got up and walked away.

Damn Hamish, thought Priscilla. She poked him in the ribs. ‘Wake up. Help me with this stuff.’

Hamish sleepily struggled up. ‘Where’s my helper?’

‘If you mean Jenny, she’s gone off after reminding me sharply that packing up is my job. The shy clinging kind certainly go for you, Hamish, and you do nothing to discourage it.’

‘Why should I?’ he said maliciously. ‘She’s a fine-looking girl. Talent’s a bit thin on the ground in Lochdubh.’

‘You having already run through most of it!’ Priscilla began to rattle dishes with unnecessary force. Jenny came back, muttered ‘Sorry,’ and began to help.

Once back on board, Mary French decided to show off her organizing skills by getting them to sing a round song. ‘You first,’ she ordered, as if dealing with a class of backward children. ‘Then you.’

‘Just like Joyce Grenfell,’ said Peter and Jessica shrieked with laughter, then found she couldn’t stop laughing and ended by bursting into tears.

The boat began to bucket up and down again as it approached the point of land which sheltered the sea loch of Lochdubh.

Priscilla had just produced afternoon tea – hot scones with Cornish cream and strawberry jam – and spread it on the deck when Peta was suddenly and violently sick over it. Horrified, the rest backed off to the sides while Peta vomited and vomited. A normal person would soon have been reduced to dry heaving, but Peta had a capacious and overloaded stomach. The clients of Checkmate fled to the bow and huddled together, even Jenny, until they were joined by Priscilla and Maria.

‘I can’t take it,’ said Maria with her handkerchief to her mouth. ‘Hamish’ll need to cope.’

They all stayed there until the
Jaunty Lass
edged into Lochdubh harbour.

Still they stayed until they saw Peta being helped ashore. With a sigh of relief, they saw Hamish talking to one of the locals, who had a small pick-up truck, and then he helped Peta into the back of it.

They edged round to get off the boat. The decks were clean, glistening with water.

Hamish appeared on board again.

‘Brave man,’ said Priscilla. ‘Did you stack the stuff downstairs?’

‘No,’ said Hamish. ‘I just tied the lot up in the table-cloth and threw it over the side.’

*    *    *

Hamish thought he never wanted to see anyone being sick again, but he found a couple of fishermen outside the local bar that evening being violently ill. It turned out that Archie was regaling the locals inside with such a colourful story of his day out that Peta’s sickness was more horrible in the telling than the actuality.

He walked on. A new restaurant, run by a Scottish-Italian family, had just opened on the waterfront. He heard the hum of voices from inside and was glad to see it was doing a good trade. He looked in the window and grinned.

The members of Checkmate had escaped and were enjoying dinner on their own. They were seated round a large table, talking and laughing. He felt sorry for Maria. But surely Peta would not be up to eating any more that day.

But Peta was working her way steadily through the dinner that had been meant for the whole party while Maria looked on with horrified loathing. She wondered why Crystal, who was lazily picking at her own food, was unaffected by her aunt’s behaviour. Once the horrible meal was over, Maria plucked up her courage and followed Peta up to her room.

‘Let’s get down to business,’ said Maria firmly, ‘or what’s left of it. Peta, you have succeeded in driving our clients away. They approached me and said they could not sit through another meal with you and I had to arrange dinner for them at a restaurant in the village.’

‘Any good?’

‘What?’

‘The restaurant?’

‘Never mind that! Listen to me. I want to buy you out.’

‘No need for that. I’m an asset, Maria. And don’t give me that rubbish about them dining elsewhere because of me. You arranged it. And do you know why?’

‘No, do tell me, Peta, darling.’

‘It’s because you’re jealous of me. You know I’ve got a way with the fellows and you’re jea1ous.’

‘And you’re mad!’ shouted Maria, her temper snapping. ‘And hear this! If I’ve got to kill you to get rid of you, then by God I’ll do it!’

Jenkins, the
maître d’hôtel
, who had been walking along the corridor outside, stopped and listened to this with interest before going on downstairs to irritate Mr Johnson by telling him that if one allowed common-type people into the hotel, then murder would be done, and mark his words!

Jenny Trask woke with a cry during the night and sat up in bed, her heart palpitating. She had just had a terrible dream in which Peta’s dead body had been carried into the hotel dining room by Hamish Macbeth, who smiled at her and said, ‘Roasted to a turn,’ and then he had stuffed an orange in Peta’s mouth before picking up the carving knife.

The room was stuffy. She got up and opened the window wide and leaned out. Then she gasped, staring at the mountains beyond. A great dark shadow was creeping down the mountains and sliding towards the castle, blotting out everything in its path. Then she realized it was only the shadow of a cloud crossing the moon and drew back with a nervous laugh. But the fear caused by that shadow would not go away. There was something sinister and evil approaching the castle, and no amount of logical thought would seem to make the fear go away.

Ian Chisholm, the driver of the minibus, was there an hour earlier than had been originally scheduled in response to an appeal from Maria, Maria who was desperate to get her charges out of the hotel before Peta joined them.

The original plan had been to take them on a tour of the surrounding countryside, returning to the hotel for lunch, back out in the afternoon, and then return for dinner.

Now she planned to keep them out until late evening. They would go to Ullapool, have lunch there, and then travel to the famous Inverewe Gardens for the afternoon and have dinner at some restaurant or hotel that did not contain Peta. Priscilla came out to see them off, a frown marring the perfection of her face. The other guests were eating at any other establishment but the Tommel Castle Hotel and had complained to the colonel that although the food was excellent, the sight of Peta was putting them off. The colonel had retaliated by blaming Mr Johnson and Priscilla for having Checkmate as guests in the first place, and he was leaving with his wife that morning to visit friends in Caithness and said he would not return until Peta and Checkmate had left. Priscilla planned to turn one of the smaller hotel lounges, not often used, into a dining room for Peta to dine alone with her niece, in the hope of luring some diners back. Tommel Castle stood to lose a sizeable sum of revenue if everyone decided to eat elsewhere.

The weather was still sunny, but there was a brassiness about it and the air had become close and humid. Sean, the cook, was fuming about Peta and planned to go down to the village after breakfast was served, and Priscilla did so hope he did not plan to get drunk.

Maria was telling the startled driver, Ian Chisholm, that the large fee he was getting from her meant he had to act as a guide as well. Like most of the natives, he knew very little of the history of Sutherland, but being a true Highlander, he planned to make it up as he went along.

When they were all on board the bus, Maria fairly yelled at Ian to get moving
fast
and heaved a sigh of relief as the bus rolled out on to the road without any sign of Peta in pursuit.

They had travelled quite a way south when Maria realized Ian was not doing his job. That is, he had not uttered a word. She saw the romantic ruin of a castle coming up on the right and called to Ian to stop and then, with a steely glint in her eye, said, ‘Tell us about it.’

‘Oh, Barren Castle,’ said Ian, who had not the faintest idea what the building was or what it had been. ‘That was the home of the Crummet family. They wass supporters of Bonnie Prince Charlie and the redcoats were sure they had been sheltering the prince and tried to drive them off. But the laird said he would never leave, so them bastard redcoats burnt the castle ower his head. The family all perished, yea, and their oxen and cattle, too,’ added Ian, who was a regular church attender. ‘It’s said his daughter, Fiona, still haunts the ruins.’

‘Gosh!’ said Deborah, struggling to the door of the bus with her camera at the ready. ‘Must get a picture.’

The rest of them followed her but soon quickly retreated to the shelter of the bus, for the midges, those Scottish mosquitoes, had descended in droves. ‘I forgot to bring repellent,’ mourned Maria.

‘I haff it here,’ said Ian triumphantly. ‘Three pounds a stick.’ It had cost him one pound and fifty pence a stick in Patel’s store in Lochdubh, but he felt his foresight deserved a profit. The bus then rumbled on, with Ian occasionally making up a story about some feature of the passing landscape.

Maria began to relax. It was all very sad and annoying about Peta. She had been such a jolly and likeable woman in the past. She had enjoyed her food, but in reasonable quantities. But gradually she had begun to stuff herself, and the more she stuffed, the more her personality had undergone a change, becoming a mixture of vanity, arrogance, and bad temper. It was as if, thought Maria, food was some sort of mind-altering drug. Maybe it was. She had read somewhere something about Overeaters Anonymous. But it was the fashion to psychoanalyse people these days and it was all so tiresome and irritating, as if one could no longer be allowed the luxury of disliking someone. If Peta had a problem about food, then it was Peta’s job to do something about it.

There was no doubt, thought Maria with feeling, that Peta’s perpetual interference in the business was beginning to affect her, Maria’s, judgment. Take this lot, she thought, twisting her neck round to look at them. Who would have thought of such unlikely combinations? No – she gave herself a mental shake – she was not losing her grip, Peta or no Peta. It was something to do with this weird place and landscape. Introduce the same bunch of people to each other at a London cocktail party and they would not have paired off in the same way.

*    *    *

Sean, the cook, shouldered his way into the bar in Lochdubh, which opened early to cater for the fishermen. He was not in the best of moods, to say the least, and the ribbing he got from the customers about ‘thon great fat wumman up at the castle’ made his temper worse.

‘All ma art gone bust,’ he said in a strong Glasgow accent. ‘I could put shite down in front o’ that bitch and she would shovel it down. I could get her to eat anything.’

Archie Maclean’s eyes gleamed with mischief. ‘Could ye get her to eat this? Dougie brought it in. He didnae shoot it. Found it dead. Died o’ auld age if you ask me.’ He opened a sack and dragged out a dead wild cat, a great beast with mangy-looking fur. From the rank smell of it, it had been dead several days.

‘Course,’ sneered Sean. ‘Told you I could get her tae eat anything.’

Archie winked at the others. ‘Put your money where your mouth is, Sean.’

‘Whit?’

‘Serve this cat up tae her the night and if she eats the lot, I’ll pay ye ten pound.’

The others began to press their bets.

‘I’ll dae it,’ said Sean. He shoved the cat back in the sack and then heaved the sack over his shoulder.

‘Hey, wait a bit,’ said one of the fishermen. ‘And how is we tae know whether the fat wumman ate it or no’?’

‘Archie here can come up and sit in the dining room,’ said Sean. ‘She’s frightened the other guests awa’, so nobody’ll notice.’

The clients of Checkmate strolled along the waterfront at Ullapool, scrubbing their faces with sticks of repellent. Ullapool is the home of a particularly savage tribe of midges. But it is a beautiful little town with a pretty harbour and some good shops. Despite the heat and the midges, everyone was in a good mood, and even John Taylor walked with a jaunty step.

Lunch in a waterfront restaurant was not particularly good, being of the chips-with-everything variety, but Peta was not there and the sun was still shining and there seemed a determination on everyone’s part to enjoy the day. They talked incessantly of Peta and how horrible she was, still drawn together by that communal resentment, until Maria began to realize what Priscilla had already guessed: Peta, in her repulsive way, was an asset.

They made their way after lunch to Inver-ewe Gardens which, despite the fact that they are in the far north of Britain, are near the Gulf Stream and so boast palm trees and many exotic plants.

Maria deliberately let them think they were all returning to the castle for dinner, because when the gaiety of the group began to flag, she announced they were stopping for dinner somewhere on the road home and so the spirits of everyone soared again at this further reprieve from Peta.

The dinner at an unpretentious hotel recommended by Priscilla was simple but good. The company enlivened the evening by picturing Peta wolfing down her solitary dinner.

And it was a solitary dinner, too. Peta had trailed around all day, feeling cross that the others had escaped her. A large breakfast and larger lunch did nothing to restore her mood. Crystal, who should have been some sort of a companion, had passed the day in her room, reading magazines and doing things to her hair and nails. Peta called on her to ask her to come downstairs for dinner but met with a rebuff. Crystal’s hair was in rollers and she said she was trying out a new style and wasn’t going to take them out. She said she was going to have a flask of coffee and some sandwiches in her room. Peta began to protest loudly, saying as she was paying for Crystal’s holiday in this expensive hotel, then the least Crystal could do was to keep her company. But Crystal had a genius for turning suddenly deaf. All the while her aunt was railing at her, she lazily flipped over the pages of a film magazine and did not appear to hear a word.

Peta hated her own company. Almost tearfully, she ended up by saying, ‘You were the sole beneficiary in my will but the first thing I’m going to do when I get back to London is cut you out.’

Crystal did hear that. She thought briefly about following Peta downstairs and making amends, but that would mean taking the rollers out of her hair. She picked up the magazine again.

Priscilla ushered Peta into the dining room. There had been no reason to turn another room into a separate dining room, for no one else was eating at the hotel that evening. Peta looked so downcast that Priscilla said that the cook was preparing a special meal for her, as she was the only diner. Priscilla was relieved that Sean had returned from the village sober and in such good spirits and prepared to create something for Peta.

In the kitchen, Sean looked down at his handiwork with satisfaction. He had skinned the cat and stewed it gently for hours in a rich wine sauce embellished with mushrooms and herbs. Before it, he planned to serve only a thin consommé, not wanting to spoil the glutton’s appetite.

Peta drank the soup and eagerly waited for this special main course. The waitress brought it in in a large casserole. Peta’s eyes gleamed. ‘Leave it,’ she said. ‘I’ll serve myself.’

She got through the lot, along with a mountain of sautéed potatoes and a dish of cauliflower and cheese and then leaned back and wiped her mouth with her napkin and gave a satisfied belch. ‘Bring the cook here,’ she said grandly to the waitress. ‘I wish to compliment him.’

As Sean entered the dining room, he whispered to the waitress, ‘Run along. I’ve left a glass of wine for you in the kitchen.’

Then he approached Peta and smiled in triumph as he saw the empty casserole.

‘That was excellent,’ said Peta. ‘But what was it? Venison?’

Sean smiled insolently down at her. ‘Cat,’ he said. Archie Maclean, who had crept quietly into the dining room, stared at them. Peta blinked at Sean. ‘You surely didn’t say “cat”.’

‘Aye, cat, moggie, pussie … C-A-T. I bet the boys in the bar that you waud eat anything, and so you did. One auld smelly wild cat.’

‘Get the manager,’ spluttered Peta, turning green. ‘You’re mad.’

‘Oh, no, you fat pig,’ hissed Sean, leaning over her with a courteous smile pinned on his face in case anyone looked in the dining room door. ‘You say one word, and ah’ll take the meat cleaver through your fat neck. But you won’t. You do and ah’ll phone the newspapers and say ah served you the beast to teach a snorting, guzzling pig like you a lesson.’

He turned and stalked off and Archie slid out after him.

Peta got shakily to her feet, her handkerchief jammed against her mouth. She ran all the way to her room, where she was very sick indeed. She would need to leave, need to get away. It was awful, horrible. Just because she enjoyed her food that madman had threatened her. She would call on that nice policeman. She was almost ready to go and look for Hamish Macbeth when she sat down again with a groan. What if it got in the newspapers? Maria would claim that she was ruining the business. Everywhere she went, people would watch her eating. Peta snuffled dismally.

It was all Maria’s fault. Maria must have been spreading tales about her. Yes, Maria was jealous and had no doubt paid the cook to drive her away. So she wasn’t going. She was going to stay and snatch up one of these men and teach Maria a lesson.

Priscilla received a phone call from Hamish Macbeth. He sounded worried. He said he was on his way up to the castle to talk to her.

Soon she heard the police Land Rover skidding to a halt outside the castle. She went out to meet Hamish.

‘Where’s Peta Gore?’ he asked.

‘In her room.’

‘Well, I hope she’s all right. I saw Sean rushing into the bar and followed him in and listened. He was collecting bets. They didn’t see me at first, so I was able to learn that Sean had cooked up some old wild cat and served it to Peta, who ate it for dinner.’

‘He’s run mad,’ gasped Priscilla. ‘Let’s hope she never finds out. I’d better tell Johnson to fire Sean, although where we’re going to get another cook in the middle of the season, I don’t know.’

‘It’s worse than that. He
did
tell her.’

‘We’ll have the press on the doorstep in the morning. We’ll be ruined,’ wailed Priscilla.

‘Aye, but maybe we can keep it quiet. Look, there was one thing that struck me about Peta. She fair fancies herself with the fellows. You’d best take me up to her. Leave the whole thing to me. You can keep Sean for the summer if I can arrange everything and then get rid of him when things quieten down. Tell Johnson to start now looking for another chef but don’t tell him why.’

‘But the locals …’

‘Oh, them,’ said Hamish. ‘I can get that lot to shut up any time. Now lead me to Peta.’

Priscilla took him up the stairs and knocked at Peta’s door. A faint voice called, ‘Come in.’

‘Do your stuff, Hamish, but God knows how you’re going to manage it,’ said Priscilla.

Hamish went into Peta’s bedroom and closed the door behind him. Priscilla waited, irresolute, and then went off down the stairs.

‘What do you want?’ Peta asked the tall constable who stood humbly before her, his cap under his arm.

‘I came to see if you were all right,’ said Hamish. ‘I gather the mad cook served you a venison casserole and told you it was cat.’

‘Venison …?’