by M C Beaton
Frank Ferguson, the baker, was coming up the stairs as Hamish was leaving.
“Bad business,” he said. “How are the bairns?”
“They’ll be all right,” said Hamish, “but stop them watching horror movies. They shouldn’t be watching them at all.”
“Och, what can you do these days? They all watch them. Was it the fat wumman?”
“Yes, it was.”
“Ate herself to death?”
“Maybe,” said Hamish curtly. “I’ll let you know.”
∨ Death of a Glutton ∧
5
“She’s the sort of woman now,” said Mould…
“one would almost feel disposed to bury for nothing: and do it neatly, too!”
—Charles Dickens
The police cars drove up to the castle. The news of Peta’s death spread like wildfire. Jenny still sat where she was, hugging herself, hearing the commotion and thinking in a dreary neurotic way that it was all to do with her shame.
And yet what had she done that was so terribly wrong? Admittedly it had happened to her before after too many drinks at an office party, when she had somehow ended up in bed with a solicitor’s clerk. But that, had been London, where morals were looser. And yet how could she, the romantic, the dreamer of knights on white chargers, have so easily leaped into bed with some labourer? Oh, the snobbery of sex. Something at the back of her mind was telling her wryly that had it been some successful businessman, she would not be feeling so low. Her friends had one-night stands and giggled about them. Perhaps she was a bit of a prude.
She rose shakily and went to the window of her room, which overlooked the front of the castle, and then drew back with a little cry of fright. There were police cars down there.
Scottish law was vastly different from English law. Could they have her arrested for immorality? A hammering at the door made her jump.
“Who’s there?” she croaked.
“It’s Maria. You’d better come downstairs.”
Sensible tweedy Maria, thought Jenny. She would look after her. Besides, Jenny was one of Maria’s clients, so it was Maria’s duty to look after her.
She opened the door.
“Peta’s been found dead,” said Maria abruptly. “The police want to interview everyone.”
All Jenny felt in that moment was a mixture of amazement and sheer gratitude. What was her lapse from grace compared to this?
“I’ll come right away,” she said. “What happened to Peta? Did she have an accident?”
“It appears not,” said Maria, running a worried hand through her short hair. “They say it’s murder.”
“How? When?”
“I’ll tell you downstairs. I’ve got to get the others.”
Jenny walked down the stairs with a feeling of excitement. Peta murdered! Mr Johnson would have his hands too full with that to worry about her.
At reception she was told to go to the lounge, where the rest of Checkmate were gathered, the police deciding to start with them and get around to the rest of the hotel guests later. Interviewing was to take place in the library.
♦
Hamish Macbeth arrived in time for the first of the interviews. Blair glared at him, but Hamish quietly placed himself in a corner of the library.
Jessica Fitt was ushered in. She was, thought Hamish, only about thirty-two, but her prematurely grey hair made her look older. She had chosen clothes, consciously or unconsciously, which aged her as well. She had a vague, kind face, a thin mouth and rather good eyes. She scratched one hip ferociously before she sat down and, once seated, proceeded to scratch her armpits in a nervous frenzy like some overwrought genteel monkey.
“Now, Miss Fitt,” said Blair in the Anglified accent he used for interviewing ‘the nobs’, as he called them. “Just a few questions. Mrs Worth has given us your file, so we know your background and address in London. What we want from you to begin with are your movements yesterday evening.”
“Let me see,” said Jessica, “we all had dinner and Peta was there and then after dinner she went straight up to bed, so you must want to know about after that. Well, I sat in the lounge talking to Mr Trumpington and then he said there was a good film on television and so we went to the television lounge to watch it.”
“You have television sets in your rooms, don’t you?”
“Yes, but we are just friends and it would not be very correct to have a man in my room or go to his when there is a perfectly good television set downstairs.”
“What was the movie?”
“It was Monsieur Hulot’s Holiday, Channel Four.”
“So what time would that be?”
“The film started at nine-thirty. I don’t know when it finished, but it isn’t all that long, although you have to account for time for the ads.”
“We can check it in the newspaper,” said Blair. “And then what did you do?”
“I went up to my room and went to bed. Maria has been organizing very early starts.”
“And Mr Trumpington?”
“I think he went to bed as well,” said Jessica and scratched her knee.
“Now, Miss Fitt, can you think of anyone in the party who would want to murder Peta Gore?”
“Oh, we all thought of killing her,” said Jessica and then wriggled miserably. “Well, you know what I mean. “I could kill that woman,” that kind of thing. But I cannot think of anyone who would actually have done it.”
“Do you know if Peta Gore was a wealthy woman?”
“I know that. She was very wealthy. Worth three million.”
Blair’s gaze sharpened. “And how do you know that?”
“Because she told us. She had a fax from her accountant delivered to her at the table and she announced it. Someone said something about being surprised that marital agencies could rake in that sort of money and Peta said that it was due to her late husband’s fortune and a good stockbroker.”
“That will be all for now, Miss Fitt.”
Jessica blinked at him in surprised relief and exited, scratching.
Blair looked round triumphantly. “Well, we don’t need tae look any further. She was worth three million, she doesn’t have children, her niece is here with her, so the niece did it.”
“I don’t think it’s going to be as easy as that,” volunteered Hamish.
Blair gave a snort of disgust and demanded that Crystal be shown in.
Crystal had found something black to wear, although black was the only thing decent about her outfit. It consisted of a short divided skirt and a halter-top that left an expanse of bare, lightly tanned midriff. She sat down and crossed her legs.
“Your name is Crystal Debenham, and you are how old?” began Blair.
“Nineteen.”
“Job?”
“Not yet,” said Crystal huskily.
“What were your relations with your aunt?”
“Used to be all right,” said Crystal laconically. “When I was at school, she’d come and take me out for tea and things like that. More than my parents did. She was jolly and good company.”
“And when did she ask you to come up here?”
“The morning she went. She’d found out Maria was up here with a group and phoned and asked me to come. So I packed and came. First time I’d seen Auntie since I got back from finishing school in Switzerland.”
“Do you benefit from your aunt’s will?”
“Yes, I think I get all of it,” said Crystal equably.
“Therefore – ” Blair hunched over the desk – “you had a strong motive for wanting rid of her.”
“Well, I wouldn’t have liked her to leave the money to the old cat’s home or something,” said Crystal, “but Mummy and Daddy are quite rich, so it’s not as if I was lusting after her millions, now was it?”
Blair gave her a look of irritation. “What were you doing yesterday evening after dinner?”
She frowned in concentration. “Oh, I know – I went upstairs same time as Auntie, went t
o my room. That’s it.”
“What did you do in your room?”
“I painted my toe-nails.” Crystal opened her eyes to their fullest. “That took simply ages because I’d painted them pink and then I thought, I’ve this new orange lipstick, why not paint them orange? So I took off the pink and put on the orange, and then of course I had to do my fingernails.” She waggled long orange-painted fingernails at him.
“And you did not see your aunt or hear her go out?”
“No, heard nothing. Can I go now?”
“Miss Debenham,” said Blair, his voice harsh and his accent slipping, “yer Auntie was murdered and you don’t seem to give a damn.”
“Maybe I’m in shock,” said Crystal, unmoved. “But she had become a bit of a pain, slobbering all over her food. Gross!”
“Are there any witnesses who can testify that you were in your room all the time?”
“No, although I had the television on. Someone might have heard that.”
“You could have left that on while you lured your aunt out on to the moors into the quarry and murdered her,” roared Blair.
Crystal leaned back in her chair, and her voice was silky, “Oh, do be so very careful, whatever your name is, before you start accusing me, or it will be me who puts you in the dock.”
Hamish leaned forward and surveyed her with interest. For under that sluttish appearance of hers, Crystal had all the tough arrogance of a privileged background. She was either too stupid to cover up the fact that she expected to inherit her aunt’s money and was not grieving over her death, or she was clever enough to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth.
Blair looked like a baffled bull. “We will be questioning you, Miss Debenham, as soon as we have the forensic reports.”
“Do that,” said Crystal languidly and rose and swayed from the room.
Blair struck the desk with his fist. “That bitch did it. I’ll stake ma life on it.”
Jenkins, the maìtre d’hotel, came in. Blair looked up angrily. “We dinnae need you yet.”
“But I have vital information,” said Jenkins pompously.
“Out wi’ it then!”
“I was passing Mrs Gore’s bedroom earlier in the week and I heard Miss Maria Worth threatening her.”
“Ho, and whit did she say?”
“She shouted something like, “If I have to kill you to get rid of you, then I’ll do it.” It appears to be a well-known fact that Miss Worth wished to buy Mrs Gore out and Mrs Gore would not be bought out.”
“Thanks, Jenkins. Tell Maria Worth to step in here.”
“Mr Jenkins to you,” snapped the maìtre d’hotel and stalked out.
“Still think Crystal did it?” asked Jimmy Anderson.
“Aye, maybe. Let’s see this wumman.”
Maria came in. It was evident to all she had been crying.
“Miss Worth,” said Blair. “I’ll come straight to the point. You were overheard threatening to kill Peta Gore because she would not let you buy her out.”
“Yes, I did,” said Maria shakily. “She was ruining everything with her appalling eating habits and by trying to flirt with the men. I was furious with her. But I did not kill her. It’s just something one says when one is furious.”
“Oh, does one,” sneered Blair. “Where were you last night?”
“I was in my room making calls to various clients in London to see how they were getting on. That would be right up until eleven o’clock. The hotel switchboard will have a record of those calls.”
“Mrs Gore could have been killed after eleven o’clock.”
“Well, I didn’t do it,” said Maria wearily.
“Apart from her niece,” asked Hamish suddenly, “did any of the clients of Checkmate know Peta before this trip to the Highlands?”
“I don’t think so. Why?”
“I just wondered. I mean, you go into the background of your clients pretty thoroughly, do you not? Would there have been something there that Peta might have got hold of and threatened to use?”
“Peta took no interest in the business.”
Hamish remembered what Priscilla had told him. “She had enough interest to operate your computer files and find out where you were,” he put in. “I had this idea she might have had hopes of finding a husband for herself, which might lead her to check up on backgrounds.”
“Yes, she could have done that,” said Maria slowly. “She never helped in the office, but she was very nosy, and yes, she did want another husband.”
“And did any of the men show any particular interest in her at any time?” Hamish asked.
“Ah’ll ask the questions,” muttered Blair, his Glasgow accent getting thicker the more irritated he became. It was just like Hamish Macbeth to start cluttering up the scene with red herrings when it was clear that the only person with a real motive was Crystal.
But Maria was still looking at Hamish. “Yes, three of them: John Taylor, Matthew Cowper and Sir Bernard. It was after she had announced she was worth three million. I think those three got temporarily greedy. We were off to the theatre in Strathbane and they did rather vie for her attention.”
“Was anyone else heard threatening her life, apart from yourself?” demanded Blair.
“Well, just in a joky way. When we went out on a fishing-boat trip, I remember Jessica Fitt and Peter Trumpington capping each other’s ideas about ways to kill Peta.”
“And why would they do that?”
“Peta Gore had become a thoroughly repulsive woman,” said Maria tearfully. “She used to be such fun, such a nice person. That’s why I’m crying. I can’t help remembering what she used to be like.”
When Maria had left, Hamish said, “I should tell you that Sean Gallagher, the cook, says that a picnic hamper is missing from the kitchen. It was taken along with some food during the night. It is also my belief that Sean has done time in Glasgow for assaulting his wife.”
Blair sent for Sean, who came in cringing. “I gather ye’ve got a record,” said Blair without his usual pugnacity, for Blair himself was from Glasgow and Glasgow was the Holy City and Sean was therefore a spiritual brother.
“Only a few months,” whined Sean. “Ah’m telling ye, it’s this wimmin’s lib. I only knocked the missus about a bit and they put me in the poky.”
“We’ll come tae that later. Now about the stuff that’s missing frae the kitchen.”
“Aye.” Sean looked relieved the subject had moved from his background. “A picnic hamper, bread and ham, a meat pie, fruit, a bottle o’ Beaujolais – that’s about as far as I can tell ye at the moment.”
“Would ye know if anyone had been in the kitchens during the night?”
“Not after ten o’clock.”
“What if someone wanted a late coffee?”
“There’s a coffee-machine in the bar.”
“Aren’t the kitchens locked at night?”
“No.”
Hamish shifted uneasily. Archie had told him about Sean’s threatening Peta. But if he told Blair that, then the whole story about the cat would come out and Priscilla’s business might collapse. He bit his lip and decided to interrogate Sean on his own later.
Blair asked Sean some more questions about whether he had seen any of the guests near Peta on the evening of her death and then let him go.
“Well, ah’m packing this in fur the night,” said Blair. “We’ll be back in the morning. We should hae a report from the pathologist by then and the forensic boys might hae matched these tyre tracks to one o’ the cars here.”
The rest who were waiting in the hotel lounge were not relieved to be told they would be questioned in the morning. All had been geared up to getting it over with as soon as possible.
Jenny had gathered from Jessica that the police were interested in where everyone had been the evening before and heaved a sigh of relief. She did not want to discuss Brian Mulligan or have to produce him as a witness.
But her fears rushed back as Mr Johnson cam
e up to her. “Miss Trask,” he said severely, “you took out the Volvo and left it standing in the storm with the sunroof and the windows open. It took two maids an hour to clean and dry the inside of the car. Practically every other hotel would charge you for the use of a car. You abused the privilege and I am very angry with you.”
Jenny smiled at him. She was so relieved to find he was only angry about the car and not about her bedfellow.
“I am so sorry,” she said. “Give me a bill for the maids’ work and I will gladly pay it and for any damage to the car. I insist.”
“Well, I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” said Mr Johnson, mollified. “Just be more careful in future.”
He turned and addressed the whole group. “I am afraid the press will be here in the morning. They are already phoning. We will have gamekeepers at the castle gates to keep them out, so you should not be disturbed. If any of them sneak in, report them to me.”
Jenny brightened. She wondered what to wear when she took a stroll down to the castle gates in the morning. She could already see her picture on the front page of the tabloids. Then her face fell. Of course she could not let that happen. Imagine all her friends knowing she was reduced to going to a marital agency to find a partner.
“Newspapers,” echoed Peter Trumpington in a hollow voice. He turned to Jessica. “They’ll ferret out everything about our backgrounds.”
Someone let out a hiss of dismay. Jessica glanced quickly around but could not see anyone looking exceptionally disturbed. “Why should you worry?” Jessica asked him. “Do you have anything sordid in your past?”
“I was engaged to a starlet once and was in the papers a lot. She dumped me and that was in the papers. I don’t want to be reminded of that humiliation.”
“Perhaps the best thing would be to make sure you don’t speak to the press and then don’t read any newspapers until this is all over.”
Peter looked at her with affection. “You always say the right thing,” he said.
♦
Sir Bernard found he was going ‘off’ Deborah. She made him feel ancient. She was wildly excited about the murder and fancied herself as some sort of Miss Marple, suspecting everyone in turn.
“Gosh,” she said, not without a touch of malice, “look at the way you yourself were after her for her money. You could have got her to change her will and men bumped her off. Not that I can see you shoving an apple in her mouth. I would think a good clobber with a blunt instrument would be more in your line.”
