by M C Beaton
And then, to her surprise, Matthew Cowper came up to her and said, “Let’s get out of here.”
“We’re not allowed to leave,” said Jenny wearily.
“I thought instead of having dinner here, we could go down to that Italian place in the village,” said Matthew. “We can tell that super where we are.”
“Oh, all right,” said Jenny wearily, “only don’t murder me on the road.”
Matthew gave a surprised laugh but went to the library.
He returned a few moments later. “We’re fixed,” he said. “They say we can go. We can take my car.”
They went out in silence, conscious of the watching eyes of the policemen, who had returned from a futile search of the moors and were now standing beside their buses, joking and laughing.
“What are they so cheerful about?” asked Jenny as she got into the passenger seat of Matthew’s car.
“Overtime,” he said briefly.
He accelerated past the press, who were huddled outside the castle gates, and drove down to Lochdubh. How it had changed from an idyllic village, thought Jenny. Great waves were surging down the loch, which was lit with fitful gleams of sunlight. Boats bobbed crazily at anchor. Rose-petals from the cottage gardens were blowing down the waterfront and the wind held a chill edge.
The restaurant was full of locals. “I am looking forward to some Italian cooking,” said Matthew.
It was a small restaurant, formally a craft-shop, with chequered table-cloths and candles in wine bottles. It was quite full, but they found a table in a corner. The prices were very cheap, which meant that the locals had begun to patronize it. The restaurant was a mixture of British and Italian cooking.
Jenny and Matthew settled for spaghetti Bolognese and a bottle of Chianti.
“Do you think we’ll ever get home to London?” asked Jenny drearily. “I’ll need to phone the office and tell them I’ve got to be here for a few more days at least.”
“I’ve already phoned mine,” said Matthew. “They’re all right about it but I am going to have to put up with some pretty tiresome jokes about signing up with a marital agency.”
“Me, too,” said Jenny. “Why did you join? Can’t you get a girl on your own?”
“Don’t be rude,” said Matthew huffily. “I’m a pretty common sort of chap but I want to go far and I need a wife with a good social background. What about you?”
“I’m too shy. I got tired of dating and hoping for Mr Right to come along. It seemed an exciting idea. Also I knew I would be meeting men who were in the same boat. I never thought I would land up in the middle of a murder investigation.”
She looked at Matthew. His normally unexceptional face looked sinister in the flickering candle-light and she added suddenly, “Did you really steal that whisky?”
“Of course not,” said Matthew hotly, and then, in the same moment, he was overcome with a desire to tell the truth. “Well, I did,” he said in the next breath. “I’ve never stolen anything in my life before and I could easily have afforded to pay for it. I went down to the bar late and they had forgotten to lock it up. I was going to ring the bell and get someone to fetch me something and then I found myself looking at all those bottles, just lying there. It was like turning a kid loose in a sweetshop. I had pretty poor beginnings and I remember when my mother died, longing for a stiff drink to kill the pain and not being able to afford one. I got an excited feeling, just from pinching it, and then I had the safe knowledge that if I were caught out, I could make some excuse and pay for it. The maids must have seen the bottle in my room, for I never even bothered to hide it. Have you ever stolen anything?”
“No,” said Jenny, and then coloured. “Just the once. I was going out on this date and one of the other secretaries had this marvellous new shade of lipstick. I noticed she had left it on her desk. So I took it. I was to meet my date in a pub in Chancery Lane, so there I was all lipsticked up and do you know, he stood me up. And the next day, the other secretary raised a song and dance about that missing lipstick. I could have said, “Oh, sorry, here it is. I was going on a date and I borrowed it.” But the words stuck in my throat. And she did go on to the senior partner, on and on, and I began to be terrified she’d call the police. I could almost see that lipstick through the leather of my handbag. At lunchtime, I threw the wretched thing into a rubbish bin in the street.”
Matthew raised his glass and grinned. “Partners in crime,” he said.
Jenny did not return the toast. She looked at him seriously. “Who did it?” she asked.
He shrugged. “I don’t know. But I think the police are making a mistake focusing solely on us. Why should it be one of us? Look at it this way. Peta was in a sulk and probably wanted to leave. So she decided to borrow the hotel car and drive to London through the night. But she couldn’t resist eating and so she took a hamper of goodies with her for the journey. But being a glutton, the quarry was as far as she got. She was sitting there, stuffing her face, when some local madman came on her.”
“If only that could turn out to be the case,” said Jenny wistfully.
“Oh, forget the murder. Tell me about yourself.”
Jenny told him about her idea of taking her law exams, and to her surprise and delight, he was enthusiastic. “Of course you should,” he said warmly. “You’re a bright girl. You could go far.”
And as Jenny talked on, he eyed her speculatively. If she got over that shyness and diffidence of hers, she would probably be successful. She looked bright enough. And there was bound to be money in the background. As a pair, they could grow together, go far.
The spaghetti arrived, enormous portions of it, and soothed with carbohydrate and alcohol, they talked on until they found they were the last in the restaurant.
“Time to go,” said Matthew reluctantly.
He drove her back to the castle. He thought it might be a start if he kissed her. Perhaps just before they went into the castle. Then they might have a cosy drink in the bar. Then…who knows?
But as they approached the castle, Superintendent Peter Daviot came out to meet them, his face stern in the half-light. Behind him stood Blair, Hamish, Anderson and MacNab.
“Matthew Cowper,” said the super, “will you come with us to the library? We have some further questions to ask you.”
“No,” said Jenny desperately. “You must have made a mistake.”
Mr Daviot ignored her. “Mr Cowper?”
Head down, Matthew allowed himself to be ushered into the library. “Sit doon!” barked Blair menacingly.
Matthew sat down in a hard-backed chair facing the long desk behind which the detectives and Hamish were ranged. He felt like the little Cavalier boy in that well-known painting, When Did You Last See Your Father?
“Now,” said Mr Daviot, studying a sheaf of notes, “during an extensive interview, you said you did not know Peta Gore, had never known her or heard anything about her.”
“Yes,” croaked Matthew, his small eyes ranging wildly from face to face.
“The brokerage firm for which you work is Waring’s, one of the biggest in the City, is it not?”
“Yes.”
Mr Daviot leaned back in his chair.
“Would it surprise you to know that Peta Gore was one of your firm’s biggest clients?”
Matthew looked at the floor.
“And that she once paid a rare visit to the office and was seen talking to you? Shall we start at the beginning again, Mr Cowper? And try to be truthful this time.”
Chapter Eight
When constabulary duty’s to be done,
The policeman’s lot is not a happy one!
—W. S. Gilbert
“Oh, THAT Mrs Gore,” said Matthew feebly.
“My theory is this,” said Mr Daviot. “You were handling shares for Peta Gore and you embezzled her money and you killed her to silence her.”
Hamish noticed that a look of relief flashed across Matthew’s eyes. “No, that’s not the case,” he said.
He dabbed at his mouth with his handkerchief and then leaned back in his chair, as if forcing all his tensed muscles to relax. “Waring’s is too good a firm for anything like that to happen. There are checks and double-checks. Besides, it’s a huge company. I have nothing to do with Mrs Gore’s money.”
“But one of the office juniors distinctly remembers her visiting the office and you talking to her.”
That would be Mandy, thought Matthew bitterly. Always gossiping about something.
“Look, I’ll come clean with you,” he said. “I didn’t know the Peta Gore here was anything to do with a visiting client I met several years ago. She wasn’t as gross then. Had she been, I would have remembered her right away.”
“And when did you remember?”
“It was right after she was killed. It all came back into my mind. But she never had had anything to do with me, so I thought, well, why bring it up?” demanded Matthew with a feeble perkiness. “Can I go now?”
He rose from his chair.
“Sit down,” said Mr Daviot quietly. “We haven’t even started yet.”
Three hours later, Matthew crawled from the room. It had been like some dreadful confessional. They had dragged every bit of his life out of him. How quiet the castle was! The wind had died. He reached his room and stood gloomily in the doorway, surveying the mess. Grey fingerprint dust lay everywhere. His ransacked drawers were open. They were supposed to put everything back the way they found it, or that’s what usually happened in the films. The fact that they hadn’t made him feel like a criminal. He undressed quickly, switched out the light, and stood at the window for a moment. Moonlight bathed the castle gardens. Beyond the gardens were the moors and above them the mountains. It was all so weird, so strange, like being somewhere far from civilization. His shabby Teddy bear, which went everywhere with him, had been propped neatly on the pillow. He could only be relieved that they hadn’t taken it apart.
He climbed into bed and clutched the Teddy to him, praying to the God in whom he never really had believed to get him safely out of Sutherland.
§
Hamish Macbeth was awake as well, dragged out of sleep by the insistent ringing of the phone in the police station. He crawled to the receiver and picked it up.
“Hello, copper!” came the breezy voice of his cousin, Rory Grant.
Hamish groaned. “Don’t you ever sleep?”
“I’m on the dog-shift. Nothing’s happening. Nothing like what’s going on in your neck of the woods. Madmen running around a castle with meat cleavers. Why I’m calling is that I’ve had our City chap dig around a bit. Do you know this Peta owned a big block of shares in Rag Trade Limited, and Rag Trade Limited is one of Sir Bernard’s companies, a company it was once hinted was a front for arms dealing? Now if this Peta had decided to pull out, she might have ruined him. His shares would certainly have slumped.”
“I’m sick and tired o’ suspects,” said Hamish waspishly. “All I want iss one murderer.”
“You’re ungrateful. Solve the bloody case yourself then.”
“I’m sorry,” said Hamish wearily. “How’s your friend, the one who went to the funny farm?”
“Back at another funny farm. They let him out. Psychiatrist said there was nothing up with him apart from stress. Then today, he mooned at the editor.”
“You mean he looked silly?”
“No, you old-fashioned thing. He dropped his trousers and waved his bare bum at the editor. Editor phones funny farm in a rage and psychiatrist says editor must have provoked him. So another nut-house is quickly found and guess who had to take him there? Me!”
“You’re a tolerant lot,” marvelled Hamish. “I would haff thought he would just haff been fired.”
“Well, he’s been with the paper for yonks, and a very respected soul. Just went round the twist sudden-like, although I suppose there have been pointers for a time. He came in with a tonsure last year.”
“Surely that told ye something?”
“No. Men and women get a reputation of being great eccentrics and in the meantime no one really notices they’re stark-raving bonkers.”
“What job does this friend of yours do on the paper?”
“Religious correspondent.”
“Oh, dear. Well, if you can dig up any madness that applies to any of them up here, let me know.”
“Expect more guests, that I do know,” said Rory.
“Who?”
“Crystal Debenham’s parents are rushing up to collect their chick, or that’s what they said when interviewed today. Jenny Trask’s mother is also heading north, and Mr and Mrs Freemantle, Deborah’s parents.”
“I could do without them,” said Hamish. “I’ll see if I can get them billeted elsewhere. I’ve got enough people on my hands and I don’t want my suspects diluted.”
He said goodbye to Rory and went back to bed. If only he could solve the case before these relatives arrived on the scene.
The faces of them all and what they had said went running through his mind.
He awoke suddenly at six in the morning and stared at the ceiling. It had been there, in his dreams, the clue to it all. There was one piece that did not fit. He was looking for a madman or madwoman, that he now knew. Jenny had been right. One of them was mad, mad enough to hold Peta down and shove an apple in her mouth.
He washed and dressed and went down to the harbour, where the fishing boats were coming in. He needed two men, two men who were prepared to lie. Archie Maclean was too much of a risk. He would gossip about it all beforehand. Then he saw the Nairn brothers, Luke and Paul, walking along the harbour. They were both huge men, over six feet tall, with mild, childlike eyes.
“Could you come back to the police station with me?” said Hamish.
“Whit hae we done?” demanded Paul suspiciously.
“Nothing. I want you both to do me a favour.”
They followed him along to the police station and into the narrow kitchen at the back.
“Now,” said Hamish, “I want you both tae tell one great whopping lie for me.”
“And whit’s in it for us?” asked Luke.
“You will be helping to trap a murderer.”
Luke leaned back in his chair so that he could look through the inner open door of the kitchen which led into the living room.
“My, thon’s the grand TV set ye hae there, Hamish,” he said. “Paul and me dinnae hae one. We’re lodging at Mrs Gunn’s ower the back and she willnae let us watch hers. Keeps it in her bedroom.”
“This iss the blackmail,” said Hamish hotly.
“Aye, well,” said Paul as he and his brother rose to their feet, “we’d best be off.”
“Wait!” said Hamish. “All right, you can have the TV. Sit down and I’ll tell you what you have to do.”
§
Priscilla could feel her bad temper rising. Another lousy night’s sleep and Sean too hungover to help with the breakfast. The maids were there, but they were too over-excited and gossipy and kept dropping things and forgetting things.
Then she had to deal with the guests. “Are we ever going to get out of here?” demanded John Taylor. He was on edge.
“I’m afraid that is up to the police,” said Priscilla. “But unless an arrest is made today, I think they will probably go on questioning you all.”
“It’s all snobbery,” said Mary French crossly, but her twitching face showing her nervousness. “I don’t believe they have bothered to question any of the staff. That man Blair has a chip on his shoulder. He wants to get at us because we are his social superiors.”
“So much for John Major’s classless society,” said Matthew. “Can’t see that ever happening with people like you around, Mary.”
“Oh,” retorted Mary nastily, her eyes narrowing, acumen replacing vanity in her distress, “you were only sucking up to me because you wanted a foot up the social ladder, or perhaps we shouldn’t mention that!”
“What did the police want to see you about, Matthew
?” asked Sir Bernard.
“They found out that Peta dealt with the company I work for and that I had once met her,” said Matthew. “I really didn’t remember I’d ever met her until after the murder and then I thought it might look a bit suspicious. God, they’re digging into backgrounds all over the City. I’ll be lucky if I have a job to go back to.”
Sir Bernard stared at the table-cloth. “Bastards,” he muttered.
Only Jenny looked at all composed. She knew her mother would be there that day. She would see the police and take her home. Her mother had said on the phone that she had contacted the law offices where Jenny worked and they had agreed that Jenny could have a few days at home to recuperate. She glanced at Matthew Cowper. Prince Charming had turned into a frog. She noticed his too-wide mouth and too-small eyes, his showy cravat, and the badge of his blazer, which did not stand for any school, club or university, only the product of some designer’s mind. And yet, last night he had seemed so likeable, a soul mate, and if the police hadn’t been waiting on the doorstep, she would have let him kiss her.
Deborah had lost a lot of her bounce. She was glad her parents were coming. It had all been a nightmare. Priscilla was pouring coffee. Deborah summoned her by snapping her fingers. Jenny noticed that Priscilla’s mouth tightened a little but she went over to Deborah and said politely, “Miss Freernantle?”
“There is still no light on the tower stair,” said Deborah. “See to it.”
Priscilla nodded and moved off. What a terrible job she has, thought Jenny. Imagine having to endure being spoken to like that.
Priscilla found Mr Johnson. “King George the Second is complaining about no light on the tower stair. I’ll go and fix it by taking one of the bulbs out of the bedrooms.”
