by M C Beaton
She was sleeping in a double bed. “Damn,” she said and flung herself restlessly to the other side of the bed just as something heavy swept down with vicious force and struck the pillow where her head had been only a moment before. She could feel the wind of it. She rolled on to the floor and under the bed, screaming loudly as she went, huge, great rending screams. She heard footsteps hurrying out.
She crouched mere, knees drawn up to her chin, screaming ‘Help me, help me’ over and over again.
Priscilla ran to the turret steps. She pressed the light switch at the bottom of the stairs but the light did not come on. In a blind panic, she ran straight up to Deborah’s room and clawed at the switch by the door. “Thank God,” she muttered as the room was flooded with bright electric light.
She knelt down beside the bed and shouted over the noise of Deborah’s screaming, “It’s all right. It’s me…Priscilla. It’s all right!”
Deborah slowly crawled out, babbling, “Someone tried to kill me.”
Priscilla helped her to her feet and put an arm about her shoulders.
“It must have been a nightmare,” she said soothingly. “It must – ”
She broke off and stared at the bed. Deborah stared too and then began to scream again.
Feathers were floating in the draughty air of the tower room. And lying on the bed was a meat cleaver which had struck the pillow with such force that it had split it in half.
∨ Death of a Glutton ∧
7
Sweet is revenge – especially to women.
—Lord Byron
Hamish answered the phone and listened in alarm as he heard of the attack on Deborah. “And I know why it happened,” added Priscilla.
“Why?”
“I’ll tell you when you get here, Hamish, but if you had not decided to play the Lone Ranger and had answered the door when I called this evening, we wouldn’t be in this fix.”
When Hamish arrived at Tommel Castle, it was to find them all gathered in the lounge, along with the hotel servants and Mr Johnson, the manager, who greeted him with words to the effect that Sean had been locked in his room.
Hamish then listened to what had nearly happened to Deborah and phoned Strathbane and reported an attempted murder.
He went back to the lounge and his eyes fell on Priscilla. “Before I see Sean, Priscilla,” he said, “you’d best explain how it is you know why this attempt on Miss Freemantle’s life took place.”
Priscilla explained about the ‘saw you’ game, adding that as Deborah had tried it out on her, she had no doubt tried it out on everyone else.
“Is that right?” Hamish asked Deborah. “Were you playing a game?”
“You didn’t think Mary had done it,” said Deborah tearfully, “and so I thought I would help a bit. I mean, if someone else was guilty and I startled them, he or she might betray themselves…or so I thought.”
“I won’t waste time at the moment with lecturing you on playing a spiteful and dangerous game,” said Hamish. “I know you’ve had a terrible shock. Dr Brodie will be here shortly to look after you and give you a sedative, but right now you are going to have to pull yourself together and tell me what reactions you got. Now, first, Sean, the cook.”
“It must have been him,” said Deborah through white lips.
“Why?”
“I said to him, ‘I saw you do it’, and he raised his meat cleaver and said he would shut my mouth for me and I ran away.”
“And that wasn’t enough to persuade you to drop it?” marvelled Hamish. “Did you approach Maria Worth?”
“Yes, I said something like I knew there was something she should be telling the police and she looked awfully guilty.”
“Did you look guilty?” Hamish asked Maria.
“I suppose I did,” said Maria. “There certainly is something I forgot to tell the police. Before Peta was discovered dead, I went to her room to make sure she really had gone. Everything appeared to have been packed up except her sponge-bag, which was hanging from one of the taps in the bathroom. I took it and put it in my room and then forgot about it. I really did, until Deborah’s question reminded me. I’ll get it for you now.”
She went out. “Next?” asked Hamish.
“Matthew Cowper, he looked terribly guilty,” said Deborah.
Matthew had his story ready. “I’d gone down one night, looking for a drink,” he said. “With all the fuss, they’d forgotten to put the grille down over the bar. I took a bottle of Scotch. I’d forgotten to tell Johnson or to replace it until Deborah played her silly trick on me and I thought that must be what she meant.”
“So you took the whole bottle of Scotch up to your room and drank the lot?”
“No, of course not. I’m not a drunk. There was plenty left in the morning.”
“And yet that didn’t remind you to tell Johnson or the barman you had taken the bottle? Pay him now. If this wasn’t a murder inquiry, I would seriously think of charging you with theft.”
“Miss Freemantle, who else seemed guilty?”
Deborah was recovering from her fright and even beginning to enjoy being the centre of attention. “Jenny, Miss Trask,” she said eagerly. “She was in such a state, she threatened to wring my neck.”
“You know what I thought she meant,” cried Jenny. “You know, Hamish.”
“And that’s all it was?” asked Hamish, remembering the forestry worker.
“I swear.”
“Okay, next?”
Deborah said defiantly, “Sir Bernard looked mad as anything.”
“Sir Bernard?”
“She said something about being glad she hadn’t married me because of what I did. I thought she was bitching on about my interest in Peta. To be quite frank, I don’t come out of that looking very good, but the thought of those millions got to me.”
“Mr Taylor?”
“I didn’t know what she was talking about, so I told her not to be so silly.”
“Miss Fitt?”
“It was only after she had gone that I realized I had nothing to feel guilty about. But I’m one of those people who feel guilty about anything. Everything in the whole wide world is my fault,” said Jessica.
“And Mr Trumpington?”
“I thought she’d overheard me talking to Maria,” mumbled Peter.
“I’m afraid I must know what you said,” prompted Hamish.
“Why?” put in Jessica fiercely. “If Jenny can keep her secret, so can Peter. Take him outside and ask him there.”
“It’s all right,” said Peter, taking her hands in his. “The fact is, I told Maria I thought we’d make a pretty good pair. Stupid way to propose, isn’t it?”
Jessica’s grey face became suffused with colour and her eyes shone. It was her one moment of beauty. She clasped his hand tightly.
“The police from Strathbane will soon be here,” said Hamish. “I will go and question the cook. Then I will return and take statements from you one after another, if they have not arrived by the time I’m through with the cook.”
Mr Johnson led him to the cook’s bedroom and unlocked the door.
“I’ll be all right,” said Hamish. “Go and ask the staff if they saw anyone on the tower stair and if there is any sign of that missing light bulb. Priscilla said the light would not come on, so I suppose someone removed it.”
Sean was sitting crouched on the end of his bed. He was fully dressed.
“Now, Sean,” said Hamish severely, “I’m not going to be able to keep quiet about that cat anymore. You threatened to kill Peta. You threatened to kill Deborah Freemantle and, lo and behold, someone takes your meat cleaver and does just that. I suppose it is your meat cleaver?”
“Aye, it’s gone,” said Sean wearily. “Johnson took me to look for it when ah got back frae the village.”
Hamish’s eyes sharpened. “Back from the village?”
“I wus down fur a wee dram wi’ Dougie, the gamekeeper.”
“Where?”
; “The bar. There wus a lot in, so they kep’ it open late.”
“When did you get back?”
“Dougie waud know. It was himself that ran me back. I came in the door and Johnson grabs me and drags me off to the kitchen yelling about the meat cleaver. It’s gone, so he says ah’ve tae stay in my room till the polis comes.”
Hamish wondered why he should feel so relieved that this unlovely cook had an alibi. Probably for Priscilla’s sake, he decided after a moment’s reflection.
“As long as you’ve got witnesses to say you weren’t in the castle, you should be all right.” Hamish looked down at him thoughtfully. “How bad was the attack on your wife?”
“Oh, her, broke her jaw.”
“Why? Were you drunk, man?”
“Naw, ah fixed the Sunday dinner. Sole a l’ltalienne, it wus.”
“And?”
“The silly cow looks at it and says, “Whaur’s the ketchup?” So I let her have it.”
“Your last job, I remember from your file, was at the Glasgow Queen. Why did you leave?”
Sean stared at the floor.
“Out wi’ it. I’ll find out anyway.”
“The boss’s missus – we called her auld tattie-heid – says ah was spending too much time ower the soups. Ah says they had to thicken and she says ah was tae thicken them up wi’ cornflour. Sacrilege, that! I telt her she wus a greasy penny-pinching auld whore.”
“Oh, my. Look, Sean, when this is over, if it iss ever over, you should watch that tongue o’ yours. You’ve got a comfy billet here and Johnson’s a good man. You can stay in here until Blair arrives, for I cannae trust you not to do something stupid like running away.”
He went out and locked the door and pocketed the key.
He found Priscilla and asked her to lead him to the tower stair.
He peered up at the empty light-bulb socket. It was above where he stood on a half-landing and could easily be reached by someone of normal height.
“I’ll need to search for that light bulb,” he said. “If, say, a light bulb goes dead in one of the guest’s rooms, do they ask you for a replacement?”
“Not usually,” said Priscilla. “There are spare light bulbs in all the rooms in the shelf under the bedside table.”
“Show me, but not Deborah’s room. That’d better be left alone till the forensic team arrives.”
Priscilla led the way along the narrow corridor below the tower room. “Here’s an unoccupied guest room,” she said, opening the door. “In fact, Hamish, there are going to be a lot of unoccupied guest rooms next week. Cancellations have been coming in. This has hit us hard. Oh, why didn’t you answer the door when I called? If I’d told you what Deborah was up to, you might have thought it worthwhile coming back to the castle with me to warn her.”
“You might haff warned her yourself,” said Hamish stiffly. He went into the room. Three 60-watt light bulbs lay in their packets on the ledge under the top of the bedside table.
“Three in each room?” he asked.
“No, sometimes two, sometimes one, sometimes four. It varies.”
“Wait a minute, if someone wanted to hide the light bulb taken out of the tower stair, they couldn’t just leave it lying alongside the packets.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, but they could. Often there are empty packets, or packets with used light bulbs in them. Some guests put in a new light bulb and put the old one in the packet and then replace it with the others. Or they simply throw the old light bulb into the wastepaper basket. But a used light bulb would not be a sign of guilt.”
“Damn. Damn this whole case. There’s something wrong, something nagging at the back of my mind, something someone said.”
He went back to the lounge and began to question the guests again, where they had been at the time Deborah was attacked. They all said they had been in their bedrooms but had no witnesses and, apart from Sean, no one had an alibi.
The contingent from Strathbane arrived headed by Superintendent Peter Daviot, who looked tired and cross. Jimmy Anderson took Hamish aside and explained that Mary French had called for a lawyer immediately she had arrived in Strathbane. Mr Daviot had sat in on the questioning and it had soon transpired that Blair had not a shred of evidence against her. Her lawyer pointed out that a ‘mercy killing’ in the past was no proof that she had anything to do with the murder of Peta Gore, who, until this visit north, had been a complete stranger to her. And Mary French was out for blood, threatening to sue for damages. “She’ll be back in today,” said Jimmy ruefully. “I wish she had done it, for she’s a nasty piece o’ work.”
Hamish was called into the library by Mr Daviot. He gave the superintendent a brief summary of what had happened. “I also had to interview Matthew Cowper as to his movements on the night of the murder,” added Hamish, not without a tinge of malice. “He appears to have been overlooked in all the excitement.”
Blair gave Hamish a lowering look but remained silent.
“While the forensic team search all their rooms again,” said Mr Daviot, “we had best have them in again, one after another. One of them’s a killer, and we are going to stay here until we find out.”
The members of Checkmate and Crystal found Mr Daviot’s questioning worse than Blair’s. Blair was so rude and angry, one could always react and hit back. But Mr Daviot went on and on persistently, question after question, seemingly tireless. The cool Crystal broke down and confessed that she had been worried Auntie meant to change her will, that her parents had said that when she returned from the north, she was to train for a job, and that she didn’t want to work. Jenny told him all about the forestry worker. Everyone told Mr Daviot an awful lot more than, they felt, they had ever told anyone about themselves in their lives before, while the tape recorder hummed and a policewoman from Strathbane sat in a corner and took shorthand notes, Mr Daviot not trusting what he called ‘these new-fangled machines’.
By breakfast time none of them had been to bed. Despite the fact that one of them was possibly a killer, they huddled together against the forces of law and order.
Priscilla prepared the breakfast for them all, as the police had just begun a lengthy questioning of Sean. She felt exhausted and wondered why she had gone to all the trouble to feed them when they only picked miserably at their food. Then her mother phoned, alarmed to learn the latest developments, and said she would be home immediately, but the receiver was snatched out of her hand by Colonel Halburton-Smythe. Priscilla repeated her story. Her father said again it was due to her folly that Checkmate had been allowed to come in the first place. He was not going to come back to be badgered by the press as he had been before when there had been that unfortunate shooting, which he was still convinced had been an accident, despite the fact that Hamish Macbeth had proved it to be murder and the murderer had confessed to the killing. Priscilla would just need to cope. There was no question of her mother’s returning. It was selfish of Priscilla to be so unfeeling.
Priscilla wearily put down the phone and went in search of Mr Johnson. “My father’s still not coming back,” she said, “not until this is all over. We’ll have to house this lot until the police give up their questioning. I suppose the next thing is that the servants will be giving notice.”
“Not them,” said Mr Johnson cynically. “This is meat and drink tae them. I’ve even had women phoning up from the village tae ask if I need any extra help. They’ve never had such a good gossip in years. We’ll need tae work shifts. You go tae bed first and I’ll call you in five hours’ time and then get a bit o’ sleep myself. Would ye look at that!” He pointed out of the window. Bus-loads of uniformed police were arriving.
They both walked to the window and looked out. Not only were there uniformed police but a team of frogmen. “We’re not looking for another body, are we?” he asked.
“Peta’s luggage and typewriter,” said Priscilla. “When I was in for questioning, Mr Daviot was furious that a thorough search had not been made for it. The frogmen wil
l be here to search the lochs and tarns and rivers.”
“Aye, well, off you go and get some sleep.”
Priscilla went up to her room, but she lay awake for a long time, her mind racing. At first the whole hotel venture had been exciting, and the idea of repairing the family fortunes exhilarating. But now she wished she had her home back again, that the lounge could once more be the drawing room and the bar the morning room, and all the signs taken down. And they could do it. For the colonel had invested well and wisely this time, thanks to a good broker in the City. But she knew her father would make this set-back an excuse to keep the hotel going. Saved from the hard work by Mr Johnson and herself, he was left free to take all the credit, which he did. It was sad to discover that one’s father was a silly, selfish man. The wind of Sutherland was moaning outside, great clouds scudding quickly across a vast sky. The odd and unusual summer was over. It was a time for settling down, for comfortable fishing parties, and shooting parties. She had not even Hamish to turn to, Hamish who would go around collecting drips of little girls like Jenny, Jenny with her so-called sensitive feelings about madness. Priscilla’s weary mind called up the faces of the suspects. The only one who seemed at all odd was Mary French, with her mixture of arrogance and stupidity, a woman who had killed before. Perhaps Blair had been right all along, thought Priscilla just before she fell asleep.
♦
By evening, Mary French was back, and as the party had been united in their resentment against Peta, now they were united against Mary French and her long, vindictive tales of how she would sue the police and how she had phoned her third cousin, the Earl of Derwent, mark you, and he had been horrified at this evidence of police brutality. Matthew Cowper wondered why on earth he had thought even for a minute that she would make a suitable partner. He felt he would like to strangle her.
And the questioning went on. Mr Daviot would go off for a rest and the questioning would be taken over by Blair. Even John Taylor, who had been haughty and outraged at the beginning that they should dare to suspect him, had become quiet and subdued. Maria’s cheerful face had grown lines of worry and she had become fidgety and irritable. Crystal wandered around in a dressing-gown, not even having bothered to do her hair or face, and was sitting moodily drinking a great deal of champagne. Peter Trumpington and Jessica Fitt sat very close together, but not saying anything. Jenny felt so alone and frightened. She longed for an opportunity to speak to Hamish but he did not emerge from the library.