Death of a Prankster (4 page)

Jan got up. ‘What a nightmare this is,’ she said half to herself. ‘The old fool shows no signs of dying. I could kill him myself and not suffer one qualm of conscience. Oh, why am I wasting time with a Communist prig?’

She went out and slammed the door behind her.

Melissa sat down abruptly, feeling sick and shaken.

‘Did
you
cut up Titchy’s dresses?’ Betty was asking.

‘I didn’t cut them up,’ said Angela gruffly. ‘Just opened up the seams. She can stitch them up easily enough with a needle and thread.’

‘W-e-l-l-l,’ breathed Betty in reluctant admiration. ‘I wouldn’t have guessed you’d have had the backbone. All that mannish talk of yours is usually empty bluster, sister dear.’

‘You nasty ferret,’ said Angela. ‘I’m going down for a nightcap. All you can do in life is back-seat drive, Betty. It’s all you’ve ever done. Point out everyone else’s faults but never look at your own. If anyone in this house had any guts, they’d put dear Dad out of our misery for once and for all.’

‘Words, words, words,’ jeered Betty.

Titchy joined the others over the drinks tray in the drawing room to warm up a bit after her talk with Charles. Everyone kept saying good night and then coming back in. Jan approached Mr Trent and whispered to him. Then her place was taken by Jeffrey, who had a low-voiced conversation with his brother. Then Angela. Then Betty. Charles watched them all. Mr Trent rose to his feet and hobbled to the door. Charles made a half-move towards him, then shrugged and helped himself to another drink. Angela and Betty said good night and went out together. Jan and Jeffrey followed them. Then, ten minutes later, Angela returned, saying moodily she would like to wring Betty’s neck, and sat down by the fire. Melissa had finished her packing and joined Paul, who was drinking whisky. He said something to her and shot out of the room, to return some fifteen minutes later. It’s like a French farce, thought Melissa, people coming and going.

At last she decided she had better get some sleep. She went up to her room and carefully felt the end of the bed. There was a lump. She put her hand under the covers and drew out a stuffed hedgehog, and with an exclamation of disgust she opened the window and threw it out into the snow. She set her alarm for six o’clock – she had agreed to meet Paul downstairs at six-thirty – and then got ready for bed.

Titchy, too, went to her room. She was feeling much better. She had discovered her dresses only needed restitching. It was a pity about Charles. He was the nicest, handsomest man she knew, but there was no future in marrying him.

She went to the large Victorian wardrobe to get out her clothes and pack them ready for her escape in the morning. As she swung open the door, a body wearing a monster mask and with a large knife stuck in its chest fell towards her. Trembling, she leaped back and then she stared down at the horror in disgust. Frightful Mr Trent had played his last trick on her. After tomorrow, she would never see Charles or any of his dreadful relatives again. She stepped over the figure and took her clothes down from their hangers and then carried them to the bed and packed them all neatly in one large suitcase. She had a leisurely bath and then climbed into bed.

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.

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.

‘You’d better show me where he was killed,’ said Hamish. ‘Who found the body?’

‘Titchy Gold.’

Hamish turned to Enrico, ‘Get her and bring her along.’

Jeffrey led the way upstairs to Titchy’s bedroom. Hamish stood in the doorway and looked into the room. The bed was made up, the wardrobe door closed, and the air smelled of some sort of cleaner.

He turned in amazement to Enrico, who had returned quietly after summoning Titchy. ‘Don’t tell me, just don’t tell me, that you’ve cleaned this room.’

‘Maria did it,’ said Enrico. ‘There was blood on the carpet. She could not leave a mess like that.’

‘You,’ said Hamish, ‘are in bad trouble, and if the chief inspector does not charge you with interfering in a murder investigation, you can count yourself lucky.’

Enrico looked unmoved. ‘Here’s Titchy,’ said Jeffrey.

Titchy Gold and Hamish Macbeth surveyed each other. Titchy threw him a tremulous smile, thinking he was quite nice-looking with those hazel eyes and that fiery red hair.

Hamish thought Titchy looked as if she had stepped down from one of the calendars usually hung in motor repair shops. She was wearing a brief tight scarlet leather skirt with a transparent white blouse, seamed stockings and very high-heeled red shoes. Her dyed blonde hair was piled on top of her head, apart from a few artistic wisps. Her face was beautifully made up with a small lascivious mouth painted pink and false eyelashes shading bright blue eyes.

‘Miss Gold, before I take your official statement, just tell me briefly what happened.’

Titchy shuddered. ‘I found the body when I opened the wardrobe last night. It just fell out. He – Mr Trent – had played a joke on me before where a dummy with a knife in it fell out of that wardrobe. I was fed up. I was getting out of here somehow. So I just left the body lying where it was and went to bed. It was when I awoke in the morning that I thought there was something funny about it and … and … I took off the mask … and …’

She dabbed at her eyes. Hamish looked at her narrowly. He sensed that Titchy was excited about something rather than shocked or frightened.

‘I’m going to lock this room,’ said Hamish to Jeffrey, ‘in the hope that there’s something left for forensic to examine. While we wait for the team to arrive from Strathbane, I may as well take preliminary statements. Is there a room I can use?’

‘The library,’ offered Jeffrey. ‘It’s got a desk.’

‘Very well. Lead the way.’

As they were going down the stairs, a thin elegant woman darted up to Jeffrey and seized him by the arm. ‘It’s Paul,’ she cried, waving a letter. ‘He’s gone off with that girl. What are we …’ Her voice trailed away as she saw Hamish.

‘Your son Paul Sinclair and Miss Clarke have left,’ said Hamish. ‘What does he say in that letter? You are Mrs Jeffrey Trent, I gather.’

Jan clutched the letter to her bosom.

‘It’s private,’ she gasped. ‘Private correspondence.’

Hamish held out his hand. ‘Nothing is private in a murder investigation, Mrs Trent. Hand it over.’

Jan looked wildly at her husband, who shrugged. Reluctantly she gave the letter to Hamish. It said:

Hamish put the letter in his pocket. ‘Now for the library,’ he said. ‘First I’ve got to make a phone call. Mr Trent, give me a description of Mr Sinclair and Miss Clarke.’

‘No,’ wailed Jan.

‘He’ll need to be brought back,’ said Jeffrey quietly. ‘Don’t make things worse.’ He turned to Hamish. ‘Paul is about six feet tall, fair hair, horn-rimmed glasses, twenty-five. I don’t know what he’s wearing, but probably something suitable for skiing. Melissa Clarke is about a couple of years younger, five feet six inches, pink hair, protest student-demo clothes.’

‘Right!’ Hamish picked up the phone and got through to the Inverness police and gave them a description of Paul and Melissa, saying that they might be found at the railway station waiting for a train south.

‘Now,’ said Hamish, sitting behind the desk which was placed at the window, ‘I’ll start with you, Mr Trent. Mrs Trent, I will see you later.’ Jan looked as if she would have liked to protest, but Jeffrey pointedly held the door open for her.

‘It’s a bad business,’ sighed Jeffrey. ‘It can’t be any of us. Probably some maniac got in from outside.’

Hamish studied Jeffrey for a long moment. Jeffrey was a grey man – grey hair, grey suit, greyish complexion. He showed no signs of grief.

‘First of all,’ said Hamish, ‘why are you all gathered here at this time of year? I mean, it’s not Christmas or Easter or the summer holidays.’

‘Andrew wrote to us all and said he was dying,’ said Jeffrey in a dry precise voice. ‘We should have known it was a lie. But we all came. Of course he wasn’t even ill.’

‘Did he upset anyone particularly during this visit?’

‘He played his nasty jokes on all of us. I think perhaps that actress, Titchy Gold, was the worst affected.’ He told Hamish in detail of the original body-in-the-wardrobe trick, of Titchy’s reaction to the headless knight. ‘Then she decided to flirt with him and the silly old goat fell for it. That was until, for some crazy reason, he decided to open up the seams in her best dresses. She went for him. He swore he didn’t do it and he didn’t find it funny, so perhaps he didn’t.’

‘Do you know the terms of your brother’s will?’

‘No, I do not. I know the name of the firm of solicitors in Inverness that he used – Bright, Norton and Jiggs.’

‘Is it correct to assume that the bulk of his fortune would go to Charles, his adopted son? In Scotland, the man is always favoured in wills, even over real daughters.’

‘No, he detested Charles. He may have left it all to the cats’ home as one last and great joke on the lot of us.’

‘Until the body is examined by the pathologist, we do not know the time of death. But if the body fell out on Titchy before she went to bed, and that was around midnight, and he had last been seen in the drawing room at eleven o’clock, then it seems safe to assume he was killed between eleven and midnight. Where were you during that hour, Mr Trent?’

‘I? You surely don’t think I would kill my own brother?’

Hamish waited patiently.

‘Well, let me see. I had drinks with the others in the drawing room. People kept coming and going. I myself went out to the library for a bit. I think it was just after Andrew went up to bed that Jan and I decided to retire.’

‘Was anyone missing from the drawing room for a long time?’

‘Titchy and Charles. They went outside, I mean outside the house, for a private talk.’

‘A full statement will be taken from you shortly. I’m just getting a few facts sorted out,’ said Hamish. ‘Would you send in the servants?’

After a few minutes Enrico and Maria appeared. Maria’s eyes were red with weeping. ‘Name?’ Hamish asked Enrico.

‘Santos. Enrico Santos, and this is my wife, Maria.’

‘How long have you worked for Mr Trent?’

‘Fifteen years. Both of us.’

‘How did you find your way up here to the north of Scotland?’

‘We were working in a restaurant in London,’ said Enrico in his careful and precise English. ‘It was owned by my father-in-law. We did not get on. Maria cannot have children and yet he blamed me. I saw an advertisement for a couple in
The Lady
magazine and we answered it. So we came to live with Mr Trent.’

‘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 Senora 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.