by M C Beaton
‘No,’ said Hamish, although he privately thought that any collector would see red, given the same set of circumstances.
Mrs Frobisher looked at him almost shyly. ‘I have two tickets to Duchess Darling – for the matinee this afternoon. I did not feel like asking someone to go with me because of Peter’s death. But if you have the time . . .?’
Hamish groaned inwardly. Seeing Henry’s play would remind him of Henry and that would lead to thoughts of Priscilla. He had been able to put her out of his mind while he concentrated on the case, and he did not want thoughts of her to muddle up his brain.
But the longer he spent with Mrs Frobisher, the more chance there was of her remembering more.
‘I would be delighted to go,’ he said. ‘May I telephone someone first?’
‘Of course. There’s a phone over on that desk by the window. I’ll go and change while you make your call.’
Hamish phoned Rory Grant at home and listened patiently while the reporter grumbled about being woken up.
‘When do you start work?’ asked Hamish, when he could get a word in.
‘Seven o’clock this evening.’
‘I might go round to the office with you. I want to look at some of the library cuttings.’
‘Oh, you do, do you? They aren’t cuttings any more. Everything’s on computer. What’s in it for me?’
‘Background on these murders.’
‘Okay. Do you want to come to the office, or call round here first?’
‘I don’t know how I’ll be placed for time. If I haven’t turned up at your place by six, I’ll meet you at the office.’
Hamish found it hard to concentrate on the play. He was gloomily sure that Henry had somehow managed to persuade Priscilla to become re-engaged. He decided at the end of the play to go back with Mrs Frobisher and see if he could winkle any further information out of her.
The old lady was tired and leaned heavily on her cane, but there was a faint flush on her old cheeks. She had obviously enjoyed the outing.
When they got to Flood Street, Hamish said tentatively, ‘I won’t keep you much longer, Mrs Frobisher. I have another call to make. Could I just see some of Captain Bartlett’s things?’
‘I have them all in a room upstairs. The police have been through them already, of course.’
She led the way upstairs and pushed open a bedroom door. The room was, as Mrs Frobisher had said, a graveyard of hobbies. The model airplanes swung from the ceiling, a collection of rocks and fossils lay on a table, albums of stamps were piled on a chair.
‘What’s this?’ asked Hamish, crossing the room to a little china cabinet in the corner. It contained several dainty porcelain figurines. ‘Was this one of his hobbies?’
‘Yes, he started collecting bits of china from the salerooms after he had been to Sir Humphrey’s. Funny I should have forgotten all about Sir Humphrey until today. Peter had a sort of magpie mind. His hobbies were all other people’s enthusiasms. He would take something up for a bit, throw himself into it, then he would get bored and cart the lot around to me for safekeeping.’
‘Isn’t it a wee bit odd,’ said Hamish, studying the pieces of china, ‘to think that the captain would become a collector of porcelain and yet everyone seems to think he deliberately broke a rare cup and saucer?’
‘If he did do it deliberately,’ said Mrs Frobisher loyally. ‘But it’s hard to explain. I do not think he had the soul of a collector, unless you call collecting other people’s hobbies collecting. The china phase did not last long. What’s that you’ve got?’ she said, seeing Hamish had a ragged bunch of manuscript in his hand.
‘Seem to be regimental reminiscences,’ said Hamish. ‘Another of his enthusiasms?’
‘I suppose so,’ said Mrs Frobisher. ‘He scribbled from time to time.’
‘Is that a fact?’ said Hamish slowly. He carefully went through the room, checking any papers, reading letters, until he heard Mrs Frobisher stifle a yawn.
‘I’d better be on my way,’ said Hamish. He thanked her for lunch and the theatre outing and took his leave, promising to visit her the next time he was in London.
He walked back to Sloane Square and took the District Line to Blackfriars and walked along to Fleet Street. He stood for a moment at the corner of Ludgate Circus and looked up towards the great bulk of St Paul’s Cathedral.
Images of the different people connected with the murder whirled around and around in his brain, facts jostled against facts, and then the kaleidoscope of bits and pieces slowly stopped revolving and settled down into a pattern.
But he had to be sure.
He set off for the Daily Chronicle offices at a run.
‘You been drinking?’ asked Rory impatiently, as he led Hamish upstairs to the reporters’ desk. For Hamish was walking like a blind man, bumping into walls, his eyes fixed in an odd inward-looking stare.
‘No,’ said Hamish slowly. ‘Look, I haff to make a call.’
‘And if the night news editor comes up, how do I explain why I am letting you use the phone?’
‘Tell him it is because I know who murdered Bartlett and Vera Forbes-Grant, and I can take you with me to be in at the kill.’
‘You’re sure?’
Hamish rubbed the damp palms of his hands against his trousers.
‘Very sure. I need one more bit of proof, and it’s a long shot.’
‘Go ahead and phone, and if the news editor says okay, I’ll book us both on a flight.’
Hamish phoned Tommel Castle and told Jenkins to fetch Mr Chalmers.
The superintendent came on the line. ‘You were right about the roach powder,’ he said. ‘But we’re no further with solving the case.’
‘This is who did it,’ said Hamish.
Chalmers listened in growing amazement. ‘But that’s guesswork!’ he exclaimed. ‘Proof, laddie. Where’s the proof? It’s only in books that the criminal breaks down and confesses.’
‘I want the name of every journalist who was there just after the first murder and who did not stay on,’ said Hamish. ‘I’m at the offices of the Daily Chronicle at the reporters’ desk. I’ll wait for your call.’
‘You think one of them was an accomplice?’
‘An unwitting one,’ said Hamish. ‘I’m making a wild guess that our criminal handed one of them a package to either keep until called for, or to take to a certain address.’
‘But no journalist would be naive enough to do that?’
‘Oh yes, they would, if it meant getting a bit of background and the person seemed innocent enough.’
‘I’ve a funny feeling you’re out on a limb there, Macbeth. But stay where you are until I call. It might take all night, and if it’s a London journalist you’re after then I’ll need to ask the Yard for help.’
Rory came back looking excited. ‘By God, Hamish,’ he cried, ‘if you can pull this one off, I’ll be able to get drunk for a fortnight. What do we do now?’
‘We wait,’ said Hamish.
‘And pray.’
Chapter Fourteen
Methought I heard a voice cry, ‘Sleep no more!
Macbeth does murder sleep.
– Shakespeare
Summer lay dying outside Tommel Castle. A chill wind blew across the moors and rattled the windows and sent puffs of smoke from the fire belching out into the drawing room.
They were all gathered for afternoon tea, even Freddy Forbes-Grant, who had been released from prison. He had stoutly maintained he had confessed to the murder only because he thought his wife had committed it. There was not enough hard evidence to hold him. Blair swore the gloves had not been in Freddy’s room when it was first searched, and Anderson and MacNab backed him up. Freddy’s moustache drooped, and he looked thoroughly miserable. Mary Halburton- Smythe poured tea with a steady hand and tried not to think it would have been more decent of Freddy to have mourned in his room instead of crawling about downstairs like the skeleton at the feast.
Priscilla felt the nigh
tmare would never end. Henry had apologized. He had said his jealousy had got the better of him and he should have realized Hamish had only a brotherly interest in her. Colonel Halburton-Smythe had taken him aside and explained everything. So much for the adult talk with her father, thought Priscilla bitterly. She was once more wearing her engagement ring. How Hamish would despise her! She felt trapped, and yet did not feel she could summon up enough courage to deal with Henry until the shadow of murder had lifted. It would be easier to cope with him in London where everything was lighter and more fickle.
The guests had been told they could leave for their respective homes on the following day, provided they did not travel anywhere else or leave the country.
‘Cake?’ said Mrs Halburton-Smythe brightly, holding out a plate of sliced seed cake to Pruney.
Pruney turned pale and shook her head. Everyone was drinking tea with cautious little sips, eyeing the others warily.
There came the clump of official boots and voices from the hall.
‘Not again,’ groaned Lady Helmsdale. ‘I’ve made so many statements, I’ve given fingerprints, I’ve watched coppers searching my undies – I feel like shooting the lot of them.’
The door opened, and Chalmers came in. Behind him came Blair, Anderson and Mac- Nab, who took up positions round the room. Then came Hamish Macbeth, followed by what looked like a shorter, squatter version of himself – Rory Grant.
Priscilla wondered if Hamish was ill. A thin sheen of sweat filmed his face, and his eyes were hard and fixed.
‘Go ahead, Macbeth,’ said Chalmers quietly.
Hamish knows the identity of the murderer, thought Priscilla hysterically. He hasn’t once looked at the teapot.
‘It’s been a difficult case,’ said Hamish quietly. ‘So many of you had reason to want Bartlett dead. But only one of you had the nerve, the lack of morals, and the sheer cunning to kill not only Bartlett but Mrs Forbes- Grant as well. And one of you had exceptional luck. These crimes were the work of a gifted amateur.’
He fumbled in a pocket of his tweed sports jacket and brought out a notebook and glanced down at one of the pages.
Priscilla looked around the room. Every face was tense and strained. Who did it?
‘I was not absolutely sure of the identity of the killer until last night,’ said Hamish.
Diana’s voice rang out, high and sharp. ‘You don’t know at all! You haven’t a clue. You’re watching us to see if anyone looks guilty. You’ve been watching too many films, just like that stupid maid.’
‘No,’ said Hamish. ‘I know who did it. It was you . . . Henry Withering.’
There was a stunned silence.
Then Henry said in an amused voice, ‘This is better than the theatre. Do go on. Why on earth should I kill Bartlett?’
‘Because Captain Peter Bartlett wrote Duchess Darling. Not you.’
‘Rubbish,’ said Henry calmly. ‘It’s had reviews in all the papers. It’s a box-office smash. He would have said something.’
‘You probably changed the title. Captain Bartlett said he only read the racing papers. He knew you had a success. He’d heard that. He did not know it was his play until the night of the party I attended. Miss Smythe quoted a line from the play. Captain Bartlett looked highly amused. You were very angry and told Miss Smythe to shut up. This is how I think it happened.
‘Captain Bartlett’s aunt, Mrs Frobisher, said the captain had a magpie mind. He was always adopting other people’s enthusiasms and hobbies. He even started collecting china after he had been to Sir Humphrey Throgmorton’s.’
‘What!’ exclaimed Sir Humphrey, evidently more shocked by this revelation than by the identity of the murderer.
‘He was living with you, Henry Withering, for a short while. You wrote plays. He decided to write one. You made out you had “written down” when you wrote Duchess Darling. You said you had produced something silly and trite because that was what the West End theatres wanted. I saw the play in London. I didn’t think much about it until afterwards. Whoever wrote that play believed in every silly line. If I looked at it another way round and thought of the personality of Captain Bartlett, then it all made sense.’
‘You’re talking rot,’ said Henry. No one shrank from him, not even Priscilla. It was obvious that everyone in the room thought Hamish was talking rubbish as well.
‘Captain Bartlett left the play behind when he quit your flat and you found it. After a time, it dawned on you that this might just be what the public wanted. You must have enjoyed tricking them. Anyway, I think Captain Bartlett, who was a notorious gambler and sponger, confronted you with it after the party. I think he would have exposed you at the party in front of everyone – and thereby saved his life – if he had wanted to take the credit. I suggest he told you you could keep the fame so long as you passed all the money over to him. There was something about you, all the same, that made even the bold captain worried. He told me he was sure someone was out to get him. So, as insurance, he told Vera Forbes-Grant. Miss Smythe overheard Vera saying “You can’t have. I don’t believe it. Not you of all people.”’
Hamish turned to Freddy. ‘Did your wife have any money of her own, Mr Forbes- Grant?’
‘No,’ said Freddy dismally. ‘Not a penny. I gave her a generous allowance. But not too much. She would have left me if I had given her more. She thought I was stupid, that I didn’t know she’d had an affair with Bartlett. I didn’t want to lose her. I loved her.’ He began to cry in a helpless, dreary way.
‘Your wife may have had a soft spot for the captain,’ said Hamish, ‘but she loved money more than anything or anybody. She knew now what the captain had known.
‘Henry was awake that night after the party, watching and waiting. Perhaps he planned to follow Bartlett when the captain went out as planned with Mr Pomfret, wait until they separated, shoot Bartlett, and throw the blame on Mr Pomfret. But he happened to see the captain going out long before the appointed time. Having rigged it to look like suicide, he returned and went to bed, confident he would never be found out. Luck had been on his side. No one else had been awake when the captain went out.
‘Then Vera told him she knew Bartlett was the author of the play. I think Henry agreed to pay her while waiting his chance. As in the first murder, he waited for the right opportunity and seized it. He took a can of roach powder from the cupboard under the sink in the school kitchen, poured it into a bowl of cake mix, and then baked that batch of cakes himself. It was easily done. Everyone was milling about, beating up cake mix and putting cakes in the oven.’
‘But Vera couldn’t have suspected Henry,’ cried Priscilla. ‘She believed Freddy had done it. She was proud of him.’
‘She wanted to think Freddy had done it. It made her into the femme fatale she’d always wanted to be. It removed any fear of Henry. Henry must have denied he murdered Bartlett. He wouldn’t have wanted Vera to know that as well. She would have asked for double the money. Henry put the gloves into Freddy’s room, a clumsy trick, but it paid off. Freddy thought Vera had murdered Bartlett, and so he confessed.
‘I took a lot of the baking to the fair myself. But other people were going up and carrying stuff as well. Henry and Priscilla arrived with Mr and Mrs Wellington. They had boxes of cakes in the car. All Henry had to do was extract his box and put it with all the things he’d bought at the fair.
‘I don’t think he even needed to give Vera the cakes. He knew her passion for sweet stuff. All he had to do was put them in her room. He had nothing to do with that dummy strung up over her bed. The Chief Superintendent here already knows that was a particularly nasty trick played by Jessica Villiers and Diana Bryce.’
Jessica began to cry, but Diana looked defiantly round the room.
‘You can’t arrest us for a trick,’ she said. ‘We didn’t murder Peter.’
‘But Henry Withering did,’ said Hamish flatly.
Henry leaned his head against the back of his chair. He appeared very relaxed and amused.
‘You’re guessing and you know it,’ he said. ‘You haven’t a shred of proof.’
Hamish went out to the hall and came back in carrying a large box.
‘After the supposed suicide of Bartlett had been discovered to be murder, you gave this parcel to Charles French of London Television News. You told him it was some clothes you didnae want and he was to leave it at their reception desk in London and you would pick it up when you went back south. French didn’t think anything about it. You are a famous playwright. Perhaps you gave him some exclusive background.’
Hamish opened the box. ‘In here,’ he said, ‘we have cleaning equipment from the gun room, and a pair of thin plastic gloves like the kind women wear when they’re bleaching their hair. In the bathroom cabinet in your room, there was a clutter of stuff left by previous occupants, including a hairdressing product for bleaching the hair. There is also a raincoat stained with gun oil. It was clever of you. The post office would have told us if anyone from the castle had posted a parcel.’ He nodded to Anderson and MacNab.
‘Wait a bit,’ said Colonel Halburton-Smythe. ‘You cannot arrest Mr Withering. He’s my daughter’s fiancé!’
‘All right,’ said Henry. ‘Now you’ve got that parcel, there’s no point in me pretending any longer. But why couldn’t it have been anyone other than you, Macbeth? To be found out by the local yokel!’ He gave a harsh laugh. ‘But it was the way you described it. Peter was sharing my flat. You’re right about him adopting other people’s enthusiasms. I was working on a play, Animal Firm, and he said he never went to the theatre because you couldn’t see jolly plays any more. Then he said he would write one. God, how I laughed. But he had tremendous energy and could do without sleep and he worked day and night. Before he could send it to anyone, he started pursuing some girl, I forget her name. He forgot all about the play. Anyway, he wasn’t paying any rent, and I told him to leave.
