Death of a Prankster hm-7

by M C Beaton

  “Quite,” said Daviot, throwing a curious glance at Hamish. “Let us revert to the original question. What were your feelings towards Mr Andrew Trent?”

  She sat silent for a few moments and then said, “Impatience, mild dislike, that’s all.”

  When she had gone, Hamish asked, “Where did her husband die?”

  “John Sinclair died in a nursing home in Baling,” said Anderson, consulting a sheet of notes.

  “An ordinary nursing home?”

  “I think so. Why?”

  “I just wondered whether it might have specialized in mental patients – whether there’s any insanity that might have been passed on to the son.”

  “I’ll check,” said Anderson and picked up the phone.

  Charles Trent was next. Asked what he had thought of his adopted father, he said in a puzzled way, “Well, not much. Irritating old cove. I mean, I was sent away to boarding-school early on and left there as much as possible. It suited me. I didn’t like holidays at home. Then, after a bit, some of the boys used to invite me to their homes for the holidays and I liked that. I wished he’d been more like a real, ordinary father, you know. But I’ve always been pretty popular, lots of friends and all that, and he did pay up for a good education. I kept away from him as much as possible. It suited both of us.”

  “And you didn’t hate him?” asked Daviot, thinking again what a singularly beautiful young man Charles Trent was.

  “Not enough to murder him, if that’s what you mean,” said Charles.

  He had no sooner left the library than Anderson said cheerfully, “You might hae something, Hamish. John Sinclair was as nutty as a fruit-cake. He did die of a heart attack. But the nursing home takes mental patients. He got out one night and was found running around the grounds in the middle of winter without a stitch on. They had to put him in a strait jacket, and while he was fighting and struggling, he had the heart attack that killed him.”

  “Right,” said Daviot. “Let’s see what Paul Sinclair has to say to that.”

  Hamish thought Paul Sinclair was thoroughly prepared for this line of questioning. Priscilla must already have asked questions about his father and that had alerted him.

  He said quietly that his father had been perfectly sane until the divorce, which had turned his mind. “And do you blame your mother for your father’s death?” asked Daviot.

  Cold anger blazed momentarily in Paul’s eyes but he had himself well in check. “Of course not. I blame Jeffrey Trent. He took my mother away. He told her that if she married him I would have the best schools, the best of everything. It was all his fault.”

  Daviot leaned forward. “And what did you think of Andrew Trent?”

  “I couldn’t stand him,” said Paul. “Filthy old fool and his disgusting jokes.”

  Daviot’s voice was cold and even. “Did you murder him?”

  Paul snorted with contempt. “No. I was getting away. I had planned to leave in the morning with Melissa. We all hated him. I’m the only one who’s honest about it.”

  Betty Trent was next. She looked shocked when asked to tell them her feelings towards her father. “Well, how odd of you. I mean, he was my father. I loved him. His jokes were very tiresome, I admit, and Angela and I would not have come to visit him had we not believed him to be dying. You are very insensitive, Superintendent. What a horrible question to ask a recently bereaved daughter! It is possible to love a parent without liking him, you know.”

  They did not get much farther with Angela, although she was more forthright than Betty. She said she and Betty had dreaded coming to Arrat House because of the practical jokes. They had not lived with their father for over twenty years. When they were both in their early thirties, Andrew Trent had had a house in Perm but had moved north when Arrat House and the land came up for sale. Although not Scottish, he had always wanted to be the laird, said Angela. She and Betty had persuaded him to let them go to London and live there. Hamish Macbeth said quietly, “Neither you nor your sister ever married. Did your father have a hand in that?”

  “I suppose he did in a way,” said Angela, “but if you think either of us killed him because of that, you’re mistaken. Oh, I know people say, “The poor Trent sisters, they were quite good-looking in their youth and could have got married had it not been for their father.” Sometimes I would like to believe that myself. He did play his awful tricks on any fellow we brought home. But the fact is,” she said, her voice becoming harsh, “no one ever loved either of us enough.”

  There was a long silence in the room while Angela fought for composure. By God, Hamish Macbeth thought, if the auld scunner were alive this day, I would be tempted to kill him myself!

  After Angela, Jeffrey Trent came as something of a relief. He was dry and brisk. No, he had not liked his brother much, but as he had had little to do with him, he had not entertained any strong feelings against him. At present, he felt quite fond of his late brother because of the inheritance. It had given him the freedom he craved.

  “Both Paul and Mrs Trent say you took her away from her first husband, John Sinclair, thereby causing the man to have a mental breakdown,” said Hamish.

  “Pah,” snorted Jeffrey. “She threw herself at me. And men like John Sinclair don’t turn raving mad because a stick insect like Jan has left them. They’ve been raving mad all along.”

  Were they all as dreadful as they sounded, thought Hamish, or was the brooding presence of the two murders making them seem worse than they were?

  He almost regretted having been called back from Lochdubh. He felt he could get a dearer perspective if he could get away from Arrat House and think. He glanced out of the windows of the library. The rain had stopped and a thin pale sunlight was filtering through the glass. Charles Trent and Priscilla were walking up and down outside, talking. He wondered what they were talking about.

  ♦

  “I wish I could get away from here,” Charles was saying. He had accompanied Priscilla outside after she had said her goodbyes. Sunlight was sparkling on the slushy snow and the air held a hint of warmth. “It’s so far from everything. I never felt at home here and it wasn’t entirely because of Father and his dislike of me or his hellish jokes. Sutherland is a foreign country, a different race of people, a different way of thinking. Outside that overheated house, I was always aware of the vastness of moorland and mountain. I love the city, the lights, the theatres, the bars, the noise and bustle. Sometimes when you walk out into the country here at night, the silence is so complete it hurts your ears. The land is so old, so very old, thin earth on top of antique rock.” He shivered. “Why am I telling you all this?”

  “Because I’m a stranger,” said Priscilla gently. “Because I’m not a murder suspect. Did you really love Titchy?”

  He gave a rueful laugh. “If you had asked me that twenty-four hours ago, I would have said yes and meant it. That’s what’s so awful. She’s dead, murdered, gone for ever. I didn’t really know her at all. That detective, the foxy one, Anderson, he told me that she had been sentenced for killing her own father. Maybe I’m a shallow person. I take everyone at face value. She was blonde and beautiful and everyone envied me, or I thought they did. We were always in the newspapers and I liked that. I don’t think about anything very deeply when I’m in the city, but up here…well, there’s nothing to hide behind, no trappings of civilization. Then who would murder Titchy? Not one of us, surely. They keep hinting that I hated my father. They can’t seem to understand that I didn’t have any strong feelings about him whatsoever. If I’d been unhappy at school, it might have been different. Can you understand that?”

  “Yes, I think so,” said Priscilla cautiously. “When are the police going to let you go?”

  “Soon, or we’ll have a team of lawyers up here making sure they do. Doing anything tonight?”

  Priscilla looked at him in surprise. “Are you asking me out?”

  “Yes, why not? Drive off somewhere for a bit of dinner.”

  “Well…�
��

  “Priscilla, might I hae a word with you?” The quiet voice of Hamish Macbeth sounded behind them.

  Priscilla found to her annoyance that she was blushing like a schoolgirl caught out in some misdemeanour. “Yes, certainly,” she said. “Charles, would you excuse us?”

  “Let me know about dinner,” he said and loped off.

  “What is it, Hamish?” asked Priscilla.

  “I haff to go back to Lochdubh tonight and I was hoping for a chance to discuss the case wi’ ye. Of course, if you prefer to go jauntering off with a murder suspect…”

  “Don’t be silly, Hamish. I haven’t even had time to think. All right then, I’ll pick up some food for us on the road home and I’ll be waiting for you at the police station about seven, say.”

  “Fine.” Hamish’s hazel eyes swivelled to the entrance of the house where Charles was lounging, watching them curiously.

  “So I’ll deal with my admirer, if you deal with yours,” said Priscilla.

  “Who?”

  “Melissa, just coming around the corner of the house.”

  Priscilla walked off as Melissa strolled up to Hamish. “Heard the news?” demanded Melissa.

  “What news?”

  “Paul and I are engaged to be married.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” echoed Melissa. “What an odd thing to say. Aren’t you supposed to offer the lady your felicitations?”

  “I suppose. You don’t look like a woman in love.”

  “What does a woman in love look like, Hamish?”

  “She looks happy. You don’t look happy, Melissa.”

  “How in the hell am I supposed to look happy when I’m living in a place where two murders have been committed?” Melissa turned on her heel and strode off. Could Hamish…might Hamish…be a little jealous? Melissa’s steps faltered as her heart yearned towards that thought, but then she strode on as common sense took over, or what she decided was common sense. The Melissas of this world, she told herself sternly, were not destined to fall in love and get married. The lucky Melissas of this world settled for a nice man with money. A man given to outbursts of rage, taunted a voice in her head, and she shook it impatiently, as if to get rid of that mocking voice, and concentrated on a happy vision of a white wedding instead.

  ♦

  Priscilla collected the key to the police station from Mrs Wellington, listened politely to the minister’s wife’s complaints that she could not go on looking after ‘that mongrel’, collected Towser and then let herself into Hamish’s narrow kitchen and began preparations for the meal. Why on earth didn’t Hamish Macbeth get himself a gas cooker? she thought, not for the first time, as she lit the black iron stove. Hamish’s large brood of little brothers and sisters over at Rogart were doing well, and so was his parents’ croft. They did not make demands on his money any longer, that she knew, but the years of necessary thrift had bitten deep into Hamish, she supposed. She made a simple meal of grilled lamb chops, baked potatoes and a large salad. It was almost ready by the time Hamish arrived.

  How intimidating she looks, thought Hamish, as he paused in the kitchen doorway and removed his peaked cap. She had changed into a plain wool dress the colour of spring leaves and was wearing green high-heeled shoes of the same colour. Not a hair of her smooth blonde head was out of place. A dumpy little woman in an apron with mussed hair would have looked much more at home in his dingy kitchen.

  “Tired?” she asked.

  “A bit,” said Hamish, sinking down into a chair and patting Towser. “Rather, my brain’s tired. I cannae get the feel of anyone. One minute I think it’s your beau, Charles, the next I think it’s Paul. Oh, Melissa’s to marry Paul. I wonder if I can talk her out of it.”

  “The only way you’re going to talk her out of it is by offering yourself as a substitute,” said Priscilla, putting the food on the table. “I brought mineral water to drink. I thought we would need all our wits about us.”

  “Aye, that’s grand. What was Charles Trent talking about?”

  “He was quite interesting,” said Priscilla. “The red-currant jelly is by your elbow.” She told him all that Charles had said.

  “He’s probably being very clever and hoping you’ll repeat all this to me.”

  “Could be. But I didn’t get that impression. I think he’s usually a carefree sort of chap who’s been rocked by all this murder and mayhem. I think, when it’s all over, he’s about the only one who will come out of this untouched by it.”

  “No sane person could come away from two murders and remain untouched by it,” said Hamish. “And talking about insanity, I think Paul Sinclair’s got a bad temper, that’s all. I don’t really believe much in all this business of insanity running in families. People so often go mad with alcohol or drugs or Alzheimer’s disease or things like that.”

  Priscilla looked stubborn. “I think you should concentrate on Paul Sinclair. With a father like that – ”

  She stopped and stared at Hamish.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked. “You look as if you’ve been struck by lightning.”

  “Who were Charles Trent’s real parents?”

  “We couldn’t find any adoption papers. Besides, what does it matter? You’ve got a bee in your bonnet about this hereditary thing.”

  “But wouldn’t it be interesting?”

  “I would hardly know where to start,” said Hamish. “Wait a bit. Perth. That’s where old Trent must have been when he adopted the boy. But I can hardly rush off to Perth tomorrow. I’ll be expected back at Arrat House first thing.”

  “I could phone up Strathbane and say you were sick. They won’t really mind. The place is crawling with detectives and policemen and forensic teams. I’d take you to Perth myself.”

  “We’ll probably only discover that his old neighbours, if they’re still alive, hated him as much as everyone else,” said Hamish gloomily. “On the other hand, I don’t like the thought of my mind getting bogged down in the atmosphere of Arrat House. One day wouldn’t matter, I suppose.”

  “I’ll phone now,” said Priscilla.

  Blair listened to her explanation that Hamish Macbeth was suffering from a virus infection.

  “And is this his mother speaking?” he asked with heavy sarcasm.

  “You know very well who is speaking,” said Priscilla coldly. “If you are unable to take this message, put me though to Superintendent Peter Daviot.”

  “No, no,” said Blair hurriedly. “Jist ma wee joke.” He knew Daviot, a snob, would hit the roof if he thought Priscilla had been insulted.

  Priscilla returned to the kitchen. “Well, that’s that,” she said cheerfully.

  “It still seems a bit daft,” said Hamish. “What are you hoping to find? That Charles Trent’s parents were maniacs?”

  “Something like that,” said Priscilla, unruffled. “At least it would be a start.”

  ∨ Death of a Prankster ∧

  7

  If your lips would keep from slips,

  Five things observe with care.

  To whom you speak; of whom you speak;

  And how, and when, and where.

  —William Edward Morris

  For the first time in years the bedroom doors at Arrat House were locked at night. Jan and Jeffrey Trent still shared the same bedroom, lying without touching, the air between their bodies twanging with hate. Not particularly an unusual state of affairs in a marriage but adding to the tense and frightening atmosphere of Arrat House. The wind had got up, that famous Sutherland wind, howling and baying and shrieking, taking away any feeling of security engendered by thick walls, thick carpet and central heating, raising dormant fears in civilized minds of the days when Thor, the god and protector of warriors and peasants, rode the heavens. The old gods and demons of Sutherland had taken over, tearing through the countryside over the cowering heads of petty men.

  And women.

  Melissa Clarke lay awake. One particularly furious blast of wind boomed in the o
ld chimneys and shrieked across the roof.

  She switched on the light. They would never return here, she thought. They would go on honeymoon to Italy or France.

  The wind dropped for a few seconds and she heard a soft shuffling noise from the corridor outside her room. Then the wind returned in force. She lay rigid, staring at the door.

  As she looked, the handle of the door began to turn slowly. This was not a horror movie, she told herself sternly. Police were patrolling outside and a policeman was on guard in the hall downstairs. But she was unable to move.

  The doorknob turned again. She looked wildly around. There must be some sort of bell to ring the servants. Yes, there was one over by the fireplace. But she was paralyzed with fear. There was no way she could get out of bed and walk over to that bell. And then she noticed that the doorknob was still again, unmoving, the light from the lamp beside her bed winking on the polished brass.

  She lay there for a long time, listening to the heaving, shrieking and roaring of the wind, and then, quite suddenly, she fell asleep.

  When she awoke early in the morning, the wind had dropped. She hoisted herself up on one elbow and looked in a dazed way at the door, wondering if she had imagined it all. And suddenly the room was filled with hellish, mocking laughter. Her terror grew as she realized it was not mechanical laughter from one of old Mr Trent’s machines. It was from the world of dark nightmare. It was from the sulphurous pit where the demons dwelled. Sobbing with fear, but somewhat emboldened this time by daylight, she found strength to leap from the bed and run to that bell and lean on it, ringing and ringing the bell, sweat pouring down her body. She heard the sound of footsteps running up the stairs and then a hammering at the door. Whimpering with relief, she went to it and turned the key and flung it open. Enrico was there, with a policeman behind him.

  “I’m haunted,” gasped Melissa. “That laughter.”

  Both men stood and listened. Nothing.

  “I heard it,” wailed Melissa.

  And suddenly, the hellish laughter started again.

  Enrico went to the fireplace and peered up the chimney.