Hamish MacBeth 07 (1998) - Death of a Prankster

by M C Beaton

  Priscilla marvelled at his patience, for they had to wait while another pot of tea was made and more scones produced.

  “Well, let me see,” she began. “The two Trent ladies lived in Perth. Miss Betty got into trouble. Miss Angela had taken up an interest in archaeology at that time and was off in foreign parts. Perth was a smaller town then but I never found out who the man was. Miss Betty would not say. Mr Trent came to see me. A fine-looking man. He said that it was a dreadful scandal, and of course, it would have been if news of it had leaked out. Now what I tell you may make Mr Trent sound a hard man, but forget what you’ve heard about the Swinging Sixties. For a woman of Miss Betty’s standing, it was a scandal to have an illegitimate child. Mr Trent said that Miss Betty would be kept indoors from the time she started to ‘show’. He said he would move out of Perth after the birth, take the baby with him, and bring it up as his own son or daughter, whatever sex the child should prove to be. Miss Betty was a bit dumpy in shape, so she didn’t have to hide away the way a slimmer woman would have had to. Mr Trent was in a fair rage. He felt the fact that Miss Betty had disgraced herself was a reflection on him.

  “Well now, I attended the birth and I was glad it was an easy one, for I felt poor Miss Betty had enough to worry her. It was a lovely baby. She doted on it. She loved that little boy with her whole heart and soul. But Mr Trent told her he had bought a house up in Sutherland and a flat for Miss Betty and Miss Angela in London. She was to go to London right away and forget about the child. She was to forget it was her own. He had already engaged a nanny. He made her swear to keep quiet about it. He said if she ever told anyone, he would hand the boy back to her and then make sure she never had a penny to support him.

  “Miss Betty was weak in spirit after the childbirth, the way mothers are, and she agreed, but she cried something dreadful until I was glad to see her go. I thought she would upset the baby by clutching him and crying over him the way she did. More tea?”

  “And did he legally adopt the boy?”

  “No, I don’t think so. Miss Betty said, what about the birth certificate? He’d find out when he saw his birth certificate. Mr Trent said there was no need for him ever to see it. He would arrange things like the boy’s school and his first passport and things like that. So I don’t think he really adopted him.

  “I called round to see the baby after Miss Betty had gone and just before Mr Trent was moving up north. It was a lovely baby and the nanny was very efficient. English, she was, but I can’t recall her name. But Miss Betty stuck in my mind. She was crazy about that baby of hers. Crazy, she was.”

  They finally managed to escape after having made sure she had nothing left to tell them.

  “Drive on and park somewhere quiet,” ordered Hamish. “We need to think.”

  Priscilla obediently drove out of Perth and eventually pulled into a parking place on the A9.

  “We’ve got it at last,” said Hamish. “We’ve got the Why. We need the How. Betty Trent is not a big strapping woman like her sister. How could she get the old man into the wardrobe? Where are my notes? Let me think.”

  He flicked through them impatiently. “Here we are. The night of the murder, she was seen speaking to him. What could she have said? Let me think. I am Betty Trent. I worship my son from afar. I may just have been told that day that he is to inherit nothing. I am mad with rage. My brain is working double time with rage. I get the knife and substitute the blade of the boning knife in the shaft.” Hamish fell silent.

  Priscilla sat and watched him. He suddenly struck his brow. “Of course!” cried Hamish. “Listen to this, Priscilla. It’s easy. Old Trent must have been mad at Titchy Gold for having accused him of ruining her dresses. Say Betty goes up to him. Say she praises him for that joke with the dummy in the wardrobe. Say she says she has an even better idea. What if Dad were to hide himself in the wardrobe with a monster mask on? That would frighten her out of her wits. Trent steps into the wardrobe. Instead of handing him the knife, Betty lets him have it.”

  “Wait a bit,” said Priscilla. “Betty’s a small woman. It was a direct blow.”

  “Damn!” He rubbed his red hair in agitation. “She could have stood on a chair.”

  “Why?”

  “I know. To help him on with the mask…something like that. He turns round in the wardrobe, she ties the strings. He turns to face her. She stabs him and slams the door shut and the door must have kept him propped upright. It’s a huge wardrobe but a shallow one and the door is heavy with that great mirror on it.”

  “And Titchy? Why Titchy?”

  “Because I think Betty’s mind was already turned by the first murder. Titchy had turned her beloved son down flat. So she takes a cup of chocolate laced with sleeping pills in to Titchy. ‘Drink it up like a good girl. It’ll make you sleep’.”

  “And would Titchy just meekly have done that?”

  “I think for all her faults, Titchy would have been disarmed by a show of kindness from one of the ladies of the house. Yes, I think that’s the way it was.”

  “An awfully long shot, Hamish. How are you going to prove it?”

  “She’s off balance. I’ll just tell her how she did it and see if she cracks.”

  “She may not.”

  “I’ll have the others there.”

  Priscilla laughed. “Great detective gathers suspects in the library?”

  He grinned. “It’s just that it might be amazing what some of the others might remember about Betty if they hear her accused of murder.” His grin faded. “I hate Andrew Trent. I think he was damned lucky to have lived so long and then to die from a nice clean knife stab. He deserved worse. He’s the real murderer in that, by his actions, he created a murderess out of his daughter.”

  “It’s getting late,” said Priscilla. “We won’t be back till midnight.”

  “I’ll go up in the morning,” said Hamish. “Betty’s killing days are over. There’s nothing that can happen before tomorrow.”

  “I could kill you,” said Jan, glaring at Melissa.

  They were all sitting round the dinner table.

  “Why do you want to kill her?” asked Charles.

  “Because she has talked my gullible son out of giving me any money.”

  “That’s not true, Mother,” protested Paul. “We have agreed to give you some money, but not all. You’ll find yourself very comfortably off.”

  “I wouldn’t mind,” said Jan, “if the girl were really in love with you. But it’s your money she wants.”

  “Is that true?” Betty asked Melissa.

  “No, of course not,” said Melissa, blushing and angry. “I would marry Paul if he didn’t have a penny.”

  “There you are, Mother,” said Paul. “That’s the sort of woman you could never understand. Melissa loves me. Damn it. I’ll prove it. You can have all the money. All I want is Melissa.”

  Melissa’s stomach felt as if she had just been dropped from a very great height without a parachute. Oh, dear thyme-scented villa on the Mediterranean, dear Costas and Juanita—gone for ever. She and Paul would work and scrimp and save for the rest of their lives. The fact that both of them earned very good salaries did not occur to her. What was a very good salary compared to millions? And what of all those clothes she had been studying in a copy of Vogue? In her mind’s eye, a white Rolls-Royce purred along the coast towards that villa carrying, not her, but Jan, selfish, greedy, clutching Jan.

  Melissa raised her eyes and looked at Jan, who was sitting next to Paul. One of her bony beringed hands was fondly caressing Paul’s sleeve and Paul was giving her a myopic, doting look. Melissa had not been a virgin when she had gone to bed with Paul that day. She’d had one previous affair and one one-night stand. But now she felt, made unreasonable by fury, that Paul had seduced her with promises of money. He had used her. She pushed back her chair and got shakily to her feet.

  “You never meant to let me have any money,” she shouted at Paul. “All the time you meant to give it to Mummy
dearest. Well, I’m not going to marry anyone with an Oedipus complex. Stuff you and stuff your bloody mother.”

  She slammed out and ran to her room and threw herself face down on the bed and cried her eyes out. After a while, she grew calmer. If anyone had ever told her that the very prospect of a lot of money would drive her mad with greed and dreams, thought Melissa, sitting up and wiping her eyes, she would not have believed it.

  Down in the dining room, Charles was returning to the topic of Melissa. “I thought her a nice little thing,” he said. “I wouldn’t have thought money would have meant that much to her.”

  “What about Titchy?” demanded Betty.

  “I suppose so,” said Charles ruefully. “But Htchy was different. She had an insecure, unstable sort of life. Now Melissa has a brain and a good job. Come to think of it, I rather fancy her myself, if you must know. I think you’ll find, Paul, that she didn’t mean a word of it. Girls don’t like chaps who are too tied to their mother’s apron-strings, not that I would know anything about that personally.”

  “I’m sorry for Paul,” said Betty. “I think he’s well rid of Melissa. She reminds me of Titchy with that tarty hair.”

  “I wish you would all keep your noses out of my business,” shouted Paul. “For Christ’s sake! One of us is a murderer. I thought that would be enough to occupy your minds.”

  He walked out, leaving the rest of them looking at each other.

  “Yes, but we can’t think of that every minute of the day,” said Charles at last. “The police are coming again tomorrow and then we should all be free to go our separate ways. I cannot tell you, Betty, Angela and Jeffrey, how deeply moved I am by your generosity.”

  “What’s this?” demanded Jan, her voice shrill.

  “Oh, Lor’,” said Charles. “Well, you’ll know soon enough. Betty, Angela and Jeffrey are going to make over a big chunk each of their fortunes to me.”

  “Why?” demanded Jan, aghast.

  “Because, precious one,” sneered her husband, “it’s only fair. He should have got the lot, you know.”

  “You fool,” hissed Jan. “You bloody old fool.” She stormed out.

  “Dear me,” said Charles, raising his eyebrows. “I hope the ones of us left can pass the rest of the evening in peace and tranquillity. How is Jan getting back to London, by the way? You drove her up, Jeffrey.”

  “I’ll drive her back,” said Jeffrey. “We’re still married.”

  “I’ll never understand you,” said Charles in amazement. “You spit hate at each other and yet you continue to share the same bed, and now you’re driving her back. I owe you a lot, Jeffrey. I’ll escort her if you like.”

  “No, it’s all right,” said Jeffrey. “She can’t frighten me any more. Funny, that. I’ve been married for years to a woman who frightened me.”

  Paul was sitting beside Melissa on her bed, holding her hand. “You can’t mean you only wanted the money,” he was saying.

  “Not at first,” said Melissa drearily, “but then the prospect of it all went to my head. So good luck to you and Mother dear. I hope you will be very happy.”

  “I didn’t mean it,” said Paul quietly. “I only wanted to show them you weren’t mercenary. I agree it would be foolish not to enjoy ourselves.” His hand caressed the soft pink feathers of her hair. She shivered under his touch. Just before he had said that, she had begun to feel like her own woman again. But the dreams were rushing back in, the clothes, the villa, the servants, the old farmhouse…She gave a groan. “Go away, Paul, and let me think,” she said. “I can’t think straight living in this house.”

  He got up reluctantly. “Won’t you let me stay with you?”

  “Not tonight,” said Melissa. “With luck, we’ll be allowed to leave tomorrow. I’ll know what I want as soon as I’m away from here.”

  When Paul had left, Melissa washed and undressed and settled down and tried to sleep, tried to banish all those rosy, wealthy dreams, but they came thick and fast.

  Paul had been down to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. He met Betty on the stairs. “You are well out of that engagement, young man,” she said.

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” he said cheerfully. “In fact, I’m pretty sure it’s back on again.”

  “Why? Did you tell her you were keeping the money?”

  “Well, yes, some of it. But she’s not mercenary.”

  Melissa was just drifting off to sleep when she heard someone entering her room. She had forgotten to lock the door! She sat up in alarm and then relaxed as she saw the dumpy figure of Betty Trent silhouetted against the light from the corridor.

  “You’ve had a horrid evening,” said Betty, approaching. “I’ve brought you a nice glass of hot milk and I want you to drink it all up.”

  “Oh, thank you.” Melissa’s eyes filled with tears at this unexpected piece of kindness.

  “Think nothing of it,” said Betty gently, and she went out and closed the door.

  EIGHT

  So, at last I was going to America! Really, really going, at last! The boundaries burst. The arch of heaven soared. A million suns shone out for every star. The winds rushed in from outer space, roaring in my ears, “America! America!”

  —Mary Antin

  One by one the guests at Arrat House shuffled down to the library, too anxious to protest at having been roused from their beds so early. All Enrico had told them was that they had been summoned by Constable Macbeth.

  “What’s it all in aid of?” asked Charles. “And where’s Melissa?”

  “Enrico says she’s asleep and the copper says he doesn’t need her,” said Jeffrey.

  “I don’t like the sound of that.” Charles wrapped his dressing-gown more tightly about him. “I had a hope, you know, that we were all going to be told to.go home.”

  “Fat chance,” remarked Angela bitterly. “Dragging us down here at dawn.”

  “It’s nine in the morning,” pointed out Jan. “Oh, I hear cars arriving. Here come the bloody reinforcements.”

  Hamish Macbeth was waiting on the steps of Arrat House as Blair and his detectives arrived.

  “As I told you on the phone, I want you to listen to what I have to say to them,” said Hamish, “and I think I’ll find your murderer for you.”

  Blair thanked his stars that Daviot wasn’t going to be present. If Hamish made a fool of himself, then he would have all the pleasure of telling Daviot about it. If Hamish solved the murders, then, with any luck, he could claim the success as his own.

  Everyone looked up nervously as Hamish, the detectives and two policemen filed into the library.

  “Quite a crowd,” said Charles amiably.

  “Constable Macbeth has something tae say tae ye,” said Blair, unable to keep a jeering note out of his voice as Hamish stood in front of the fireplace and faced them all.

  “The difficulty in solving this murder was always lack o’ motive,” began Hamish. “You all, for various reasons, but mostly mercenary, wanted Andrew Trent dead. But one of you had the most powerful motive of all—mother love.”

  With the exception of Betty, who was knitting furiously, they all looked at Jan.

  “No, not Mrs Jeffrey Trent,” said Hamish. “Miss Betty Trent.”

  Angela’s mouth fell open. Betty continued to knit.

  “Betty Trent gave birth to Charles in Perth twenty-eight years ago.”

  “Oh, God,” said Charles.

  “Angela Trent was abroad for a long time. She did not know of the pregnancy. Andrew Trent did. He was appalled. He considered it a terrible scandal. He arranged for a midwife to deliver the baby and Betty was kept indoors before the birth so that no one would guess her condition. When the baby was born, he sold the house in Perth, bought Arrat House and a flat in London for Betty and her sister.”

  “But we had always been asking him if we could live in London,” protested Angela. “Betty wrote and told me she had finally persuaded him. Betty would have told me if she were pregnant!”

&nbs
p; All looked at Betty, but she knitted on.

  “I think you will find from Charles Trent’s birth certificate that Betty is his mother, father unknown. He was never adopted. Betty had to suffer seeing her father’s indifferent treatment of the boy, not to mention inflicting some of his terrible jokes on the child. But if she told Charles she was his mother, then not only would she be penniless but her son would inherit nothing. I believe that is what she was told.

  “The way she murdered Andrew Trent was like this. I think Andrew may have told her that he was going to leave Charles nothing. She had a great idea. She prepared the knife and then suggested to Andrew—who must have been furious with Titchy for having been accused by her of ruining those dresses—that instead of a dummy in Titchy’s wardrobe, why did he not hide there himself? And that’s the way she did it.

  “Titchy Gold was not going to marry Charles, and Betty poisoned her with an overdose.”

  “Wait a bit,” interrupted Detective Jimmy Anderson. “Thon blow to the auld man’s chest was direct. I mean he must have been struck by someone of the same height if he was killed in the wardrobe.”

  “I’ve considered that,” said Hamish, beginning to think bleakly .that speculation was piling on speculation in his account of how the murder had taken place. “She would stand on a chair, once Andrew Trent was up in the wardrobe, and tie the mask on for him. When he turned round, she stabbed him.”

  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.