Death of a Prankster hm-7

by M C Beaton

  All looked at Betty, except Charles, who had his hands over his face.

  ♦

  Upstairs in her bedroom, Melissa struggled awake, yawned and looked at the clock. She got out of bed, noticing, as she did so, the glass of milk by the bedside. She had only sipped a little bit of it before deciding she had never in the past liked hot milk and nothing had changed. A skin was lying on top of the now cold milk and she shuddered in distaste before taking the glass into the bathroom and pouring the contents down the toilet. Then she washed the glass clean under the hot tap.

  She felt much better than she had done for days. It was all very simple. She was not going to marry Paul. To get rid of all those silly dreams of wealth was like coming out of a nightmare. She would leave this terrible place and return briefly to her job while she found another as far away from Paul Sinclair as possible.

  Melissa searched through her small stock of clothes for something to wear. There was a long white dress from her university days when it was fashionable to wear long skirts with bare feet. She put it on as if donning an old and comfortable identity. Cheered and feeling defiant, she went back to the bathroom and applied dead-white make-up to her face and purple eyeshadow to her eyes.

  She wandered downstairs. No one was about. She opened the front door and looked out. The day was dark and miserable, with low clouds flying over the mountains above the house. She saw the police cars outside and she also saw Hamish Macbeth’s white Land Rover. Her heart lifted. She would tell Hamish all about it. The detectives must be in the library. But was Hamish there? She would go outside and look in at the library window…just to see.

  ♦

  Betty put down her knitting and spoke at last. Her voice was steady and calm. “I admit Charles is my son,” she said. She looked at him, her eyes blazing with love and affection, but he still had his face buried in his hands. “But as to the rest, it is pure fantasy, Constable. Where is your proof?”

  “Aye,” said Blair, rubbing his fat hands. “How are ye going to prove it, Macbeth?”

  Hamish felt like a fool. He had gone about it the wrong way. Perhaps he should have got Betty on her own and bullied her, as Blair would have done, suggested that he had concrete evidence, lied, anything to break her.

  Betty gave him a little smile and picked up her knitting. As she did so, she looked at the window and then turned quite white. Her hands shook and the knitting dropped to the floor and a ball of that bright magenta wool that Priscilla had bought her rolled to Charles’s feet.

  Hamish followed her gaze.

  Melissa Clarke was framed in the window against the darkness of the day outside. Her white face appeared to float and the wind blew her dress about her.

  “Go away,” screamed Betty suddenly. “Go away. I’m sorry now. I’m sorry. He deserved to die. They all deserved to die.”

  In a flat voice, Hamish cautioned her. Then he said to the others, “You can all leave.” But Betty wailed, “No, Charles must hear. I did it for him.” Nobody moved. Melissa had disappeared. The wind howled outside. Betty dabbed at her mouth with a handkerchief.

  “It was worse than that. He told me that he had left everything to Charles in his will, but that he had changed his mind. He said he was going to phone the lawyers on the following day and change the will. He said Charles was no good. He enjoyed telling me. He was laughing. I’d long dreamt of killing him. I fixed the knife just like you said. When Titchy accused him of ruining her frocks, I knew he was angry with her. So I went up to him and suggested he frighten her to get even. He liked that. He climbed, into the wardrobe, giggling like a schoolboy. ‘The mask,’ I said. ‘You’ve forgotten the mask.’

  ‘No, I haven’t,’ he said, and drew one of those plastic monster masks from his pocket. ‘I’ll put it on for you,’ I said, and as he was standing up in the wardrobe, I brought forward a chair and stood on that. I tied the mask. He turned around and grinned at me. ‘Give me the knife, Betty,’ he said. So I gave it to him. ‘Here you are, you old bastard,’ I said, and I plunged the knife into his chest and slammed the door. I couldn’t believe what I’d done. I saw myself reflected in the glass of the door. I looked…ordinary.”

  “And Titchy?” prompted Hamish gently.

  “She was dumping Charles because he hadn’t any money and all because Dad had had the final laugh. He never meant to leave anything to Charles at all. So I took the tablets out of Jeffrey’s cabinet and took them to her.”

  “And Melissa?” asked Hamish. “Why Melissa?”

  Jan screamed and Paul started up. “Not Melissa!” he shouted. “We saw her at the window.”

  “That was her ghost,” explained Betty with mad patience. “I knew then that I must confess or they would all come back to haunt me. It worked. I confessed and she went away. You see, Charles said he fancied her and she is mercenary, just like Titchy. Angela and Jeffrey and I were giving Charles a share of our money. I did not want Melissa to get it, so she had to die, too. Paul said the engagement was back on but I did not believe him. She was after Charles.”

  “How did you kill her?” asked Hamish.

  “I had some of those sleeping tablets left. I only used half the bottle to kill Titchy. I had sewn the rest into the hem of my dress. I had crushed the bottle to powder and put the powder into one of those lavender sachets in my underwear drawer. So I took Melissa a glass of milk last night.” She turned to Charles. “She wouldn’t feel a thing, you know. I’m glad it’s all over. Oh, my dear son, come to Mummy.” She held out her short plump arms.

  With a cry of horror, Charles ran from the room.

  ♦

  Blair turned to Hamish as Betty was being ushered into one of the police cars and said, “Man, you were lucky. Not a shred of proof.”

  “But I solved your case for you,” said Hamish, “so if you don’t want me to take the credit, I suggest you arrange with Strathbane to get central heating put in the police station at Lochdubh.”

  Blair grinned. “Oh, no, you don’t, you conniving bastard. Daviot wisnae here. She confessed. That’s all there is tae it. ‘Bye, ‘bye, Macbeth. See you around.”

  In a fury, Hamish watched him go. One photographer, more alert than the rest at the gate, had spotted Betty being taken to the police car through his telescopic lens and had started clicking his camera, which alerted the others. As Blair’s car swept by the press, they all scrambled for their own to pursue him to Strathbane.

  Hamish turned and went indoors, nearly colliding with Enrico. “May I fetch you some refreshment, Constable?” asked Enrico.

  “No,” said Hamish. “Where are they all?”

  “Mrs Jeffrey is lying down. Her son has gone up to see how she is. The rest are in the drawing room.”

  Hamish went into the drawing room. Charles was huddled in a chair. Angela was sitting on the arm of it with her arm round his shoulders. Jeffrey was leaning forward, looking at Charles with concern, and Melissa was hovering by the window. Melissa looked a mess. Blair had berated her for washing out that glass. She had burst into tears, so that purple eye-shadow had run down in purple rivulets over her white make-up.

  “Oh, Hamish,” she cried, running to him. “Is it really all over? Did she really do it?”

  “Aye,” said Hamish, removing his peaked cap and sitting down. “She really did.” He looked across at Charles. “Don’t take it too hard,” he said. “Andrew Trent’s cruelty turned your mother’s mind. I doubt if she’s fit to stand trial.”

  “Just what Jeffrey and I have been telling him,” said Angela robustly. “I never liked Betty, but we were sort of bound together in a way, both being spinsters, both dependent on Dad for our money. But then a lot of women don’t like their sisters. Have you any idea who Charles’s father is?”

  “She refused to say,” said Hamish, “and to my mind it’s chust as well. Charles has had enough shocks for one day.”

  “Our offer of money to you still stands,” said Jeffrey to Charles. “Betty cannot inherit through crime, so her s
hare will come to the rest of us. Angela and I will see you’re all right, boy.”

  Charles raised an anguished face. “What bothers me is that I don’t feel a thing,” he said. “I mean, I’m shocked by everything, but I cannot think of Betty Trent as my mother. I don’t feel a thing for her.”

  “Don’t let it worry you,” said Hamish. “You’re in shock.”

  “Oh, Hamish, I must talk to you,” said Melissa. “I’m not going to marry Paul.”

  “Well, that’s a sensible decision.” Hamish got up to go.

  “I mean, can I have a word with you outside?” begged Melissa.

  “I’m still on duty,” said Hamish. “I’ve got things to do.”

  Melissa sat down mournfully after he had left. She had hoped he would want to talk to her. After all, she herself had nearly been murdered.

  “Is there anything we can do for you?” Angela was asking Charles.

  He gave a bleak smile. “Nothing more than you have done. You and Jeffrey have been so kind. Oh, I know. Could you lend me your car, Jeffrey? I would like to drive away from here for a bit and get some fresh air.”

  Jeffrey handed him the car keys. “Be my guest.”

  Charles took the keys and stood up and walked to the door. “Come on, Melissa,” he said. “You’d probably like to get out of here as well.” He walked off and Melissa scrambled after him.

  “It’s odd,” said Jeffrey to Angela. “I feel the nightmare is over. I don’t think Betty will ever stand trial. I don’t even hate Jan any more.”

  “But you’ll leave her?”

  “Oh, yes, I’ll leave her. What about you, Angela? What will you do?”

  “When the money comes through, I’ll travel,” said Angela. “Sunny countries, Jeffrey, white beaches, foreign people.”

  “That’s the ticket,” he said with a grin.

  “And I’ll be there for Charles if he needs me.”

  Jeffrey sighed. “He’ll get over it quicker than we will, Angela. He never knew Betty as his mother. I think with our money, he’ll lead the dilettante life he’s always wanted, never work again, and be perfectly happy.”

  ♦

  “Must you drive so fast?” shouted Melissa. Charles slowed the car to a halt and then switched off the engine. He had stopped on a rise and below them stretched acres of wind-swept moorland and tall pillared mountains. Clouds rushed overhead and the wind sang mournfully through the heather. “The land that God forgot,” said Charles.

  “What will you do?” asked Melissa.

  “Oh, I’ll travel the way I’ve always wanted to travel,” said Charles. “The best cure I can think of is to get right out of Britain. I’ll go to New York, stay at the Plaza, and then, after a few weeks, I’ll buy a car and drive right across America.”

  “Won’t you want to see your mother?”

  “No point,” he said. He handed her a handkerchief. “Here. Scrub your face. You look like a clown. All your make-up’s run.”

  “It’s not my fault,” said Melissa, rubbing her face and looking ruefully at the mess on the handkerchief. “I got such a fright when I heard she’d tried to murder me that I couldn’t stop crying.”

  “Well, by all that’s holy.” Charles fished a flask out of the glove compartment. He unscrewed the top. “Brandy.” He drank some and passed the flask to Melissa, who took a great gulp. “Easy now,” he admonished. “Fair shares.”

  “You didn’t see my mother before she was taken out,” he went on. “Her eyes were completely blank. She didn’t even know who I was. She’ll never go to trial. God, all those years and I didn’t know. I remember now when I was small, she once took me on her lap and she was kissing and hugging me and old Andrew walked in. I can’t call him Father. I never really could. He walked in and said in a nasty voice, “Don’t ever let me catch you doing that again.” Horrible man.”

  They finished the brandy. Charles stretched a lazy arm around Melissa’s shoulders. “D’you know what I feel like doing now? Making love.”

  “To me?” Melissa looked at him tipsily.

  “Who else?” He gathered her close and kissed her. His kiss was soothing, warm and friendly. One kiss led to another, and another somehow led to both of them in the back seat making cramped but energetic love.

  Melissa didn’t feel ashamed or used. She would never see him again. They would go their separate ways.

  “What are you going to do now?” he asked lazily. “Are you a dedicated scientist?”

  “I thought I was,” said Melissa. “I’ll know when I get back. But Paul will be there. I’d better find another job.”

  He ruffled her short hair. “Come with me to the States.”

  “What! Just like that?”

  “Why not? Have you got family?”

  “Yes, my mum and dad. I don’t live with them. I’ve got my own flat.”

  “OK, we’ll drop in on Mum and Dad and then we’ll be off.”

  Melissa began to laugh. “Silly, you haven’t any money yet.”

  “But I will have, the minute Jeffrey and Angela phone the lawyers. I’ll ask the lawyers for a great whacking advance. Think of it. Oodles of money and nothing else to do but have fun. I say, we can clear off today. I can’t stand another night at Arrat House.”

  “But Paul will be furious.”

  “You don’t need to see him or anyone. I’ll say goodbye to Jeffrey and Angela and tell them to keep quiet about it. We won’t even pack. We’ll just go off as if we’re going into the village for a stroll and then call a cab.”

  Melissa twisted her head and looked up at him, at his handsome face. She couldn’t leave with him. She didn’t know him. Mind you, her working-class background wouldn’t bother Charles. She instinctively knew he wouldn’t particularly notice it. But she couldn’t really…

  “Let’s get to know each other better,” said Melissa firmly. “Then I’ll know it’s you I want and not your money!”

  ♦

  Hamish Macbeth was sitting in the village café with Priscilla. He had previously arranged to meet her there. He told her all about the confrontation and Betty’s confession, ending with, “I’ll neffer do that again.”

  “What?” asked Priscilla, guessing by the sudden sibilancy of his Highland accent that he was really upset.

  “I will neffer again try tae frighten a confession out o’ someone. Next time I will hae the proof, rock-solid proof. If Melissa hadnae appeared at the window complete wi’ punk make-up, I might still ha’ been waiting for a confession, and that scunner Blair laughing at me. And do you know what Blair has done?”

  “I should guess, as you told me Daviot wasn’t there, that he is going to take all the credit,” said Priscilla. “So what’s new? You usually let him.”

  “Aye, but this time I wass going to bargain. I wass going to haff the central heating put in at the police station.”

  “Maybe that will teach you to be a little more ambitious in future, Hamish Macbeth.”

  “Oh, aye?” said Hamish. “And end up in Strathbane? You wouldnae see me. Would you miss me, Priscilla?”

  “Of course I would. But I would be happy to see you getting on. How is Charles Trent taking it? He must be devastated.”

  “I think he’ll get over it quick. He’s getting money from Jeffrey and Angela. The man’s a born hedonist.”

  “You underrate him,” said Priscilla, “just because he’s handsome.”

  “Regretting you didn’t go for dinner with him?”

  “Madly,” said Priscilla crossly. “I’d better get back to Lochdubh. What about you?”

  “I’ll call at Arrat House and pick up the Land Rover and follow you.”

  They emerged from the café together and then stood staring down the street. Charles and Melissa were emerging from the pub. A taxi was waiting for them. They were very tipsy and laughing and giggling. Charles kissed Melissa full on the mouth and then they both got into the taxi.

  “Shattered, isn’t he?” said Hamish.

  “How co
uld it all happen just like that?” marvelled Priscilla.

  “Isn’t that the way it’s supposed to happen?” asked Hamish.

  She avoided his eyes. “My car’s here. I’ll run you to Arrat House.”

  Priscilla waited outside while Hamish went in to say goodbye. He emerged after ten minutes, followed by Enrico. The Spaniard said something to Hamish and handed him a small parcel.

  Then Hamish came up to Priscilla’s car. “What was that?” she asked.

  “A wee present,” said Hamish with a grin. “Lead the way home, Priscilla, and I’ll give you a police escort.”

  ♦

  That evening at police headquarters in Strathbane, Jimmy Anderson held the phone out to Blair. “It’s Hamish Macbeth,” he said.

  Blair laughed. “Whit does our local yokel want now?” he asked. He took the phone.

  “Whit dae ye want, laddie?”

  “Central heating,” said Hamish.

  “Och, away and bile yer heid, ye daft pillock.”

  “Pity if you refuse to help.” Hamish’s voice sounded amused. “By the way, I got a farewell present from Enrico at Arrat House. That tape.”

  “Wipe it out, man,” howled Blair.

  “Aye, that I will. After.”

  “After whit?”

  “After I get the central heating,” said Hamish gently and replaced the receiver.

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  Document version: 1

  Document creation date: 16.12.2012

  Created using: calibre 0.9.9, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software

  Document authors :

  M.C. Beaton

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