Death of a Prankster (12 page)

‘Fine.’ Hamish’s hazel eyes swivelled to the entrance of the house where Charles was lounging, watching them curiously.

‘So I’ll deal with my admirer, if you deal with yours,’ said Priscilla.

‘Who?’

‘Melissa, just coming around the corner of the house.’

Priscilla walked off as Melissa strolled up to Hamish. ‘Heard the news?’ demanded Melissa.

‘What news?’

‘Paul and I are engaged to be married.’

‘Why?’

‘Why?’ echoed Melissa. ‘What an odd thing to say. Aren’t you supposed to offer the lady your felicitations?’

‘I suppose. You don’t look like a woman in love.’

‘What does a woman in love look like, Hamish?’

‘She looks happy. You don’t look happy, Melissa.’

‘How in the hell am I supposed to look happy when I’m living in a place where two murders have been committed?’ Melissa turned on her heel and strode off. Could Hamish … might Hamish … be a little jealous? Melissa’s steps faltered as her heart yearned towards that thought, but then she strode on as common sense took over, or what she decided was common sense. The Melissas of this world, she told herself sternly, were not destined to fall in love and get married. The lucky Melissas of this world settled for a nice man with money.
A man given to outbursts of rage
, taunted a voice in her head, and she shook it impatiently, as if to get rid of that mocking voice, and concentrated on a happy vision of a white wedding instead.

Priscilla collected the key to the police station from Mrs Wellington, listened politely to the minister’s wife’s complaints that she could not go on looking after ‘that mongrel’, collected Towser and then let herself into Hamish’s narrow kitchen and began preparations for the meal. Why on earth didn’t Hamish Macbeth get himself a gas cooker? she thought, not for the first time, as she lit the black iron stove. Hamish’s large brood of little brothers and sisters over at Rogart were doing well, and so was his parents’ croft. They did not make demands on his money any longer, that she knew, but the years of necessary thrift had bitten deep into Hamish, she supposed. She made a simple meal of grilled lamb chops, baked potatoes and a large salad. It was almost ready by the time Hamish arrived.

How intimidating she looks, thought Hamish, as he paused in the kitchen doorway and removed his peaked cap. She had changed into a plain wool dress the colour of spring leaves and was wearing green high-heeled shoes of the same colour. Not a hair of her smooth blonde head was out of place. A dumpy little woman in an apron with mussed hair would have looked much more at home in his dingy kitchen.

‘Tired?’ she asked.

‘A bit,’ said Hamish, sinking down into a chair and patting Towser. ‘Rather, my brain’s tired. I cannae get the
feel
of anyone. One minute I think it’s your beau, Charles, the next I think it’s Paul. Oh, Melissa’s to marry Paul. I wonder if I can talk her out of it.’

‘The only way you’re going to talk her out of it is by offering yourself as a substitute,’ said Priscilla, putting the food on the table. ‘I brought mineral water to drink. I thought we would need all our wits about us.’

‘Aye, that’s grand. What was Charles Trent talking about?’

‘He was quite interesting,’ said Priscilla. ‘The red-currant jelly is by your elbow.’ She told him all that Charles had said.

‘He’s probably being very clever and hoping you’ll repeat all this to me.’

‘Could be. But I didn’t get that impression. I think he’s usually a carefree sort of chap who’s been rocked by all this murder and mayhem. I think, when it’s all over, he’s about the only one who will come out of this untouched by it.’

‘No sane person could come away from two murders and remain untouched by it,’ said Hamish. ‘And talking about insanity, I think Paul Sinclair’s got a bad temper, that’s all. I don’t really believe much in all this business of insanity running in families. People so often go mad with alcohol or drugs or Alzheimer’s disease or things like that.’

Priscilla looked stubborn. ‘I think you should concentrate on Paul Sinclair. With a father like that –’

She stopped and stared at Hamish.

‘What’s the matter?’ he asked. ‘You look as if you’ve been struck by lightning.’

‘Who were Charles Trent’s real parents?’

‘We couldn’t find any adoption papers. Besides, what does it matter? You’ve got a bee in your bonnet about this hereditary thing.’

‘But wouldn’t it be interesting?’

‘I would hardly know where to start,’ said Hamish. ‘Wait a bit. Perth. That’s where old Trent must have been when he adopted the boy. But I can hardly rush off to Perth tomorrow. I’ll be expected back at Arrat House first thing.’

‘I could phone up Strathbane and say you were sick. They won’t really mind. The place is crawling with detectives and policemen and forensic teams. I’d take you to Perth myself.’

‘We’ll probably only discover that his old neighbours, if they’re still alive, hated him as much as everyone else,’ said Hamish gloomily. ‘On the other hand, I don’t like the thought of my mind getting bogged down in the atmosphere of Arrat House. One day wouldn’t matter, I suppose.’

‘I’ll phone now,’ said Priscilla.

Blair listened to her explanation that Hamish Macbeth was suffering from a virus infection.

‘And is this his mother speaking?’ he asked with heavy sarcasm.

‘You know very well who is speaking,’ said Priscilla coldly. ‘If you are unable to take this message, put me though to Superintendent Peter Daviot.’

‘No, no,’ said Blair hurriedly. ‘Jist ma wee joke.’ He knew Daviot, a snob, would hit the roof if he thought Priscilla had been insulted.

Priscilla returned to the kitchen. ‘Well, that’s that,’ she said cheerfully.

‘It still seems a bit daft,’ said Hamish. ‘What are you hoping to find? That Charles Trent’s parents were maniacs?’

‘Something like that,’ said Priscilla, unruffled. ‘At least it would be a start.’

For the first time in years the bedroom doors at Arrat House were locked at night. Jan and Jeffrey Trent still shared the same bedroom, lying without touching, the air between their bodies twanging with hate. Not particularly an unusual state of affairs in a marriage but adding to the tense and frightening atmosphere of Arrat House. The wind had got up, that famous Sutherland wind, howling and baying and shrieking, taking away any feeling of security engendered by thick walls, thick carpet and central heating, raising dormant fears in civilized minds of the days when Thor, the god and protector of warriors and peasants, rode the heavens. The old gods and demons of Sutherland had taken over, tearing through the countryside over the cowering heads of petty men.

And women.

Melissa Clarke lay awake. One particularly furious blast of wind boomed in the old chimneys and shrieked across the roof.

She switched on the light. They would never return here, she thought. They would go on honeymoon to Italy or France.

The wind dropped for a few seconds and she heard a soft shuffling noise from the corridor outside her room. Then the wind returned in force. She lay rigid, staring at the door.

As she looked, the handle of the door began to turn slowly. This was not a horror movie, she told herself sternly. Police were patrolling outside and a policeman was on guard in the hall downstairs. But she was unable to move.

The doorknob turned again. She looked wildly around. There must be some sort of bell to ring the servants. Yes, there was one over by the fireplace. But she was paralyzed with fear. There was no way she could get out of bed and walk over to that bell. And then she noticed that the doorknob was still again, unmoving, the light from the lamp beside her bed winking on the polished brass.

She lay there for a long time, listening to the heaving, shrieking and roaring of the wind, and then, quite suddenly, she fell asleep.

When she awoke early in the morning, the wind had dropped. She hoisted herself up on one elbow and looked in a dazed way at the door, wondering if she had imagined it all. And suddenly the room was filled with hellish, mocking laughter. Her terror grew as she realized it was not mechanical laughter from one of old Mr Trent’s machines. It was from the world of dark nightmare. It was from the sulphurous pit where the demons dwelled. Sobbing with fear, but somewhat emboldened this time by daylight, she found strength to leap from the bed and run to that bell and lean on it, ringing and ringing the bell, sweat pouring down her body. She heard the sound of footsteps running up the stairs and then a hammering at the door. Whimpering with relief, she went to it and turned the key and flung it open. Enrico was there, with a policeman behind him.

‘I’m haunted,’ gasped Melissa. ‘That laughter.’

Both men stood and listened. Nothing.

‘I heard it,’ wailed Melissa.

And suddenly, the hellish laughter started again.

Enrico went to the fireplace and peered up the chimney.

‘Jackdaws,’ he said in disgust. ‘And I took a nest out of this chimney only last year.’

‘You must be a townee,’ said the policeman. Melissa sank down on the edge of the bed. ‘It’s dreadful,’ she said. ‘Are you sure it’s only jackdaws?’

‘Yes,’ said the policeman. ‘Right nasty noise they make.’

‘I’m sorry to have troubled you, but I was so frightened. You see, someone tried the handle of my door last night.’

‘What time was this?’ asked the policeman.

‘About two o’clock this morning.’

‘You should have rung the bell then,’ he said severely.

Melissa put a hand up to her head. ‘I was so frightened, I couldn’t move. The only reason I found courage to ring that bell this morning was because it was daylight.’

Paul Sinclair appeared in the doorway. ‘What’s going on, Melissa?’

Melissa told him about the turning doorknob and the jackdaws.

Paul blushed. ‘Actually, I tried your door last night. I wanted to talk to you.’

‘At two in the morning?’ asked the policeman suspiciously.

‘I couldn’t sleep,’ said Paul defiantly, ‘and we
are
engaged to be married.’

Enrico straightened up from the fireplace. ‘I can prepare you an early breakfast if you would like.’

‘Oh, that would be nice,’ said Melissa, feeling a little surge of power, despite her recent distress, at being able to give orders to a servant. ‘Some scrambled eggs and coffee, Enrico, and what would you like, darling?’

‘Just toast and coffee,’ said Paul. ‘I’ll see you downstairs, Melissa. Won’t be long.’

After they had all gone, Melissa began to wash and dress. They would have servants, she thought. Perhaps a couple to live in. Not British. A couple of foreigners. Of course, only the terribly rich could afford servants, but Paul would be very rich if he did not give all that money away to his mother. Melissa’s soft lips moulded themselves into a hard line. Why should he? Why should Jan have everything? They could have a flat in town and perhaps a nice old farmhouse in the country. That
would
be nice. Chintz and beams, and put the car away, Costas, and tell Juanita to bring in the drinks for our guests. Yes, all that should be hers. And clothes like those worn by Priscilla. Expensive, subtle clothes. Real materials, silk and fine jersey wool and chiffon velvet. But seats at the theatre, a box, even. First nights. Little parties. Villa in the south of France. Send the servants ahead with the luggage and tell them to get things ready. Plane to Marseilles and Costas waiting with the white Rolls-Royce to run them along the coast to where their summer home was perched on a thyme-scented hill above the blue of the Mediterranean. Parents at the wedding …

The dream began to splinter. Mum and Dad would need to wear nice clothes and be very, very quiet so that no one could hear their accents. And smelly old Auntie Vera was definitely not coming. Hairbrush poised above her head, Melissa thought, why get married in church at all? Simple service in a registry office, brief visit home to Mum. Surprise, surprise. Got married. Isn’t it fun? So no embarrassment of working-class parents and relatives at the wedding. Yes, that was the way to do it. Now to get Paul to keep that money. Why should both of us work? If he loved her, he would surely rather please her than his mother. Give the old trout something, but not all.

Dreams of wealth were so rosy that they kept the fear engendered by the murders at bay and so the more highly coloured they became in Melissa’s mind.

She went down the stairs determined to start work on Paul right away.

Jeffrey Trent wandered into his nieces’ bedroom later that morning. ‘What a storm last night!’ he said. ‘I could hardly sleep.’

Betty was sitting at the dressing-table unrolling old-fashioned steel curlers from her head. Angela was sitting up in bed, reading
The Times
.

‘I slept through it all,’ said Betty to Jeffrey’s reflection in the mirror. ‘Are you still set on leaving Jan?’ she went on. ‘I mean, it does seem rather odd in someone of your age.’

‘Meaning I shall shortly die an unhappy man anyway? No, Betty, I plan to enjoy myself.’

Angela put down the paper. ‘I’ve often wondered why you married Jan in the first place. I liked your first wife, Pauline. Very sweet.’

‘She was all right,’ said Jeffrey, ‘but a bit frigid, if you must know. That was the attraction about Jan. She hooked me into bed half an hour after she had first met me.’

‘Jeffrey!’ Betty looked at him in distress.

‘Well, it’s the truth. Manipulating bitch that she was. Oh, it was a successful marriage right up until the money began to dry up. Now I’m going to get my revenge. It’s a pity I can’t talk Paul out of giving her any money.’

‘Talking about money,’ said Angela, ‘I do think it’s awful that Charles hasn’t got anything.’

‘I suppose we could give him some,’ said Betty. ‘What do you think, Jeffrey? I mean, we’re going to have millions each, aren’t we?’

‘Yes, even after death duties. I think I’ll give him something myself … and tell Jan.’

Angela looked uncomfortable. ‘You mustn’t be so spiteful. After all, you’re getting your freedom. Leave the woman alone. Why so bitter?’

‘You haven’t been married,’ said Jeffrey, ‘so you don’t know what it’s like to be sucked dry of money. That parasite deserves every pain I can give her.’

‘Jeffrey is being quite horrible,’ said Jan to her son. ‘He seems determined to ruin me.’

Paul pushed at the frame of his glasses with a nervous finger and looked owlishly at his mother. ‘You’d best get a divorce, and quickly,’ he said, ‘and then you’ll be shot of him. Why are you still sharing the same bedroom? Enrico could find you another.’

‘I’m not going to let him off easily,’ said Jan. ‘I’m going to make him pay and pay.’

‘If he beetles off to South America, as he’s threatening to do, you won’t be able to get anything out of him. Don’t worry. Haven’t I promised to give you my share?’

Jan’s eyes misted over with grateful tears. ‘You are the very best son any mother could have. What is it, Melissa? I didn’t see you standing there.’

‘I just wanted a word with Paul,’ said Melissa.

Paul took her hand. ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘We’re listening.’

‘In private, Paul.’

Paul smiled at his mother and then went out with Melissa, who led him upstairs to her bedroom. She locked the door behind him. ‘Just so that we’re not disturbed. The police have started their damned questions again.’

‘What do you want to talk to me about?’ asked Paul.

‘Well, it’s about us. You’ve asked me to marry you and yet we’ve never made love or anything.’

Paul blushed. ‘Plenty of time for that after we’re married.’

‘But you might kiss me or something like that.’ Melissa gently took off his glasses.

Paul, who was a virgin, was not destined to remain so. If anyone had told him that a bare quarter of an hour after kissing Melissa he would be lying in bed naked with her, he would not have believed them. But that was how it happened. Quick, sharp, clumsy, but most satisfying. He felt marvellous. He felt ten feet tall.

‘What do you say to a flat in town and a cottage in the country, somewhere near the research station, when we’re married?’ he realized Melissa was saying.

‘Take a lot of money for that,’ he said sleepily.

Melissa took his hand and laid it on her breast. ‘But you’ll have a lot of money,’ she pointed out.

He caressed her breast, marvelling at the smoothness of her skin. ‘Trouble is, I’ve promised Mother the lot.’

‘Now that’s silly,’ cooed Melissa. ‘I mean, she doesn’t need it all. A bit for her and the rest for us. That’s fair. You wouldn’t want to deprive our children of a good education.

‘Children,’ said Melissa softly. ‘Lots and lots of them and we may as well start now.’

She did a few ecstatic things to his body. Paul’s last thought before another wave of red passion crashed over his head was that his mother was not going to be very pleased.

At last he fell asleep, wrapped in her arms. Awake, Melissa stared at the ceiling and thought hard. It was not that she was mercenary, she told an imaginary Hamish Macbeth. It was just that if Paul was going to get all that money, why should she let him give it away? Like most women of low self-esteem, Melissa was like six characters in search of an author, always looking for a role to play to keep reality at bay. The new one was to be wife and mother. But
rich
wife and mother.

Hamish Macbeth and Priscilla were speeding down the A9 to Perth. ‘I feel a bit guilty about this,’ said Hamish. ‘It’s like a holiday. It’s like not having to go to school on exam day.’

‘We might find out something,’ said Priscilla. ‘Thank goodness, they haven’t had the snow down here as bad as we did in Sutherland.’

‘I’ve never asked you,’ said Hamish curiously, ‘what you think of being stuck in Lochdubh all year round. I mean, you used to go off to London for most of the year.’

‘Oh, I like it. It suits me. It was a bit of a shock at first, I mean having to live permanently in an hotel. It’s not as if we ever close down. But ever since Mr Johnson took over as manager, things have been much easier. Daddy’s had the architects in. We’re going to build a gift shop next to the hotel and I’m going to run it. No tourist trash. I’m going to have all the best Scottish stuff I can find. After all, the sort of guests we have can afford to pay for the best. I can always go and stay with a friend in London if I feel I want a break from Sutherland.’

‘It was just what Charles Trent said started me thinking. I mean, your father’s English.’

‘Never let him hear you say that,’ said Priscilla in mock horror. ‘He’s ordered a kilt – evening dress. He says the guests will like it. What do you think of them all at Arrat House the further away you get from it?’

Hamish gave a groan. ‘They all seem quite ordinary. Now if old Mr Trent had been alive and someone else had been killed, I would point to him and say, “There’s your murderer.” I mean, you have to be wrong in the head to want to go on playing awful jokes like that and know everyone hates you for it.’

‘I wonder if he did know,’ said Priscilla. ‘There’s Blair Atholl Castle. Not far to go now. I mean, everyone toadied to him in a way. Look, no snow here at all and the sun is shining. Another world.’

Hamish took out notes he had made on the case and studied them until Priscilla drove into Perth. ‘We’ll start with the hospital,’ said Priscilla. ‘Have you got Charles Trent’s date of birth?’

‘Yes, he told Anderson it was November 5, l964.’

The main hospital had no record of a Charles Trent or in fact a Charles anything having been born at the right time. Adoption societies seemed to be housed in the larger towns like Aberdeen, Edinburgh and Glasgow.

‘This is a waste of time,’ said Hamish. ‘All this way on a wild-goose chase.’

‘Let’s have lunch,’ said Priscilla, ‘and find out what to do next.’