by M C Beaton
“And I suppose the police suspect one of you,” said Priscilla. There was a shocked silence. But why are we so shocked? thought Melissa. We’ve known all along one of us did it.
“I think it was that Spaniard, Enrico,” said Angela at last.
“Why?” asked Priscilla. Melissa suddenly experienced a fierce stab of resentment against this cool and beautiful blonde who asked questions with the impersonal incisiveness of a policeman.
“Why?” echoed Angela. “Cos he’s greedy and he’s got money in the will. Oh, stop snivelling, Betty. You’re getting on my nerves. No guts, that’s your problem.”
“And you’re an insensitive moron,” howled Betty.
Charles’s voice cut across the row. “Now look what you’ve done, Priscilla,” he said. “We’ve all endured a morning of questioning and then you come along and pour salt on all the wounds.”
Priscilla flushed. “I am sorry,” she said. She felt like an amateur. Hamish Macbeth would never have been so abrupt. She began to talk to Angela of her memories of her visit to Arrat House. Angela said she thought she had some old photographs taken during that visit and brought out an album. Priscilla bent over it. Yes, there she was herself, about age six, and there were Angela and Betty with their father, who was roaring with laughter about something. The small boy was recognizable as Charles. He was clinging on to the skirts of both sisters and looking over his shoulder with a look of horror on his face.
“What frightened you?” Priscilla asked Charles. He crossed the room and bent over the album. “Oh, that day. That was the man hanging in the tree.”
“One of Dad’s jokes,” explained Angela bitterly. “He had one of the gamekeepers pretend to be a hanged man. Frightened poor little Charles out of his wits.”
“And me,” said Priscilla, suddenly remembering that day clearly. She had felt sorry for Charles. Her furious parents had promptly taken her away and she had wondered for a short time afterwards what it was like to have to live with a parent who played such infernal tricks. Betty, who had recovered, said she had heard about Tommel Castle being turned into an hotel and asked how the business was going. Priscilla talked away while all the time she stored up impressions of the people gathered in the drawing room to tell Hamish. Charles had a sort of bland ease of manner over an undercurrent of nervousness. Jan was silent, strained and fidgeting the whole time. Betty was listening to the tales of running the hotel as if they were the most interesting stories she had ever heard. Angela was sitting four-square, her hands on her knees, staring into space. Melissa and Paul were having a low-voiced conversation at the window. Jeffrey was the only one who seemed at all at ease, as if the macabre goings-on at Arrat House had nothing to do with him.
Enrico reappeared and said that Charles was wanted in the library and the others exchanged looks as he walked out.
Priscilla rose to go. “I gather you are all being kept indoors,” she said to Angela. “Can I get you anything from the village?”
Angela said there was nothing she needed but Betty brightened. “Perhaps you could get me some more wool in this shade from Mrs Tallisker’s at the end of the village. It’s no use asking Maria. She always comes back with the wrong colour.”
Happy to have an excuse to return to Arrat House, Priscilla went out into the hall. Melissa followed her, with Paul close behind. “Could you smuggle us out past the press in your car?” asked Melissa.
“It might upset the police,” said Priscilla. “They’ll probably want to interview you all over again.”
“Just for a short time,” begged Melissa. “I feel I’ll go mad if I don’t get out of here. Paul, too.” Paul blinked at Priscilla myopically. Melissa was now feeling quite motherly and protective towards Paul. He had apologized to her that morning for his behaviour. He had begged her to help him get through this ordeal.
What would Hamish expect her to do? wondered Priscilla. Perhaps she might gain some useful information from Melissa and Paul.
She made up her mind. “All right, then. But you’d both better crouch down in the back seat until I get past the press. Where do you want to go?”
“There’s a little cafe-restaurant in the village,” said Melissa eagerly. She saw Enrico hovering in the shadows of the hall and lowered her voice. “Where is your car?”
“It’s a white Volvo, round the right-hand side of the house,” whispered Priscilla.
“We’ll go out the back way and meet you,” said Melissa urgently.
Soon Priscilla was driving carefully down to the village, with Melissa and Paul crouched down under travelling rugs in the back seat.
“Here we are,” she called over her shoulder as she parked outside the cafe’. “Won’t the gentlemen of the press find you?”
“Not in a cafe,” said Melissa, popping up from under the rug. “They all go to The Crofter, the pub further along.”
“I’ll go and get Betty’s wool,” said Priscilla, “and then I’ll join you both.”
“Nice girl,” said Melissa as she entered the cafe with Paul.
“Yes,” agreed Paul, “and very beautiful.”
Melissa did not like that comment much. “Now, Paul,” she began, after they had ordered cups of coffee, “you must try to pull yourself together. The killing of Titchy can have nothing to do with you or me. We’ve only got to survive another day or two of questioning and then they’ll need to let us go.”
He drew patterns on top of the wax table-cloth with the edge of his teaspoon. “What if Mother did it?” he said.
Melissa took a deep breath. She privately thought Jan was capable of murder, but she said, “Of course she didn’t do it! Why should she? You know, Paul, your mother is quite capable of looking after herself. I wouldn’t run mad and give her all your money, but certainly enough to make her independent. I know: Tell her to go off on a cruise. That way you would be free of her for a bit and get a chance to settle down.”
Paul blinked at her mistily and took her hand. “That’s what I like about you, Melissa, your strength.”
Melissa gently disengaged her hand. She knew she was not a strong person. A strong person was like Hamish Macbeth. She wondered what it would be like to be a policeman’s wife. She wondered why he had never married. She dimly realized Paul was speaking.
“I’ve always been dominated by Mother, Melissa, and the time has come to really break free. I can’t do it right away while she’s upset over this break-up with Jeffrey. But once she’s settled, I’ll see less of her. That cruise is a good idea.”
They were joined by Priscilla. “I managed to get that wool,” she said cheerfully. “I’ll need to take you back soon or Blair will start howling and cursing.”
“Do you know Detective Chief Inspector Blair?” asked Melissa.
“Yes, I have met him. We had a murder in Lochdubh last year.”
“Lochdubh? Oh, you must know Harnish.”
A slight tinge of frost crept into Priscilla’s eyes. “Yes, he is a friend of mine.”
“Oh.” Melissa looked at her doubtfully and then her face cleared. Beautiful rich girls like Priscilla did not have anything to do with village constables. “Ready to go?” asked Priscilla, who had suddenly decided that it would be a waste of time to keep them out longer by interrogating them.
She drove back to Arrat House thinking perhaps it was as well Hamish was off the case. Melissa was a nice little thing, but too silly and susceptible. She parked the car at the side of the house. Melissa and Paul climbed out. And then ambling around the side of the house came Hamish Macbeth. Melissa let out a glad cry and ran straight into his arms, babbling about the second murder and about how frightened she had been, but now that he was back everything was all right, while Priscilla and Paul looked bleakly on.
Hamish disengaged himself quickly. “You’d best get indoors, Melissa, before Blair finds you were out of the house. A word with you, Priscilla.”
Melissa stood and stared as Hamish and Priscilla walked off together. They were both tall and l
ooked at ease with each other.
“Have you been flirting with Melissa?” Priscilla was asking.
“I wass chust being my usual charming self,” said Hamish. “I am back on the case. The rest are having lunch but I wanted a bit of fresh air.”
“Where is Towser?”
“Being looked after by Mrs Wellington. Priscilla, there’s been another murder, and right under the noses of the police, too. I’ve mair to worry about than one spoilt mongrel. What did you find out?”
“Not much. Betty asked me to pick up some wool for her from the village and Melissa and Paul begged a lift. It’s a difficult business. There they all were and one of them a possible murderer. But with the atmosphere of Arrat House and the horrible furnishings, anyone looks like a murderer. Enrico is creepy. He hangs about listening, have you noticed? Paul Sinclair is a drip, in my opinion. He seems, at a guess, to be using that Melissa to try to get free from his mother. Hamish! I’ve suddenly thought, who was Mr Sinclair? I mean, who was Paul’s father? There might be insanity in the family, something like that.”
“There’s a point,” said Hamish. “The rain’s started again. We’re getting awfy wet, Priscilla.”
“There’s a summer-house thing over by the woods. We’ll go there.”
They walked into a rather damp and dilapidated summer house and sat down together. “I was reading an article about genes and .heredity,” said Priscilla.
“That’s all verra well,” put in Hamish, “but I’ve never noticed murder running in families.”
“No, but insanity does.”
“Maybe,” he said slowly. “I’ll ask Anderson. He’s been ferreting into everyone’s past.”
“I can do it easier than that,” said Priscilla eagerly. “I’ll just ask Paul.”
“What? If his father was bonkers?”
“No, silly. I’ll ask if his father is still alive, and if so, where, and if not, what did he die of.”
He gave her a slow smile. “My, my,” he mocked. “Quite the detective. And here’s me thinking you didnae want tae come to Arrat House.”
“I found I had less work at the hotel than I thought,” said Priscilla primly.
Hamish clasped his hands behind his head and looked meditatively at the ceiling. “Aye,” he said dreamily, “that Melissa iss a nice wee lassie.”
“Hamish Macbeth. Unless you are seriously interested, leave her alone. She’s upset, young and far from home, and highly susceptible.”
Hamish grinned. “I wass only teasing,” he said, but Priscilla had already risen to her feet. “One of us had better do some work,” she said sharply, and walked out of the summer house.
Melissa, watching from the drawing room window, saw her approach, saw the long easy strides, the immaculate hair, the well-worn but well-cut tweeds, the air of assurance and clasped her arms about her body and shivered. It was always the same. She would find some man to dream about, some man to hope for, and then just when she began to imagine she had a chance, some female appeared over the horizon and took the man away. She gave a little sigh. The Melissas of this world always had to settle for second best. “Don’t look so gloomy,” came Paul’s voice from behind her. “We’ll soon be out of this nightmare.”
The drawing room door opened and Priscilla came in, holding the parcel of wool she had bought for Betty. “Where is everyone?” she asked.
“They’re all in the dining room,” said Melissa. “Neither of us felt like eating anything.”
“I’ll go and give this to, Betty,” said Priscilla. She hesitated in the doorway. “Is your father still alive?” she asked Paul.
He blinked at her in surprise.
“No,” he said curtly. “He died shortly after Mother divorced him.”
“I am sorry,” said Priscilla. “What did he die of?”
“A broken heart,” snapped Paul. “So go and report that to your policeman friend.”
“There’s no need for you to get so worked up,” said Melissa when Priscilla had left. “And what makes you think she is spying for Hamish?”
“Because she goes off with friend Hamish and then comes back for the express purpose of trying to find out about my father. It was all Jeffrey’s fault. He took Mother away.”
“Try not to get so upset.” Melissa took his arm. “Maybe we should get some food after all.” She smiled up at him. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you.”
His eyes filled with tears and he took off his glasses and scrubbed at them with his handkerchief. “Thank God you’re here with me,” he said in a choked voice. “Oh, Melissa, will you marry me?”
She stared back at him. Somewhere at the back of her brain a tiny warning voice was crying that Paul wanted a substitute mother, that her remark, “I’ll take care of you,” had sparked the proposal. But there were louder voices and bright images. He was a tolerably personable young man with a good job. He was a millionaire. She would have a diamond ring. Mum would be ever so pleased. White satin. Who would be her bridesmaid? Church. Bells ringing. Modern home. Shiny kitchen. Herself in apron. Had a good day, darling? “Yes,” said Melissa.
They were drinking coffee when Priscilla entered the dining room. Betty accepted the wool with a cry of delight and begged Priscilla to join them. “Did you have a terrible time getting past the press?” asked Charles.
“Not really,” replied Priscilla. “I kept the car windows closed and let the people guide me through.”
“It shouldn’t be allowed,” said Angela. “Ghouls and vultures.”
“Understandable,” put in Jeffrey. “I mean, Titchy Gold and people like her cultivate publicity. You can’t turn it off like a tap just because she’s dead.”
“The press have descended on us in hordes,” said Charles evenly, “not because of litchy’s publicity hunting but because two murders have been committed in this house.”
“Yes, yes, dear,” said Betty hurriedly. “But let’s not talk about it.”
“As you wish,” said Charles, “but not talking about it isn’t going to make the problem go away.”
“It’s because each one of us is a suspect that we’re all so frightened and nervous,” said Jan, “and that’s ridiculous. Andrew Trent tormented the villagers and the outside staff as well. This house is never locked, neither are the bedrooms. Anyone could have come in from outside.”
Charles glanced out of the window. “You may have your wish,” he said. “That gamekeeper, Jim Gaskell, is being marched in for interrogation. The police lunch-break is obviously over.”
Enrico, who had just brought in a fresh pot of coffee, said smoothly, “Perhaps the police now know that Jim Gaskell had more reason than most to want Mr Trent dead.”
“How? Why?” demanded several voices.
Enrico told them about the trick played on the gamekeeper.
“There you are!” said Jan triumphantly when he had finished.
Charles shrugged. “Let’s hope he keeps the police busy for the rest of the day. I’m tired of questions.”
“Don’t you want to find out who did it?” demanded Jeffrey.
“Of course I do,” said Charles. “My fiancee has been murdered. But I wish they would start looking in other directions. They keep going on at me. They should be looking for some homicidal maniac.”
The door opened and Paul and Melissa came in. Jan looked at her son sharply. “I’m glad someone’s happy,” she declared. “Don’t tell me that idiot Blair has actually found the murderer.”
Paul took Melissa’s hand in his. “We’re to be married, Mother. Melissa and I are engaged.”
“That’s all I needed,” said Jan. Everyone else murmured their congratulations. Priscilla looked at Melissa and thought, she’s not in love with him. After all this is over, she might regret it.
While Jim Gaskell was being interrogated, the preliminary autopsy report on ‘Pitchy Gold came through. She had died from an overdose of sleeping pills. Furthermore, the forensic experts had already discovered traces of sleeping pi
lls in the dregs of the chocolate.
The gamekeeper listened impassively and then said, “So what are you wasting time questioning me for? I didnae kill the lassie, nor had I any reason for doing so.”
Daviot sighed and dismissed him but told him to be available for more questioning.
“Was that dummy found?” Hamish asked suddenly. “I mean, the first joke that was played on litchy was with a dummy.”
“Yes, we found it,” said MacNab. “It was down in a store room next to the games room along with a bunch o’ other tricks.”
“What did they all really think of Andrew Trent?” said Hamish, half to himself.
“Whit does that matter?” demanded Blair.
“Whoever killed him hated him, really hated him,” said Hamish. “If we solve the first murder, we’ll know the answer to the second. Although they may not be connected.”
“Never say that,” groaned Daviot. “But you have a point. Let’s have ‘em all back, one after the other.”
Jan Trent was the first to be asked to reply to the simple question, “What did you think of Andrew Trent?”
She looked at them, slightly goggle-eyed with amazement. “What did I…? Well, not much. Just a silly old man. Jeffrey didn’t like his brother much and did not see much of him, which meant I didn’t see much of him either.”
“What did your first husband do?” asked Hamish.
“He was a bank manager.”
“What did he die of?”
“A heart attack,” snapped Jan. “What has all this got to do with…?”
“Quite,” said Daviot, throwing a curious glance at Hamish. “Let us revert to the original question. What were your feelings towards Mr Andrew Trent?”
She sat silent for a few moments and then said, “Impatience, mild dislike, that’s all.”
When she had gone, Hamish asked, “Where did her husband die?”
“John Sinclair died in a nursing home in Baling,” said Anderson, consulting a sheet of notes.
“An ordinary nursing home?”
“I think so. Why?”
“I just wondered whether it might have specialized in mental patients—whether there’s any insanity that might have been passed on to the son.”