Death of a Glutton hm-8

by M C Beaton

  “I suppose so,” said Sir Bernard miserably. “Such a silly little girl.”

  “A silly little girl you were holding hands with on the day of the boat trip,” put in Hamish.

  “Well, I thought she was a jolly sort, but then I went off her,” said Sir Bernard. “Anyway, what has all this got to do with the murder?”

  “We’re just feeling our way, sir,” said Blair, throwing a nasty look at Hamish, a look tinged with jealousy. Hamish’s Highland lack of snobbery and his ability to ask questions of rich and poor without making any difference between them always riled Blair.

  Matthew Cowper, Jenny and Mary French were still to be interviewed. Sir Bernard came out but said nothing to them and disappeared into the grounds. They all waited anxiously to be called.

  But inside, Blair had just received a phone call from Peta Gore’s lawyers. “Now here’s something,” he said, his piggy eyes gleaming. “On the evening of her death, Peta phoned up her lawyer at home, that’s the senior partner, Mr Wotherspoon, and told him she would be changing her will. He said naturally that she should wait until her return to London and call in at the office and sign the papers, but she said she wanted it done right away and would fax him a temporary will in the morning. “That niece of mine is a useless slut,” she said. But she didnae say who the new beneficiary was. Now if Crystal knew her aunt was about to change her will, there’s a motive. Get her in here again!”

  So Matthew and Mary and Jenny watched as Crystal was led back in for more questioning, all three wishing it were their turn so that they could get the ordeal over with.

  Hamish slipped out of the interview room and went in search of John Taylor. He found him in his room, sitting in an armchair by the window reading the newspapers.

  “What is it now?” asked John wearily.

  “I just wanted to make sure you didn’t really remember which one it was you once saw in court.”

  “No, and now I don’t think I really recognized anyone. There is a great deal of the theatre about us barristers and a desire to show off. Not very worthy motives.”

  “I do not want to upset you,” said Hamish kindly, “but I really would like to know why, at your age, you were thinking of starting a family again.”

  The window was open and a line of pine trees outside bent in the rising wind. Clouds covered the mountaintops. A bleak and alien landscape, thought John. Here no bird sings. He longed to be home again. He thought Hamish looked a decent-enough fellow, but he had no intention of telling him the truth.

  “You are a young man,” he said. “I am old and no longer feel immortal. I have a craving for a family life again. My wife died when the children were young and I brought them up. It was sometimes tiresome and sometimes arduous, but always rewarding.” He suddenly remembered little bright images, Brian scoring a century at cricket for his school, Penelope going off to her first dance. To his horror, his eyes filled with tears and he brushed them angrily away.

  “I am sorry to have disturbed you,” said Hamish awkwardly. He went downstairs and back to the library just as Jenny Trask was being brought in for questioning. Crystal had obviously survived the second bout of interrogation.

  Jenny sat down facing Blair, disliking his heavy features, his truculent look. She looked around for Hamish, but he was sitting behind her.

  “Now, Miss Trask,” said Blair, “you have caused us a great deal of trouble. Whit…what possessed ye to leave all the windows and the sunroof open in that Volvo?”

  “It was hot when I drove back,” said Jenny, “and I forgot about it. I was tired. I went to bed.”

  “The barman said you had drinks in the bar wi’ one o’ the forestry workers. Old friend?”

  “No, I had only met him that day…in Lochdubh.”

  “Oh, a pick-up,” sneered Blair, and Jenny winced.

  Please God, she thought, don’t let the barman have seen us both going upstairs. But he had been off somewhere. The place looked empty.

  “Right, Miss Trask. Now tell us what you were doing on the evening Mrs Gore was murdered?”

  “Oh, that. I took one of the hotel cars and drove…”

  “You what!”

  “Oh.” Jenny put her hand to her mouth and paled. “It was the Volvo, but I went to the police station, didn’t I, Hamish?”

  “And what were you seeing this Romeo of the Heilands aboot…or shouldn’t I ask?” demanded Blair.

  “I was only going to tell him that I felt uneasy, that I thought there was someone mad in the castle. Didn’t I, Hamish?”

  “Yes,” agreed Hamish, “but you told me later that you thought you were mistaken. Miss Trask only stayed about fifteen minutes,” he said to Blair. “She must have left about nine-thirty.”

  “And did you go straight back to the castle?” asked Blair.

  “Yes.”

  “Did anyone see you?”

  “Yes, the barman. I went straight to the bar for a coffee.”

  “We’ll check that. See here, Miss Trask, I don’t like coincidences, and you had that car out twice and you left it so that any clues would be destroyed.”

  “You mean that was the car used by the murderer?” whispered Jenny.

  What is she playing at? thought Hamish crossly. She knows very well it was that car.

  “Yes, and if that murderer was you, I would advise you to confess and get it over with,” shouted Blair suddenly.

  Jenny burst into tears and Blair gave a sound of disgust and ordered MacNab to take her out.

  “Who’s next in this poxy lot?” growled Blair, consulting his list. “Let’s see. Matthew Cowper. Send him in.”

  But at that moment, the phone beside Blair rang. He picked it up and listened intently. A slow, evil smile spread across his face. When he put the phone down, he looked triumphantly around. “Ah’ve found the killer,” he said, his Glaswegian accent at its broadest. No need to toady any more to the nobs. The great Blair had found the murderer.

  “Oh, aye,” said Jimmy Anderson cynically. “Who?”

  “Mary French.”

  “Aw, away wi’ ye,” said Jimmy MacNab, startled into impertinent insubordination. “Thon’s naethin’ more than a wee bittie o’ a schoolteacher.”

  “She’s killed afore,” said Blair with a grin. “That was the Yard. She was up in court for murder ten years ago. She killed her own mither.”

  “Did she go to prison?” asked Hamish, startled.

  “Naw, she got off. Said her mither was dying o’ cancer and had begged her to give her an overdose of sleeping pills. And the jury believed her. Mercy killing. Pah! They kill once, they’ll kill again.”

  “And was John Taylor prosecuting?”

  Blair glared at Hamish. He had forgotten to ask. “That disnae matter now. Get her in here and we’ll charge her.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Hamish. “There iss no proof!”

  “Ah’ll get proof, laddie. You mind yer place and get back to your polis station and check on yer sheep-dip papers and leave this tae the big yins.”

  Mary French was led in. Blair began to caution her as Hamish Macbeth walked out.

  He went in search of Priscilla and eventually found her outside, supervising the building of the new gift shop.

  “What’s the matter, Hamish?” she said when she saw his face.

  “Blair’s charging Mary French with the murder.”

  “Why?”

  “She killed her mother and got off with it. The woman was dying of cancer and the jury chose to believe it was a mercy killing. Blair’s a fool. I’ve been ordered back to the police station.”

  “Look, Hamish, there’s really not much I can do here. Daddy phoned in a rage. Says he’s not coming back till it’s all over. I could come down to the police station with you.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, I’ve helped you to sort things out before. We could sit down and have a cup of tea and – ”

  “No, I’m far better off on my own,” snapped Hamish.

  H
e marched off, cursing himself for having been so rude but yet unable to go back and apologize. Blair’s stupidity had rattled him. Also, he remembered the days when he had been so yearningly in love with Priscilla and he did not want to put himself in any danger of those days returning.

  Mary French was being led out to the police car. Her face was tight with strain, but she looked grim and composed. A little huddle of people at the door watched her go. Maria, John, Jenny, Matthew, Sir Bernard, Jessica and Deborah.

  They watched in silence until the police car disappeared down the drive.

  Deborah approached Hamish as he reached his Land Rover. “I say,” she gasped, “why are they taking Mary away?”

  “I don’t know,” said Hamish testily. “I’m not on the case.”

  “I mean, why would Mary kill Peta?”

  “God knows,” said Hamish, unlocking the car door.

  “You don’t think she did it!” cried Deborah. “You think they’ve made a terrible mistake.”

  “Aye, maybe.”

  “I say, gosh, this is exciting. Here’s your chance to make your mark. With my help, we could probably find out who did it.”

  Another Watson, thought Hamish sourly, and the wrong one. “Policing should be left to the police,” he said coldly. “Don’t interfere, Miss Freemantle.”

  Deborah pouted and bounced off in a huff. She had hitherto led an uncomplicated life, without many ups or downs. But Sir Bernard’s rejection of her had hurt. If only she could find the murderer. Now in a detective story she had read recently, the clever detective, Sir Bartholomew Styles, had caused the murderer to betray himself at his cousin’s stately home by letting everyone there think he knew who the murderer was.

  Then Deborah remembered a game she and the other girls had played in the sixth form at the expensive boarding-school she had attended. One of them would say to one of the girls in the fifth, “I saw you. You shouldn’t have done that. I think I’ll have to tell someone.” If it didn’t work on that girl, it was tried on another, but it usually worked, schoolgirls having often been up to some small sin they didn’t want found out. Deborah and her friends would then award a prize of ten pounds at the end of the term to whichever one of them had ‘scored’ the highest.

  Why not try it on this lot? thought Deborah, bouncing with excitement.

  She started with Matthew Cowper. “I saw you, you know,” she whispered and then walked quickly away. Matthew stared after her, his hands clenched. He had stolen a bottle of old malt whisky out of the bar when no one was looking. He could easily have paid for it, but it had given him a kick to take it. Damn! What if she told that manager? He would tell the police. Matthew decided to borrow a car and go and see if he could buy a bottle of the same brand and replace it. That must have been what Deborah meant. She could not possibly mean anything else. She couldn’t have seen anything else. Could she?

  “I saw you,” said Deborah reproachfully to Jenny. “But I haven’t told the police yet.”

  Jenny thought she meant the episode with Brian Mulligan and her face went white. “You say one word,” she hissed, “and I’ll wring your neck.”

  “I saw you do it,” said Deborah to Sean, the cook. He was chopping meat. He raised the cleaver, “I’ll shut yer mouth for ye, you stupitt bitch, and I’ll take this cleaver through your heid.”

  Deborah squeaked with fright and fled from the kitchen. But Sean’s reaction had elated her. Deborah was young enough to feel immortal. Besides, she was convinced that the murderer would not now murder anyone else, but might, with her ‘stirring up’, become rattled enough to betray himself – or herself.

  “Isn’t there something you should be telling the police?” said Deborah to Maria and had the satisfaction of seeing Maria start and flush guiltily.

  Next came Jessica. Her reaction, too, was satisfying, as was that of Peter Trumpington.

  John Taylor said crossly, “Saw what? Oh, never mind, run along.” That made Deborah pause, for he had made her feel like a silly schoolgirl, but she then saw Sir Bernard approaching and the temptation was too great. “I know everything about you,” said Deborah, “and gosh, am I glad I decided not to marry you. I know what you did.”

  Sir Bernard’s face turned dark with anger and he marched off without replying.

  As Deborah watched him go, a pang of rejection pierced her again. Priscilla was working at the reception, sitting behind a computer making out bills, for the rest of the guests were free to go provided they left their addresses, and most had decided to leave.

  “I saw you,” said Deborah.

  Priscilla looked up.

  “What?”

  “I saw you.”

  “Saw me doing what?”

  “You know,” said Deborah mysteriously and walked away.

  When they all sat down to dinner that night, the atmosphere was strained. It should have been relaxed, now that someone had been arrested, but Deborah kept discussing the case, chewing over every little morsel, saying over and over again that she happened to know that Mary had not done it.

  “You’re just showing off,” said Sir Bernard.

  Deborah glared at him and tossed her head. “That’s all you know,” she said defiantly.

  After dinner, everyone seemed to be avoiding everyone else, with the exception of Peter Trumpington and Jessica Fitt, who appeared to have become inseparable.

  They were all sitting around the lounge, but well away from each other, when John Taylor finally stood up. “I’m going to bed,” he announced to no one in particular. He strode to the doorway and then paused, “Good heavens! With someone arrested for the murder, that means we can all go home!”

  They all brightened. Home! Outside, a chill wind was blowing and a log fire had been lit in the lounge. Home to buses and tubes and noise and streets, and crowds and crowds of people. Home to London, far away from this weird, twisted countryside of mountain, loch and moorland where the old gods rode the wind.

  “Don’t go,” called Sir Bernard suddenly to John’s retreating back. “I’ll order champagne for everybody.”

  John came back and sat down. Sir Bernard pushed down an old-fashioned china bell-push on the wall and the barman came in to take the order for champagne. They all chattered and laughed. Matthew Cowper told some really dreadful jokes which everyone, inebriated with relief and champagne, enjoyed immensely.

  Deborah began to feel ashamed of herself. If Mary had not done the murder, then some madman had come across Peta on the moors. Not one of these sane, regular people could attack anyone, let alone murder them.

  She set herself to enjoy the impromptu champagne party and was one of the last to leave the lounge.

  Only Jessica and Peter were left when she rose to go to bed.

  “Aren’t you tired?” Peter asked Jessica.

  “A little,” she replied. “But it’s warm and bright and cosy here. I feel safe. But once I get to my room, all the fears come back.”

  “Do you think Mary did it?”

  “I don’t know,” said Jessica slowly. “But I can’t help hoping so. It would be awful to think there was a murderer still amongst us.”

  ♦

  It was nearly midnight, but Priscilla decided to call on Hamish. She wondered why he had been so angry and if she had done or said anything to offend him. Then she was worried about Deborah. Priscilla had attended an English boarding-school and knew all about the ‘I saw you’ game. She was sure Deborah had tried it on the rest. In any case, she would feel easier if she told Hamish about it.

  Hamish heard the hotel Range Rover arrive. He recognized the sound of the engine. Priscilla.

  He was on the phone to Rory in London and taking down notes on the background of the members of Checkmate. He decided to stay where he was and not answer the door. He did not want to see Priscilla, did not want any more intimate midnight chats until he had got his feelings under control again. He ignored the banging at the kitchen door. Rory was saying, “Yes, Mary French was found not guilty o
f the death of her mother, and yes, John Taylor was the prosecuting counsel. What else? Oh, there were some nasty rumours floating around that Sir Bernard Grant had been dealing in arms, but nothing really came of that. Peter Trumpington’s been in the gossip columns, but nothing sinister. John Taylor once punched a policeman outside the Old Bailey for not showing him ‘due respect’ when all the bobby had been trying to do was to stop him parking on a double-yellow line. But nothing odd about that. He’s a great old character. Mary French hit the newspapers again when she made a speech to the pupils advocating the return of caning. But you don’t think she did it.”

  “I didnae say that.” Hamish heard the Range Rover drive off and felt suddenly bleak. “What about Peta Gore herself?”

  “Married to millionaire Bobby Gore, who died in ‘82 and left her a fortune. A few society snippets, that’s all.”

  “And Maria?”

  “Nothing on her background. Only a little piece on the society page of the Express saying that it was through Checkmate run by Maria Worth that Lord Bullsden met his bride.”

  Hamish sighed. “Nothing there to bite on. But how Blair thinks he can charge Mary French wi’ the murder when he hasn’t a shred of proof, I don’t know.”

  ♦

  Deborah yawned and put down the detective story she had been reading and switched out her bedside light. Tomorrow she would start making plans to go home. But the minute the light was out, she felt awake and restless. She had made such a fool of herself. That editor in the office, Sally Blye, kept saying things like, “Oh, why don’t you grow up, Deborah? I swear to God you think you’re still at school.” School had been super. One knew where one was at school. But none of her old school chums had remained the same. One minute, it seemed, they were regular jolly girls in school uniform, and the next, they were mature sirens in lipstick and the latest fashions. She wished the wind would stop howling. It was increasing in force, great buffets of it striking the tower room where she slept.

  She was so preoccupied with her thoughts that she did not see the door of her bedroom open gently, did not see the dark figure creeping in. She was suddenly thinking how sunny and hopeful it had all been at the beginning of the week, how her marriage to Sir Bernard had seemed inevitable, and then, how at the smell of Peta’s fortune, he had rushed off after her and of how cruel and rude he had subsequently become.