Death of a Prankster (10 page)

‘Well, that’s that,’ said Daviot gloomily. ‘You are not going to persuade me that a suicide wiped that cup clean. Get Charles Trent.’

Charles Trent looked strained and shaken. ‘Sit down,’ said the superintendent. ‘We have reason to believe that your fiancée did not take her own life. Now you were heard to threaten her yesterday. You said something like, “I could make you very, very sorry.” And when Miss Gold asked if you were threatening her, you replied, “Just think what I could do to you,” or words to that effect. What did you mean?’

Charles put a hand up to his brow. ‘I was miffed because she was dumping me, and quite heartlessly, too. I wanted to get back at her. I meant that I could sell my story about our relationship to one of the sleazier tabloids, that’s all.’

‘Did you go to her bedroom last night?’

He shook his head. ‘There didn’t seem to be any point. It’s all my fault, in a way. She was happy enough with me before I roused her expectations about that damned will. She got greedy, that’s all. But why would anyone kill her?’

‘Did she upset anyone apart from you?’ asked Daviot.

‘I believe she was making a play for old Jeffrey, and that upset his wife. You’d better ask her.’

‘We will.’ Charles was then questioned exhaustively about his movements the day and night before. He seemed to gain composure rather than lose it as the questioning went on.

At last Daviot sent him away and asked for Enrico to be brought in.

Had anyone, he asked the Spaniard, used the kitchen the night before? Enrico said that Miss Angela had come down about eleven o’clock in the evening for a glass of hot milk. Earlier, Mrs Jeffrey Trent had come in to make herbal tea, Charles Trent had wanted a sandwich, and Melissa Clarke had asked for a flask of tea for her room.

Blair interrupted, his voice loaded with sarcasm. ‘Whit’s a’ this? Don’t these grand folks just ring the bell and ask fur ye to bring whatever it is they want upstairs?’

Enrico looked mildly amused. ‘It is not the Middle Ages,’ he said in his precise English. ‘Maria and I had served dinner. It is generally understood that we are off duty after that.’

‘Quite, quite,’ said Daviot hurriedly. ‘It is believed the sleeping pills, if that’s what they were, were put into a cup of hot chocolate. Where is the chocolate kept?’

‘In the large cupboard in the pantry off the kitchen with the other dry groceries.’

‘And was the carton of drinking chocolate still there this morning?’

‘Yes, members of the forensic team took it away.’

Daviot then questioned him all over again about what time he had gone to bed and if he had heard anyone moving about the kitchen. Enrico said that he had gone to bed about midnight and that he and his wife would not remark particularly if they heard any sounds from the kitchen. They would assume one of the guests had come down for a late drink or snack. No, he could not remember any particular sounds. He had gone to sleep almost immediately.

Daviot glanced through the file he had already read on the road up. ‘Let us go back to the first murder. I see here that you removed the body of Mr Trent and laid it out in the games room and then cleaned the bedroom upstairs. Can you tell me in your own words why you did that?’

Enrico’s eyes flicked briefly to Blair. ‘It was understood at the beginning that Mr Trent had been the victim of one of his own practical jokes. My wife and I did what we thought was fitting.’

Daviot swung round to Blair. ‘Would you say that was correct as far as you could judge from your investigations?’

‘Aye,’ said Blair and mopped his forehead. He was dreading the arrival of Hamish Macbeth. What if Hamish told Daviot about Mrs Trent’s paying the servants to clean up? Daviot would wonder why they had not been charged.

Daviot questioned Enrico further and then dismissed him.

‘Now,’ said Daviot, ‘I would like an independent witness.’ He studied a list of names in front of him. ‘Let’s have the Clarke girl in.’

Melissa felt she was living in a nightmare. She clung to the hope that it would turn out that Titchy had murdered old Mr Trent and then had taken her own life. She was vaguely relieved that the questioning was started by Blair’s superior and not Blair.

‘Now,’ said Daviot, ‘take your time. We need you to tell us what went on yesterday.’

In a shaking voice, Melissa said, nothing in particular. All she wanted to do was to get away from this roomful of policemen. But Daviot probed on and on, question after question, until Melissa found she was telling him everything – about Titchy’s flirting with Jeffrey, about Jeffrey’s saying he was leaving his wife, about Paul’s attacking Jeffrey, every little thing until she felt weak and exhausted and near to tears.

When she had been dismissed, Daviot frowned down at his notes. ‘We seem to be getting more suspects by the minute instead of less. Oh, well, we’ll have Jan Trent in next.’

Jan was wearing a severe tweed suit with a white blouse and sensible brogues. She slid into the chair opposite Daviot, folded her skeletal hands on her lap, and waited.

‘Now, Mrs Trent,’ began Daviot, ‘your husband told you publicly that he was leaving you. Is that not true?’

Jan gave a slight shrug. ‘He said something like that. But Jeffrey has been extremely overwrought.’

‘He also said he might take Titchy Gold with him. He was attacked by your son.’

‘Jeffrey was behaving outrageously. I fear the murder of his brother has turned his mind. My poor Paul has been in an understandable state of nervous tension.’ Her voice sharpened. ‘I will not have you bullying him.’

Daviot questioned her closely about her movements the previous night and then took her back through her movements on the night of the murder of Mr Trent. Throughout the interview, Jan seemed to come under increasing strain. She pleated a handkerchief between her long fingers, then smoothed it out on her knee, and then began to pleat it all over again.

The superintendent watched her closely. He became sure that she might have committed murder in the hope of getting money through her husband.

After he had finished with her, he decided to interview the dead man’s daughters.

Betty was the first. She seemed strained and shocked. Her dumpy figure was encased in correct mourning and her eyes were red. ‘I am not sorry about the death of that silly girl,’ she said. ‘In fact, I’m glad. She was, she must have been, unstable. It stands to reason. She killed Dad and then took her own life.’

‘That would be a very comfortable solution,’ said Daviot. ‘Unfortunately, the cup which contained, we think, sleeping pills, was wiped clean. I do not think anyone bent on committing suicide would do that.’

Betty burst into tears and then, between sobs, she said incoherently that the police were fools and simply letting the investigation drag on and on out of sheer sadism.

Daviot gave up trying to question her further and she was led from the room.

She was replaced by her sister Angela, who appeared made of sterner stuff. Angela said roundly that she had thought about the murders and was sure they had been done by some maniac from the village. ‘There’s a lot of inbreeding in these Highland villages,’ she said. ‘Mark my words, while you are wasting your time questioning us, there is some drooling homicidal maniac loose in Arrat.’

She then grumpily described what she had been doing the night before, movements which Daviot noticed were as vague as everyone else’s. No one so far could put an exact time on where they had been last evening or when they had gone down to the kitchen.

Paul Sinclair was next. His face was white and there were purple shadows under his eyes, but he told them his movements in a quiet, measured voice. ‘Now let’s go back to yesterday afternoon,’ said Daviot. ‘You attacked your stepfather when he said he was leaving your mother, did you not?’

‘The bastard was jeering at her,’ said Paul. ‘She’s my mother, for God’s sake! You wouldn’t expect me to sit there and say nothing.’

‘You have a record of outbursts of rage,’ said Daviot quietly. ‘It is possible, you know, that you could have killed Titchy Gold because your stepfather was insulting your mother by suggesting he might take Titchy with him when he left her.’

Paul looked at him wearily. ‘You can’t pin that one on me. Poisoning is hardly the action of someone given to outbursts of rage. Nor did I kill old Mr Trent. I had no interest in his money. I am going to sign most of it over to my mother.’

‘Had you already discussed such an eventuality with her – in the event of Mr Trent’s death?’

‘No, of course not,’ snapped Paul. ‘I did not expect Mr Andrew Trent to die. He was as fit as a flea when I arrived. I did not expect to inherit anything. Why should I? I thought it would all go to Charles. I only came up to this hell-hole to please my mother.’

He was questioned about his movements for half an hour before he was allowed to go.

Jeffrey Trent was summoned next. Of all the people Daviot had interviewed, Jeffrey seemed the least affected; in fact, he looked positively cheerful. He said he had had no intention of going off with Titchy Gold but had merely said so in order to get revenge on his wife.

For what?

For years of complaint and humiliation, for the years she had bled him like a leech, said Jeffrey. No, he had not liked his brother Andrew. Yes, he had simply come to Arrat House in the hope of getting something in his brother’s will. He answered all questions in a dry, precise manner but underneath it all ran a current of amusement that Daviot found highly irritating.

‘Well, that’s that for now,’ said Daviot when he had finished questioning Jeffrey. ‘We will sit and go over what we have heard while we wait for forensic reports and the pathologist’s report.’

The door of the library opened and a tall, gangly figure wandered in.

‘Hamish!’ said the superintendent. ‘Sit down, lad, while we discuss this case.’

Blair shifted uneasily. Somehow, the superintendent had a habit of calling Hamish Macbeth by his first name when he was displeased with him – Blair. What if Daviot were to go back to the laying out of the body and what if Hamish Macbeth were to tell him the truth?

Priscilla Halburton-Smythe had some difficulty getting into the grounds of Arrat House. The narrow road leading to it was crowded with reporters, photographers and television crews. Satellite dishes like giant mushrooms glinted palely in the grey light. Ignoring the questions shouted at her by reporters, she rolled down the window and explained to one of the policemen on guard that she was a friend of the family. This was not true, but Priscilla could hardly explain she had arrived for the sole purpose of helping PC Hamish Macbeth in his inquiries.

At last she was through the crowd of press and inside the gates. Enrico answered the door. Priscilla asked for the Misses Trent and gave her name. Enrico knew the name of every landowner from Arrat to the coast as well as any Highlander and so ushered her into the drawing room. They were all gathered together, all the suspects.

‘You won’t remember me,’ said Priscilla, advancing on Angela. ‘I came here as a child. I am Priscilla Halburton-Smythe. I came to offer my condolences. The death of your father is a terrible tragedy. Is there anything I can do to help?’

‘Decent of you to call,’ said Angela, ‘but there’s nothing to do at the moment. We haven’t had the hearing at the procurator fis-cal’s yet and we can’t even plan the funeral. Sit down. Enrico, fetch Miss Halburton-Smythe a drink or something.’

‘Too early, and call me Priscilla.’

‘I’d better introduce everyone,’ said Angela. ‘I feel I should say, enter first murderer and this is the second murderer.’ She gave a shrill laugh.

‘Control yourself,’ snapped her sister. ‘I am Betty Trent. The tall young man over by the window is Paul Sinclair and the girl with pink hair is Melissa Clarke. To your left is Jeffrey Trent, our uncle; and to your right, his wife Jan. Charles is over there, by the fire. Now, have you heard the latest news?’

Priscilla shook her head.

‘That actress has been found murdered.’

‘Titchy Gold!’

‘The same.’

‘How was she murdered?’

Betty’s composure suddenly broke and she stared in an anguished way at Priscilla, opening and shutting her mouth.

‘Sit down, Betty,’ said Jeffrey. ‘I’ll explain. Titchy Gold was found dead in bed. A cup beside the bed was found to have been wiped clean of prints. A bottle of my sleeping pills has gone missing. We are waiting for the pathologist’s report and can only pray it turns out to be natural causes. If it hadn’t been for someone wiping that cup clean, then we might have supposed she murdered my brother and then took her own life.’

‘And I suppose the police suspect one of you,’ said Priscilla. There was a shocked silence. But why are we so shocked? thought Melissa. We’ve known all along one of us did it.

‘I think it was that Spaniard, Enrico,’ said Angela at last.

‘Why?’ asked Priscilla. Melissa suddenly experienced a fierce stab of resentment against this cool and beautiful blonde who asked questions with the impersonal incisiveness of a policeman.

‘Why?’ echoed Angela. ‘’Cos he’s greedy and he’s got money in the will. Oh, stop snivelling, Betty. You’re getting on my nerves. No guts, that’s your problem.’

‘And you’re an insensitive moron,’ howled Betty.

Charles’s voice cut across the row. ‘Now look what you’ve done, Priscilla,’ he said. ‘We’ve all endured a morning of questioning and then you come along and pour salt on all the wounds.’

Priscilla flushed. ‘I am sorry,’ she said. She felt like an amateur. Hamish Macbeth would never have been so abrupt. She began to talk to Angela of her memories of her visit to Arrat House. Angela said she thought she had some old photographs taken during that visit and brought out an album. Priscilla bent over it. Yes, there she was herself, about age six, and there were Angela and Betty with their father, who was roaring with laughter about something. The small boy was recognizable as Charles. He was clinging on to the skirts of both sisters and looking over his shoulder with a look of horror on his face.

‘What frightened you?’ Priscilla asked Charles. He crossed the room and bent over the album. ‘Oh, that day. That was the man hanging in the tree.’

‘One of Dad’s jokes,’ explained Angela bitterly. ‘He had one of the gamekeepers pretend to be a hanged man. Frightened poor little Charles out of his wits.’

‘And me,’ said Priscilla, suddenly remembering that day clearly. She had felt sorry for Charles. Her furious parents had promptly taken her away and she had wondered for a short time afterwards what it was like to have to live with a parent who played such infernal tricks. Betty, who had recovered, said she had heard about Tommel Castle being turned into an hotel and asked how the business was going. Priscilla talked away while all the time she stored up impressions of the people gathered in the drawing room to tell Hamish. Charles had a sort of bland ease of manner over an undercurrent of nervousness. Jan was silent, strained and fidgeting the whole time. Betty was listening to the tales of running the hotel as if they were the most interesting stories she had ever heard. Angela was sitting four-square, her hands on her knees, staring into space. Melissa and Paul were having a low-voiced conversation at the window. Jeffrey was the only one who seemed at all at ease, as if the macabre goings-on at Arrat House had nothing to do with him.

Enrico reappeared and said that Charles was wanted in the library and the others exchanged looks as he walked out.

Priscilla rose to go. ‘I gather you are all being kept indoors,’ she said to Angela. ‘Can I get you anything from the village?’

Angela said there was nothing she needed but Betty brightened. ‘Perhaps you could get me some more wool in this shade from Mrs Tallisker’s at the end of the village. It’s no use asking Maria. She always comes back with the wrong colour.’

Happy to have an excuse to return to Arrat House, Priscilla went out into the hall. Melissa followed her, with Paul close behind. ‘Could you smuggle us out past the press in your car?’ asked Melissa.

‘It might upset the police,’ said Priscilla. ‘They’ll probably want to interview you all over again.’

‘Just for a short time,’ begged Melissa. ‘I feel I’ll go mad if I don’t get out of here. Paul, too.’ Paul blinked at Priscilla myopically. Melissa was now feeling quite motherly and protective towards Paul. He had apologized to her that morning for his behaviour. He had begged her to help him get through this ordeal.

What would Hamish expect her to do? wondered Priscilla. Perhaps she might gain some useful information from Melissa and Paul.

She made up her mind. ‘All right, then. But you’d both better crouch down in the back seat until I get past the press. Where do you want to go?’

‘There’s a little café-restaurant in the village,’ said Melissa eagerly. She saw Enrico hovering in the shadows of the hall and lowered her voice. ‘Where is your car?’

‘It’s a white Volvo, round the right-hand side of the house,’ whispered Priscilla.

‘We’ll go out the back way and meet you,’ said Melissa urgently.

Soon Priscilla was driving carefully down to the village, with Melissa and Paul crouched down under travelling rugs in the back seat.

‘Here we are,’ she called over her shoulder as she parked outside the café. ‘Won’t the gentlemen of the press find you?’

‘Not in a café,’ said Melissa, popping up from under the rug. ‘They all go to The Crofter, the pub further along.’

‘I’ll go and get Betty’s wool,’ said Priscilla, ‘and then I’ll join you both.’

‘Nice girl,’ said Melissa as she entered the café with Paul.

‘Yes,’ agreed Paul, ‘and very beautiful.’

Melissa did not like that comment much. ‘Now, Paul,’ she began, after they had ordered cups of coffee, ‘you must try to pull yourself together. The killing of Titchy can have nothing to do with you or me. We’ve only got to survive another day or two of questioning and then they’ll need to let us go.’

He drew patterns on top of the wax tablecloth with the edge of his teaspoon. ‘What if Mother did it?’ he said.

Melissa took a deep breath. She privately thought Jan was capable of murder, but she said, ‘Of course she didn’t do it! Why should she? You know, Paul, your mother is quite capable of looking after herself. I wouldn’t run mad and give her all your money, but certainly enough to make her independent. I know: Tell her to go off on a cruise. That way you would be free of her for a bit and get a chance to settle down.’

Paul blinked at her mistily and took her hand. ‘That’s what I like about you, Melissa, your strength.’

Melissa gently disengaged her hand. She knew she was not a strong person. A strong person was like Hamish Macbeth. She wondered what it would be like to be a policeman’s wife. She wondered why he had never married. She dimly realized Paul was speaking.

‘I’ve always been dominated by Mother, Melissa, and the time has come to really break free. I can’t do it right away while she’s upset over this break-up with Jeffrey. But once she’s settled, I’ll see less of her. That cruise is a good idea.’

They were joined by Priscilla. ‘I managed to get that wool,’ she said cheerfully. ‘I’ll need to take you back soon or Blair will start howling and cursing.’

‘Do you know Detective Chief Inspector Blair?’ asked Melissa.

‘Yes, I have met him. We had a murder in Lochdubh last year.’

‘Lochdubh? Oh, you must know Hamish.’

A slight tinge of frost crept into Priscilla’s eyes. ‘Yes, he is a friend of mine.’

‘Oh.’ Melissa looked at her doubtfully and then her face cleared. Beautiful rich girls like Priscilla did not have anything to do with village constables. ‘Ready to go?’ asked Priscilla, who had suddenly decided that it would be a waste of time to keep them out longer by interrogating them.

She drove back to Arrat House thinking perhaps it was as well Hamish was off the case. Melissa was a nice little thing, but too silly and susceptible. She parked the car at the side of the house. Melissa and Paul climbed out. And then ambling around the side of the house came Hamish Macbeth. Melissa let out a glad cry and ran straight into his arms, babbling about the second murder and about how frightened she had been, but now that he was back everything was all right, while Priscilla and Paul looked bleakly on.

Hamish disengaged himself quickly. ‘You’d best get indoors, Melissa, before Blair finds you were out of the house. A word with you, Priscilla.’

Melissa stood and stared as Hamish and Priscilla walked off together. They were both tall and looked at ease with each other.

‘Have you been flirting with Melissa?’ Priscilla was asking.

‘I wass chust being my usual charming self,’ said Hamish. ‘I am back on the case. The rest are having lunch but I wanted a bit of fresh air.’

‘Where is Towser?’

‘Being looked after by Mrs Wellington. Priscilla, there’s been another murder, and right under the noses of the police, too. I’ve mair to worry about than one spoilt mongrel. What did you find out?’

‘Not much. Betty asked me to pick up some wool for her from the village and Melissa and Paul begged a lift. It’s a difficult business. There they all were and one of them a possible murderer. But with the atmosphere of Arrat House and the horrible furnishings, anyone looks like a murderer. Enrico is creepy. He hangs about listening, have you noticed? Paul Sinclair is a drip, in my opinion. He seems, at a guess, to be using that Melissa to try to get free from his mother. Hamish! I’ve suddenly thought, who was Mr Sinclair? I mean, who was Paul’s father? There might be insanity in the family, something like that.’

‘There’s a point,’ said Hamish. ‘The rain’s started again. We’re getting awfy wet, Priscilla.’

There’s a summer-house thing over by the woods. We’ll go there.’

They walked into a rather damp and dilapidated summer house and sat down together. ‘I was reading an article about genes and heredity,’ said Priscilla.

‘That’s all verra well,’ put in Hamish, ‘but I’ve never noticed murder running in families.’

‘No, but insanity does.’

‘Maybe,’ he said slowly. ‘I’ll ask Anderson. He’s been ferreting into everyone’s past.’

‘I can do it easier than that,’ said Priscilla eagerly. ‘I’ll just ask Paul.’

‘What? If his father was bonkers?’

‘No, silly. I’ll ask if his father is still alive, and if so, where, and if not, what did he die of.’

He gave her a slow smile. ‘My, my,’ he mocked. ‘Quite the detective. And here’s me thinking you didnae want tae come to Arrat House.’

‘I found I had less work at the hotel than I thought,’ said Priscilla primly.

Hamish clasped his hands behind his head and looked meditatively at the ceiling. ‘Aye,’ he said dreamily, ‘that Melissa iss a nice wee lassie.’

‘Hamish Macbeth. Unless you are seriously interested, leave her alone. She’s upset, young and far from home, and highly susceptible.’

Hamish grinned. ‘I wass only teasing,’ he said, but Priscilla had already risen to her feet. ‘One of us had better do some work,’ she said sharply, and walked out of the summer house.

Melissa, watching from the drawing room window, saw her approach, saw the long easy strides, the immaculate hair, the well-worn but well-cut tweeds, the air of assurance and clasped her arms about her body and shivered. It was always the same. She would find some man to dream about, some man to hope for, and then just when she began to imagine she had a chance, some female appeared over the horizon and took the man away. She gave a little sigh. The Melissas of this world always had to settle for second best. ‘Don’t look so gloomy,’ came Paul’s voice from behind her. ‘We’ll soon be out of this nightmare.’

The drawing room door opened and Priscilla came in, holding the parcel of wool she had bought for Betty. ‘Where is everyone?’ she asked.

‘They’re all in the dining room,’ said Melissa. ‘Neither of us felt like eating anything.’

‘I’ll go and give this to Betty,’ said Priscilla. She hesitated in the doorway. ‘Is your father still alive?’ she asked Paul.

He blinked at her in surprise.

‘No,’ he said curtly. ‘He died shortly after Mother divorced him.’