by M C Beaton
“What were your relations with your father?”
“A trifle strained,” said Angela gruffly. “It was those jokes of his, you know. Sewed the bottoms of my pyjama legs together and punctured Betty’s hot-water bottle. He’d always played tricks on us, even when we were small.”
He asked her several more questions about where the other guests had been during the crucial time and then asked to see Betty.
Betty Trent looked small and crushed and mousy. Angela had found a dark blouse and skirt to wear, but Betty was wearing a pink wool twin set with a green tweed skirt. She said she had been in and out of the drawing room and could not remember exact times. She said she did not believe her father had been murdered. He had meant to play a trick and the heavy door of the wardrobe had slammed on him and driven the knife into him. She said she estimated that PC Macbeth was in his thirties and if a policeman was in his thirties and had not yet been promoted, it showed he was a village hick with no brains at all. Furthermore, she would not waste any more time with him, but would wait for his superiors.
“Chust a minute,” said Hamish. “Who do you think cut Miss Gold’s frocks?”
“Probably Dad,” said Betty crossly, “although I must admit it was a new departure in jokes.”
Hamish was about to take her through the finding of the body more out of sheer bloody-mindedness than anything else, for Betty’s remarks had riled him, when the noise of a helicopter filled the air.
The police from Strathbane had arrived.
Detective Chief Inspector Blair was a heavy-set Glaswegian. Hamish had worked with him before. Blair knew Hamish had solved several cases in the past and had allowed Blair to take the credit. But every lime he saw Hamish again, he convinced himself it had all really been luck on Hamish’s part. This lanky gormless -Highlander could surely not compete with the sharper brains of a Lowland Scot. Blair was flanked by his pet detectives, Jimmy Anderson and Harry MacNab.
“Came by the chopper,” said Blair and settled himself into an easy chair in the library with a grunt. “So the auld fart his bin knifed.”
“You knew him?” asked Hamish.
“Heard o’ him and his damp jokes. Forensic’s on the way. Right, laddie, let’s have whit you’ve got.”
Hamish took out his notebook and Blair guffawed with laughter. “Have ye never heard o’ a tape recorder? How did ye get here? On a bike wi’ square stone wheels?”
Hamish ignored him and began to read out the brief statements he had taken. Blair listened intently. When Hamish had finished, Blair slapped his knee and exclaimed, “Man, man, you’ve got your murderers!”
“Who?”
“Them Spaniards, o’ course. Always sticking knives into people. They destroyed the evidence, didn’t they? They hope to inherit. Anderson, get on to thae lawyers in Inverness and get one o’ them up here fast. I bet the pair of them get a chunk o’ the old man’s money in that will.”
Hamish groaned inwardly. Blair, he knew, had a deep mistrust of all foreigners. “Look, they’re both very correct servants,” said Hamish. “They’ve been in this country for a long time. They speak English better than you…”
“Just watch your lip, laddie.”
“I would also advise you to go easy on the racist remarks you usually make about foreigners,” said Hamish firmly. “Enrico could easily get you in trouble. He’s no fool.”
“You mean the Race Relations Board,” sneered Blair. “That lot o’ Commies don’t know their arse from their elbow. I’m no’ scared o’ them. Further-mair, whit’s a village bobby doing advising me? Bugger off, Sherlock, and leave me to wrap this up.”
Hamish walked stiffly from the room. If, just if, he solved this case, then he would go out of his way to expose Blair for the crass fool he was. But, said a voice in his head, that would mean promotion and leaving Lochdubh and your cosy life.
When Enrico was summoned again to the library, his sharp dark eyes ranged about the room. “Speaka da English?” asked Blair with heavy irony.
“I am looking for the tape recorder,” said Enrico. “This is, I take it, the official interview. So it should be recorded.”
“You listen tae me, you cheeky pillock,” roared Blair. “I’ll conduct this interview any way I like and any more complaints from you and I’ll have you deported.”
“You cannot,” pointed out Enrico. “I am a British citizen, as is my wife.”
Blair launched into a series of bullying haranguing questions punctuated with insults about greasy Spaniards. Enrico answered when he could and what he could and then got to his feet. “I hivnae finished,” roared Blair.
“I think I had better leave you to consider your manner and behaviour,” said Enrico. He took a tape recorder out of his pocket. “I have recorded this interview. Unless you conduct yourself in a polite manner, this tape will go to your superiors at Strathbane.”
Blair’s eyes bulged with fury. Jimmy Anderson stepped forward. “Run along,” he said to Enrico. “We’ll call you when we want you again.”
“Jeezus,” groaned Blair.
“Aye,” said Jimmy, “can you imagine what Superintendent Daviot would say when he heard that? He’d kick ye out so hard, you’d be skidding on your bum frae here to Glasgow.”
“Well, you know whit tae do,” growled Blair. “We’re going tae search all the rooms, right? Get that tape and wipe it out!”
Hamish went up to Tltchy’s bedroom. The forensic team had arrived. Men in white boiler suits were dusting for prints and cutting little bits off the pile of the carpet near the wardrobe. “Could the body have been killed somewhere else,” Hamish asked one, “and then put in the wardrobe?”
“Could be,” said the man. “It would take more than one person or a very strong man. You see, the fact that the body remained upright, propped against the closed door, either meant that he had been killed earlier somewhere else and rigor had set in, or that the narrow confines of the wardrobe kept the body supported until Miss Gold opened the door.”
“I don’t think there was time for rigor to set in,” said Hamish. “Maybe Titchy Gold actually saw a dummy before she went to bed and someone killed the old man during the night and substituted his body for the dummy. But she’d need to be a verra heavy sleeper.”
He turned away and almost bumped into Jimmy Anderson, who was grinning all over his narrow foxy face. “Blair says you’re to help in the search, starting wi’ the servants’ room.”
“Meaning he’s put his foot in it with Enrico?”
“Aye. He bashed on like the bigot he is and the wee Spaniard taped the lot and is threatening to send it to Daviot if Blair doesn’t toe the line.”
Hamish went downstairs and met Enrico in the hall and asked him to take him to the quarters he shared with his wife.
Enrico led him down to the basement. He and Maria shared two rooms beside the games room, a bedroom and a small living room. He stood in the doorway and watched Hamish. “If you are looking for that tape,” said Enrico, “I have it in my pocket.”
“And I’d keep it there,” said Hamish with a grin. Enrico waited while Hamish carefully went through drawers and cupboards. “I’m only the first,” said Hamish. “The forensic team will go through everything as well, including the kitchen. You’d better check your knives and see if any are missing.”
“I have already done so,” said Enrico. “A jointing knife is missing.”
“When did you discover that?” demanded Hamish.
“Earlier on. It was the first thing I looked for.”
“Why didn’t you tell me or Blair?”
“I found it after my interview with you and before my interview with Mr Blair. Had he treated me with more courtesy, I would have told him.”
Hamish shook his head. “You cannae go around questioning the niceties of police behaviour in the middle o’ a murder inquiry.”
“No?” Enrico patted the pocket of his dark jacket which held the tape. “When Mr Blair calms down, he will realize that anyon
e in this house could have taken the knife from the kitchen at any time. I did not have any birds to joint in the last couple of days, so it could have been missing at any time during that period.”
Hamish looked around the living room again. It was neat and clean but somehow characterless: three-piece suite, coffee table, bookshelves with some magazines and paperbacks, and two pot plants. Above the fireplace was a framed photograph of the Ramblas, the main street in Barcelona.
“You said your wife was very religious,” said Hamish slowly. “But there are no religious paintings here, no crucifix, no religious statues.”
“I said my wife was religious,” said Enrico. “I am not.”
Hamish looked thoughtfully at him. Enrico’s dark brown eyes looked blandly back.
“I’ll be talking to you later,” said Hamish.
He went up to the library and told the furious Blair about the knife and about the fact that there was no way of getting that tape. “I don’t think Enrico will send it off unless you start accusing him of deliberately tampering with the evidence—which you could have done,” said Hamish, “if you hadn’t put his back up. There’s one thing you could do, however.”
“And whit’s that?”
“Get Mrs Jeffrey Trent in here and accuse her of having paid the servants to lay out the body and clean the room.”
Blair goggled at Hamish.
“Aye,” said Hamish. “A guess. But a good one, I think. Enrico and Maria are not the sort to become sentimental about the death o’ their late master. They’re hard-headed. They already own property in Alicante and it’s my belief they’ll leave after the reading of the will, no matter who is the new master or mistress here. It was only hope of getting something in that will that kept them here. When the body was discovered, Mrs Jeffrey ran straight to her son’s room and found him gone. For some reason, she’s protecting him. The reason could be that she’s simply a rather neurotic and possessive mother.”
“Oh, well, I’ll give it a try,” said Blair sulkily.
“And make it official,” said Hamish. “Recorder and all.”
When Jan came into the library, Blair, Anderson and Hamish were there and there was an official tape recorder on the desk in front of Blair.
“How much did you pay Enrico to lay out the body and clean the room?” demanded Blair.
She went a muddy colour. “Who says I paid them?”
Hamish’s quiet Highland voice interrupted. “It will be easy to find out. Whatever it was, I doubt if you would have that amount of ready cash on you. So you would give him a cheque—a cheque which will show up at your bank.”
“I want a lawyer,” she said faintly.
“Mrs Jeffrey Trent,” intoned Blair, “I must warn you that you have a right to remain silent, but everything you say will be taken down and may be used in evidence against you.”
She suddenly collapsed and began to cry. Through gulps and sobs, she said she was overwrought. She had not been trying to protect Paul. She thought old Andrew had died because of a joke that had gone wrong. That was her story and she was sticking to it.
When she was finally allowed to leave, Blair said with satisfaction, “I’ve got that bloody Spaniard now. Taking money to pervert the course o’ justice.”
“And he hass still got you,” said Hamish. “He’s got that tape.”
Blair swore viciously.
Then the phone rang. It was the Inverness police. Paul Sinclair and Melissa Clarke had been picked up at Inverness station and were being brought back to Arrat House.
Melissa had never been so happy. She was sitting on a red plastic seat in Inverness station beside Paul. The London train was almost due to arrive.
They had skied across country as far as Lairg, where they had taken the train to Inverness. After arranging for the skis to be sent back, they had gone for lunch and had joked and laughed and giggled like schoolchildren.
They would come back to the Highlands on their honeymoon, thought Melissa dreamily. Although Paul had not proposed marriage, she was sure he would, some time in the near future.
Her mind was filled with glorious images of snow-covered moorland and soaring mountains. She felt tired and happy and her face still tingled from the exercise and the cold, biting air.
Policemen came into the station, policemen of various ranks. Two guarded the entrance. Melissa watched them with that rather smug curiosity of the law-abiding watching the police looking for some malefactor.
Her wool ski cap was suddenly making her head feel itchy. She pulled it off and her pink hair shone under the station lights.
And then all the police veered in their direction.
An inspector stood before them. “Paul Sinclair and Melissa Clarke?” he asked.
Paul blinked up through his glasses. “Yes, that’s us. What’s up? Has anything happened to Mother?”
“You are to accompany us,” said the inspector stonily.
Bewildered, they rose to their feet. Two policemen relieved them of their rucksacks. They walked out of the station. A white police car was waiting in the forecourt. They got in the back. A thin policewoman got in beside them and two policemen in the front. The car sped off.
“What is this?” demanded Melissa. “What has happened?”
The man in the front passenger seat slewed round. “Mr Andrew Trent was found murdered this morning at Arrat House. We are taking you back there for questioning.”
Paul buried his face in his hands.
“But what has his death to do with us?” protested Melissa. “We left at dawn this morning.”
“Although the body was found this morning,” said the policeman, “it is estimated that Mr Trent was killed the night before.”
“How…how was he killed?”
“He was stabbed to death. Now, if you’ve any more questions, put them to Detective Chief Inspector Blair, who is in charge of the investigations at Arrat House.” He turned to the driver. “No use taking the Struie Pass in this weather, Jamie. You’d best go round by the coast.”
Paul remained huddled up, his face still in his hands. Melissa shivered with dread. What did she know of him? What did she know of any of them? The countryside which had seemed so glorious in the morning sunlight now looked alien and forbidding, bleak and white in the headlights of the police car.
Back to Arrat House. Back to where among those overheated rooms was a murderer. She reached out to put an arm around Paul and then shrank back. The man she had been dreaming about getting married to was now a stranger to her.
FOUR
It requires a surgical operation to get a joke well into a Scotch understanding.
—The Reverend Sydney Smith
While Melissa and Paul were speeding on their way back to Arrat House, Hamish was sitting quietly in the library, listening to Blair interviewing Charles Trent.
The young man interested him. He was surely old Andrew Trent’s heir. Charles was saying that Andrew had adopted him while he, Charles, was still a baby. No, he said amiably, he didn’t know who his real parents were and had never been curious.
What had his relationship with the dead man been like? Charles looked serious, opened his mouth to say something, and then shrugged. “Why pretend?” he said. “He despised me. It seemed I couldn’t do a thing right as far as he was concerned. I wanted to go into the business instead of going up to Oxford, but he said nastily it was a successful business and I would probably ruin it. He did all right by me in material ways, best school and all that, but I never remember him particularly wanting to have me around. I’m not upset by his death…yet. The shock is still too great, so I don’t know whether I am going to grieve or not.”
“Did you speak to him at all just before he died?”
“No, I was out in the snow, talking to my fiancee.”
“With whom you spent the night?”
“Gosh, did she tell you that? Yes.”
“And when you went to her room, didn’t you see the body?”
�
�No, the room was in shadow apart from a little pool of light from a lamp beside the bed. I looked at Titchy, you see. I didn’t look anywhere else.”
“What were you and Miss Gold talking about?” asked Hamish suddenly.
“Well, lovers’ talk, you know, things like that.”
“Why did you go outside in the cold?”
“Needed a breath of fresh air. This house is always over-heated. When will I know what’s in the will?”
“Tomorrow,” said Blair. “About eleven o’clock provided the roads stay clear.”
When Charles had left, Blair rounded on Hamish.
“Why were you so interested in what he was talking about?”
“I just wondered,” said Hamish, “whether they might have been quarrelling. I mean, he brought her up here and she must know it was because he hoped the old man was really dying. It turns out he’s not. She gets awful jokes played on her and then her dresses are cut. Charles Trent got a modest yearly allowance from Mr Andrew Trent. So he had to work but he doesn’t seem to be able to keep a job for long or get a successful one. I wondered if maybe Titchy had decided to dump him.”
“It’s an idea,” admitted Blair ungraciously. “But mark my words, that Jan Trent knows Paul Sinclair did it. It’s jist a matter o’ breaking him down.”
Hamish stifled a sigh. Blair’s bullying methods rarely got him anywhere but he never seemed to understand that.
“What are you going to do about Enrico?” he asked maliciously.
“I’ll deal wi’ that one in my ain good time,” snarled Blair. “Look, why don’t you shove off, Hamish? It’s getting late. I’ll see this Paul Sinclair and his girl and then start again tomorrow. We’ll have the will and the autopsy report then.” .
Hamish knew Blair wanted to be rid of him because the detective was sure that Paul Sinclair was the murderer and he didn’t want Hamish around to share in the credit.
He walked out of the library and collected his overcoat from a peg in the hall. Then he heard a scrunch of car wheels on frozen snow and went outside.
