by M C Beaton
“Shut up, you silly cow,” raged Sir Bernard and strode off.
Ever the professional despite her distress, Maria made a mental note that she would need to pay the hotel bills for Deborah and Sir Bernard, for they certainly weren’t going to make a match of it.
Nor did it look as if Mary French and Matthew Cowper were going to be much of a success either, for Mary said, “I always think murders are done by very common people from places like Birmingham or Liverpool,” and Matthew, who was from Birmingham originally, said nastily, “I should think someone like you would murder someone without thinking twice about it. It’s all that school-teaching. Gives people a power complex.” And Mary bridled and edged away from him.
John Taylor was reading a newspaper. He looked much older and his thin hands, freckled with liver spots, trembled as he held the paper. He was beginning to think the whole idea of Checkmate had been brought on by a brainstorm. He longed to see his son and daughter again, whatever they thought of him. He no longer wanted to marry anyone, he had never really wanted to marry anyone, only he had been so hurt and so vengeful. He felt as he had done all those years ago at his first day at boarding-school, when he had felt lost and alone and surrounded by threatening strangers.
He went into the bar for a drink, but that local policeman was sitting in a corner with Priscilla and he didn’t want to be anywhere near policemen until he had to face that interview. He felt that the police should really not dare interview such an eminent lawyer as himself.
♦
“Take me through it from the beginning, Priscilla,” Hamish was saying. “Start where you first met this lot and go on.”
So Priscilla told him about the unexpected arrival of Peta and her niece, the dreadful dinner, and then, after Peta had retired to her room, how Maria had told everyone that she had tried to buy Peta out but Peta wouldn’t be bought and how she had offered to pay the hotel bill for any client who was not hitched by the end of the week.
“She can’t expect any one of them to get hitched on such short acquaintance,” protested Hamish.
“I think she really meant if they had not found anyone whom they wanted to meet again after this visit. That’s really the way it works. Follow-up visits are usually organized through the agency as well, because the agency can always step in and break off a relationship if one of the parties wants it terminated.”
“And how do you know so much about it?” asked Hamish suspiciously.
“I’ve got a friend in London who did the round of the agencies. Actually, she found herself a very suitable husband. Wait a minute, there’s something else…something very important. I have it! I was serving coffee in the lounge and John Taylor said that someone in the group reminded him of someone he had seen once in court.”
“Did he say who?”
“No, he couldn’t remember.”
“Need to check that out. Perhaps ma cousin in London, the one on the newspapers, can dig something up because Blair is going to pass on as little information to me as he can. Go on.”
“There’s not much else that you don’t know yourself. Except they were pairing off satisfactorily, that is, Matthew Cowper with Mary French, Deborah Freemantle with Sir Bernard, and Peter Trumpington with Jessica Fitt, up till they made that visit to the theatre. Everyone came back a bit edgy and cross. I noticed that. Everyone seemed to have gone off everyone, or perhaps it was just Sir Bernard and Deborah and Matthew and Mary.”
“I think I know the reason for that,” said Hamish and told her about Peta’s millions.
“Oh, dear, then it must be Crystal. She’s the only one who stood to gain anything out of this.”
“Perhaps. What do you make of her?”
“Crystal? Well, there doesn’t seem to be much to understand. Beautiful in an over-made-up way. Doesn’t dress like a lady, if that’s not too old-fashioned a comment, but more like Eurotrash, the kind who go to wild parties in Paris before they all move on to the south of France, and who end up marrying an ugly millionaire, not for his money, but for his power. The Crystals of this world like autocrats. Would she kill her aunt? I don’t see why. I can tell you, those skimpy tarty clothes of hers cost a small fortune, so her family must be well off.”
“I’ll need to check up on Sean,” sighed Hamish. “I covered up about the cat, but he was heard threatening her, for Archie told me. I’ll try to keep that incident quiet, but if Sean did it or even proves to have a bad criminal record, I’ll need to tell Blair. Why on earth didn’t Johnson check him out?”
“Sean arrived just as that last chef we had walked out. Mr Johnson started him in the kitchen right away on trial and he cooked like a dream, so Mr Johnson was not going to question this gift from the gods at the beginning of the busy season.”
“Keep your ear to the ground,” said Hamish, “and tell me if you can find anything out. That girl, Jenny, told me she felt there was someone mad in the group. She said she sensed it.”
“And when did she say this?”
“She came down to the police station earlier this week.”
“When will you ever learn, Hamish! The little drip made that up to get your attention.”
“Flattering of you to say so, but there might be something in it. Well, I’d best be off and phone my cousin.”
When Hamish walked outside, a forensic team were supervising the loading of the hotel’s Volvo on to a truck. “That was quick,” said Hamish to one of them. “You matched the tyre tracks.”
“Aye,” said the man he had spoken to, “but a fat lot of good it’ll do us. The car was left out in thon storm with the sunroof and the windows all open and the manager here tells me it was soaked and so he got a couple of maids to clean it out thoroughly. I doubt if we’ll get anything from it now.”
“Could it have been left out deliberately?”
“Could hae been. But it was some silly wee lassie, so Johnson says.”
Hamish watched until the car on the back of the truck moved off and went to the police Land Rover. Jenny Trask was sitting in the passenger seat, her face white in the gloom.
“What do you want?” asked Hamish crossly. It had been a long day and he was anxious to get home.
“Why have they taken that car away?” asked Jenny.
“Because that was the car that Peta or her murderer drove up to the quarry.”
“Oh, God.” Jenny put her face in her hands and began to cry.
Hamish sat patiently until her sobs had subsided and then said, “You were the one that left it out in the rain?”
Jenny gulped and nodded.
“That’s no great crime,” he said gently. “Why and when did you take the car out?”
“It was late this morning,” said Jenny tremulously. “I went down to the police station to look for you and you weren’t there. So…so I went into the bar and this man bought me a drink and we got talking. His name is Brian Mulligan.”
“Big Irish chap, works for the forestry?”
Jenny nodded. “I’ll be glad when that one moves on,” said Hamish. “He’s a devil with the women.”
“We drank a lot. He seemed so nice and friendly and so we went back to the hotel and had drinks in the bar and then…and then…I took him up to my room.”
“Aren’t you the shy one,” said Hamish cynically.
“It wasn’t me. It was the drink! And this weird place. I heard the storm but I forgot about the car. Mr Johnson came up to give me a telling off about the car and found me in bed with Brian and now he’ll tell the police.”
“So? You’re free and single. Johnson’s a wee bit strait-laced, but don’t let that worry you.”
“I feel so ashamed,” whispered Jenny. “You must think I’m a slut.”
“No, of course I don’t. Look, you told me the other night that you thought one of the party was mad. Did you mean that?”
“I did at the time,” said Jenny, “but now I’m not so sure. It was the heat, you see, and then…up here, you don’t feel you’re in Br
itain…like being in a foreign country. I think…I think that’s why I went to bed with Brian. I felt so far away from London, so far away from the conventions.”
Hamish looked at her gloomily. He reflected that she was the kind of nice girl who nonetheless gave British girls such a poor name on the Continent. She belonged to the kind who travelled to, say, Greece, and ended up in bed with a hotel waiter the first night of arrival, liberated by drink and by being so far from home.
“Take my advice,” he said, “and tell Blair about the car. You don’t need to tell him about Mulligan. It’s not as if you need an alibi for that time. I’ll hae a wee word with Mr Johnson.”
“Oh, thank you, Hamish.” Jenny threw her arms about him and planted a wet kiss on his cheek.
Through the windscreen he could see the pale blur of a face at one of the castle windows looking down on them, a face with the shine of blonde hair above. Priscilla!
“Off you go,” he said severely, leaning across her and opening the passenger door.
He drove down to Lochdubh, feeling cross. Why should he care whether Priscilla saw him or not?
He completed his chores and then phoned his cousin, Rory Grant, who worked as a reporter on a London newspaper.
“Hamish! Do you have to call in the middle of the night?” groaned Rory.
“I’m sorry to wake you up,” began Hamish.
“You didn’t wake me up. I’ve just come in after taking one of my colleagues to the funny farm. It’s amazing how people can go stark-raving bonkers on a newspaper and no one notices until they start to eat the carpet or something. That’s the trouble about jobs that encourage eccentrics. So what’s happened? Another murder?”
“Aye, and I’ve some names here for you to check. You do that for me and I’ll give your rag first bite of the cherry when we get the murderer.” He briefly outlined the case and gave Rory a list of the suspects.
After he had put the phone down, he prepared himself for bed, turning over the case in his mind. Would it take someone powerful to hold Peta down and jam an apple in her mouth? Not necessarily. She was such a huge woman that she would flounder like a beached whale.
Rain pattered against the bedroom window and the wind howled down the loch outside. The halcyon days of summer were over, although it was still August. Winter came early in the far north.
He cursed Peta in his heart for having brought death to his village. If ever a woman had been begging to be murdered, that woman was Peta Gore!
∨ Death of a Glutton ∧
6
Dawn to Gehenna or up to the Throne,
He travels the fastest who travels alone.
—Rudyard Kipling
Another day dawned wet and windy. The members of Checkmate were turned out of their rooms, which had already been searched but which were to be searched again. The typewritten note supposed to have come from Peta had not been typed on any machine at the hotel. But Crystal volunteered that her aunt had had a portable typewriter which was missing, along with Peta’s luggage.
The day’s questioning began with Deborah Freemantle. Blair thought she was a jolly and friendly type and not at all stuck up like any of the others, that was, until she eagerly told him that she read a lot of detective stories and would like to help him solve the case.
Biting down on his bad temper, Blair said heavily, “There isnae a detective story on the market which bears any relation tae real life.”
“Oh, really,” said Deborah brightly, “you don’t look like the sort of man who reads anything.” She had not meant to be bitchy, it was meant as a straightforward observation, but she plunged even lower in Blair’s opinion.
Nevertheless, he took her through her movements on the evening Peta had died with a certain amount of civility. Blair saved the worst of his bullying for the lower classes. “I went out for a walk,” said Deborah. “I went over to the stables to see if they had any horses, but they didn’t have any. I met one of the gamekeepers, and he said Priscilla used to have a horse but it died some time ago and that the colonel was thinking of turning the stables into guest rooms.”
“Do you know the gamekeeper’s name?”
“No, but he was small with close-set eyes and red hair. He was wearing…” Deborah was just getting into her lady-detective act when Hamish interrupted. “That’d be Dougie.”
“Aye, we’ll see him later. Now what can you tell us about the others, Miss Freemantle?”
“Gosh! That’s a tall order. Crystal’s an empty-headed type and I don’t think she thinks of much other than clothes. I don’t think she particularly disliked her aunt. Mary French terrifies me.”
Blair looked at her alertly. “Why?”
Deborah giggled. “She’s just like my old form mistress. A real terror.”
Blair frowned. “Go on. John Taylor.”
“Dry old stick. Bit of a bore. Prissy. Couldn’t murder a fly.”
“Jessica Fitt?”
“Oh, her. Dreary.” Deborah leaned forward. “It’s my opinion that Peter Trumpington has an Oedipus complex.”
“Whit’s that, in the name?”
“A man who loves his mother or women who remind him of his mother,” said Deborah loftily.
“Spare me the psychology,” groaned Blair. “Maria Worth?”
“Oh, she’s nice. I mean, what you see is what you get. She wanted rid of Peta, but she wouldn’t kill her.”
“Sir Bernard Grant?”
Hamish saw Deborah’s normally cheerful face harden. “One of those ruthless business types. He could have paid someone to bump her off.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s what that kind of man does!”
“Miss Freemantle,” said Hamish, “on the day of the boat trip you were holding hands with Sir Bernard. Why the change of heart?”
Deborah blushed, an ugly blotchy-red blush. “He was begging me to marry him, but of course Mummy and Daddy would not be pleased. He’s too old and a bit common.”
“Isn’t your change of heart because Sir Bernard was pursuing Peta the minute he learned she was worth three million and you felt your nose had been put out of joint?” pursued Hamish.
“Well, really, what an insane idea!” spluttered Deborah. “You should leave the questioning to your superiors. You do not have the experience for a murder inquiry.”
Blair gave her a more tolerant look. “Aye, well, we’ll be talking to you again later. Send Mr Taylor in.”
“Before you talk to Mr Taylor,” said Hamish quickly, “at the beginning of his visit, he said something about having seen one of the party before, and in court, too, but he could not remember which one.”
“We should know which one for ourselves soon,” said Blair, trying to look uninterested. “The backgrounds on this lot should be coming over the fax soon.”
John Taylor came in and sat down quietly. “I believe,” said Blair, “that you said earlier that you knew one of the party had been in court. Can you tell us which one?”
“No,” said John. “It was just an impression. I have attended so many cases. Probably wrong.”
His legs were crossed and his hands were clasped on one knee. Hamish noticed them tighten as he said this and wondered whether he really had recognized the person.
Blair asked him about his movements on the night of Peta’s death and John said he had gone to bed. He was feeling his years.
“I have to ask you this, sir,” said Blair in a grovelling voice because lawyers terrified him, particularly top-ranking English ones, “why does a gentleman like yourself employ the services of Checkmate?”
“That is simple,” said John. “I am getting on in years. My children left home long ago and are now married with families of their own. I am lonely. I am too old to start dating and it is hard for me to find the right kind of female.”
“Who had Maria chosen for you?” interposed Hamish quickly.
“That schoolteacher, Mary French. Most unsuitable.”
“She certainly is c
onsiderably younger than you,” said Hamish.
“That kind of woman was born looking old,” said John drily.
“But,” protested Hamish, who had sneaked a look at Maria’s files before the questioning began, “you said you wanted a woman of child-bearing years. Why?”
“Such information,” said John angrily, “is confidential, and Checkmate undertook never to reveal any of it.”
“They weren’t expecting a murder case,” said Hamish patiently. “Why?”
John Taylor took a deep breath. Oh, what had ever persuaded him to become a client of Checkmate!
“I am not going to tell you,” he said in measured tones, “because it has no bearing on the case. The information in my file must be kept secret from the press, otherwise I will sue Checkmate, and you, too, for breaking confidentiality. Do I make myself clear?”
He had risen to his feet as he said this and looked formidable.
“Now, now,” said Blair in a wheedling tone, “you mustn’t pay any attention to our local bobby, sir. That’ll be all for now.”
When John Taylor had walked out, Blair rounded on Hamish.
“That’s a Queen’s Counsel, you daft pillock. Ye cannae go around asking cheeky questions.”
“The job of a good policeman,” said Hamish primly, “is to ask cheeky questions. He was lying.”
“Havers. Send the next one in, Anderson.”
Peter Trumpington was next. He said that, yes, he had watched a French movie with Jessica. The only reason he could think that someone might have killed Peta was because of sheer disgust. “You didn’t see her,” he said to Blair. “Mealtimes were a nightmare.”
Sir Bernard was next. He said he had gone out for a walk. He was asked whether he had been paying court to Peta and he said frankly it had crossed his mind to try his luck because three million pounds was not to be sneezed at.
“And was that why Miss Freemantle became angry with you?” asked Hamish.