Hamish MacBeth 07 (1998) - Death of a Prankster

by M C Beaton

  Melissa took Towser’s leash, glad of the dog’s company, glad of a chore to do which would keep her away from Paul. “Enrico will be at the reading as well,” she said cheerfully, “so Towser and I will raid the larder.”

  Hamish eased himself into the library and stood at the back. They were all there, tense and eager. Not a dry eye in the house, he thought cynically, but then Andrew Trent did not deserve grief or mourning.

  The lawyer, Mr Bright, seemed determined to live up to his name. He was a small fat man with round glasses and an air of determined cheerfulness.

  He began by making a speech about what an amazingly fun-loving person the dear deceased had been, about how his japes and pranks had delighted all, while the roomful of relatives and police listened in stony silence.

  Hamish was almost prepared to find out that this will was Andrew Trent’s last great joke on his family. But as the will was read out, it transpired that there was only one disaster.

  Charles was to inherit absolutely nothing.

  Andrew Trent had left instructions that his house, estates and factories were to be sold. The proceeds, along with his money in the bank, were to be divided equally among his daughters, Angela and Betty, his brother, Jeffrey, and, surprisingly, Paul Sinclair. Generous bequests had been left to the Spanish servants and outdoor staff, including Jim Gaskell.

  Charles was quite white with shock. He reached for Titchy’s hand. Titchy seemed as stunned as Charles.

  The rest were obviously finding it very hard to control their glee. Freedom at last, thought Jeffrey. I’ll leave the bitch to rot. Her son can take care of her if he wants.

  Hamish noticed that Blair had a gloating look which he recognized of old. Blair obviously thought he knew the identity of the murderer.

  When everyone had finally filed out, leaving the police behind, Hamish turned to Blair. “You’ve found something,” he said.

  “You’ve found something, sir,” corrected Blair nastily. “Aye, it’s in the bag. We’ll have her in here in a minute.”

  “Her?”

  “So-called Titchy Gold. We’ve been getting background fast. Take a look at this. Good thing the old man’s got a fax machine.”

  Hamish read it curiously. Titchy Gold had been born plain Martha Brown, mother Mrs Enid Brown, late father, Terence Brown, unemployed. Titchy, or Martha, had appeared in the juvenile court at the age of fourteen. She had stabbed her father to death. The reason she had stabbed him was because he had raped her. She had served a short sentence in a juvenile detention centre. She had never gone home again and refused to have anything to do with her mother. At eighteen, she had become the mistress of a television producer, changed her name by deed poll and started getting small parts, ending up with the plum part in the present crime series in which she appeared.

  Hamish raised his eyes. “There iss a lot of difference between stabbing a father who’s raped you and stabbing an old man you hardly know.”

  “When they start killing, they go on killing,” said Blair, rubbing his fat hands. “She thought Charles Trent would inherit, didn’t she? Ye can sit in on the interview, Hamish,” he added magnanimously.

  Hamish hesitated. He felt he ought to tell Blair about the gamekeeper, Jim Gaskell. Then he decided it would be better if he questioned Jim Gaskell himself first.

  “No, I’ll leave it to you,” said Hamish, He could not bear to see the bullying and haranguing that would go on. But he privately thought Blair was in for a surprise. Titchy Gold was much harder and tougher than the detective knew.

  And so it turned out. Blair was sweating by the time Titchy had finished with him. She used the foulest language he had ever heard in his life. She reminded him that she was a celebrity and that the press were outside. She would let them know about his methods of interviewing and no doubt some television research team would be interested in questioning him. She did not deny a thing in the report. Her father had been a degenerate. She had carved a career for herself and no one was going to take that away from her. She ended by saying that he either charged her and produced immediate evidence for doing so, or let her go, or she would get a lawyer flown up from London to sort him out. Furthermore, she was packing her bags and leaving the next day.

  Hamish stood for a moment outside the library door, listening with relish to the noisy altercation from within, and then he went out in search of Jim Gaskell.

  The gamekeeper and his wife were both at home. Mary Gaskell was just putting the infant down to sleep.

  Hamish talked easily of this and that and then slid round to the question of practical jokes. “That was a bad business about the baby,” he said. “Did you know he was leaving you something in his will?”

  “I neffer thocht it for a minute,” said Jim.

  “But you obviously know now. You’re not surprised. Who told you?”

  “Enrico. The wee Spaniard came running right over tae tell me.”

  “But you didn’t know before. Mr Trent didn’t say anything?”

  “Of course he did. He was aye telling me and Enrico and the others that we’d come in for a bit, but only Enrico believed him.”

  “You must have been sore angry at him over that joke he played on you.”

  “I could hae killed him,” said the gamekeeper simply, his large powerful hands resting on his knees. He was a giant of a man. “But I got my revenge.”

  “How?”

  “Blackmail,” said the gamekeeper with a cheery grin. “I had Mary here write down tae Inverness tae the lawyers and doctors and psychiatrists and then I told auld Trent I wass going tae sue him. Danger tae Mary’s health, shock, trauma, the lot. He settled out o’ court.”

  “For how much?”

  “Ten thousand pounds. I’m no’ a greedy man. After that, every time he wanted help wi’ one o’ his jokes, I’d charge him a fee. It was me that wass the headless knight. Aye, auld Trent hated ma guts. He wanted me tae leave, but was frightened tae make me for he was scared o’ me.”

  The powerful hands on his knees tensed and relaxed.

  “Man, man, why stay on in all this hate and madness?” cried Hamish.

  “It suited me. I’m a canny man. Money disnae grow on trees and we had the flat here for free. You know what they say about us Scots.”

  “The trouble with you mean Scots,” said Hamish angrily, “is that you claim it as a national virtue, which gives the other ninety-nine generous per cent o’ the population a bad reputation. I wass sorry for you when I heard about the trick Trent played on ye, but you’re just as bad as your master ever was, in my opinion.”

  “Aye, but your opinion doesnae matter, laddie. It’s mat cheil, Blair, that’s running the investigation. I ken you. You’re nothing but the village copper frae Lochdubh and a damned crofter as well.”

  Hamish left with a decided desire to find Jimmy Gaskell guilty. He made his way down to the kitchen. Melissa was sitting at the table eating sandwiches and Towser was lying beside an empty bowl on the floor, asleep again.

  “I was looking for some scraps for Towser,” said Melissa. “I could only find a little bit of cold meat because I didn’t want to annoy Enrico by taking anything bigger. But he came down after the reading of the will, asked what I was doing and when I told him, he gave Towser a pound of liver. How did it go?”

  “Jeffrey and Jan, Paul and the Trent sisters are all going to be verra, verra rich. Enrico and Maria and the outdoor staff all get generous legacies. Charles Trent gets nothing.”

  “Oh, that’s wicked,” said Melissa. “Poor Charles. Surely the others will give him something.”

  “I’ll be verra surprised if they do,” said Hamish, pouring himself a cup of coffee and sitting down beside her at the table. “Don’t you want to congratulate Paul?”

  “No, I don’t feel like it,” said Melissa. “I just want to go home.”

  “Stick it out,” urged Hamish. “Oh, here’s Anderson.”

  Detective Jimmy Anderson wandered into the kitchen. “Anything to dri
nk down here, Hamish?” he asked. “I went into the drawing room where they’ve got the drinks, but the new millionaires told me to get lost.”

  “I’ll ask Enrico,” said Melissa. “He’s in his quarters.”

  “Leave him,” said Anderson. He rummaged through cupboards and found a bottle of cooking sherry and poured himself a large glass before sitting down at the table with them.

  “Ah, that’s better,” he sighed, after taking a great swig.

  “Rough time with Titchy?” asked Hamish sympathetically.

  “Rough! That little lady knows more swearwords than the whole of Her Majesty’s armed forces put together. She comes tripping in, batting her eyelashes at Blair and oozing sex. He rips into her. She takes a deep breath and bingo! Out goes Marilyn Monroe, in comes Lady Macbeth.”

  “What other reports did you get?” asked Hamish.

  Anderson looked pointedly at Melissa. “Never mind her,” said Hamish. “I’ll get you some Scotch.”

  “You’re on. But how?”

  “Wait.” Hamish went up to the drawing room. There were bottles stacked on a trolley in the corner. He picked one up after the other while everyone watched him nervously. Then he seized a bottle of malt whisky, said, “Aha! Fingerprints,” and marched out of the room with it.

  “You’re a genius,” breathed Anderson, tossing back the remains of his sherry and filling the glass up with whisky. “Right, let me see. Charles, the adopted son. Can’t find any adoption papers in the house. Cheerful layabout, popular, loads of girlfriends, usually of the upper-crust sort, until he met litchy. One job after another. He always leaves, though. Bored. Doesn’t get fired.

  “Jeffrey Trent. Running into financial trouble. Wife of his eats money. Best address, best gowns, best jewels, latest in Jaguar cars, his is up here, hers down in London. So Jeffrey needed money badly.

  “Angela and Betty Trent. Old maids. In their fifties, both. Angela the older. Live together. Had fairly generous allowance from Pops. Nothing there, except women at the menopause can go weird. Didn’t like their dad and made no secret of it.

  “Paul Sinclair.” He looked at Melissa. “Are you ready for this?”

  “Go on,” said Melissa quietly. “I don’t care any more.”

  “OK. Bright boy. First in physics at Cambridge. Good worker. Clean habits. One nasty scene at his Cambridge college, Pembroke. Got drunk at college dinner and punched someone who called him a swot. Engaged to a girl student, Anita Blume. She dumped him. Broke down the door of her college room and wrecked the place, tossing the furniture around and screaming. In danger of being sent down but survived the scandal because brilliant student. Nothing else.”

  “Paul violent?” Melissa looked amazed. “You should see him when he’s working at the atomic research station. Mild-mannered, serious, polite.”

  “Well, maybe mild-mannered Paul Sinclair jumped intae a phone booth and emerged as…Supermurderer. Ta-ra!” cried Anderson, waving his whisky glass.

  “Paul? Oh, no. No, he couldn’t have,” said Melissa, looking sick again.

  “Run along, lassie,” said Hamish. “I think you could do with a lie-down. Or get a book and go somewhere quiet by yourself.”

  Anderson grinned at Hamish after Melissa had left. “Are we getting a bit soft about Miss Punk Head?”

  “No, but I think she’s a decent girl.”

  “Aren’t they all,” said Anderson gloomily.

  “What’s the pathologist’s report?” asked Hamish.

  “Stabbed through the heart with great force. Some time after dinner. Since he was seen alive at eleven o’clock and there was a body on the floor o’ Htchy’s room at midnight, then it stands to reason he was killed sometime during that hour.”

  “But is he sure of that?” asked Hamish. “We’d best have a look for that dummy, the one that was used before to frighten Titchy. Someone could have used it first and then dragged the dead body along later.”

  “That someone would need to be crazy. What if Titchy had screamed the place down when she saw the dummy, just like before?”

  “Yes,” said Hamish thoughtfully. “But I think we are looking for someone crazy.”

  Melissa came back into the kitchen. She looked at Hamish. “litchy wants to see you,” she said.

  Now what? thought Hamish. He asked Melissa to look after Towser. “Where is litchy?”

  “In the bedroom, Charles’s bedroom.”

  FIVE

  I wish I loved the Human Race;

  I wish I loved its silly face;

  I wish I liked the way it walks;

  I wish I liked the way it talks;

  And when I’m introduced to one I wish.

  I thought What Jolly Fun!

  —Sir Walter A. Raleigh

  “I feel I can talk to you,” said Titchy Gold to Hamish Macbeth.

  “What about?” asked Hamish cautiously. Titchy was sitting in a chair by the window of the bedroom she shared with Charles. Hamish had learned from the police report on Titchy that she was actually thirty-five. She certainly did not look it. Her skin was smooth and unlined and fresh. Her eyes, however, when her guard was down, held an odd mixture of cynicism and coldness. Again he found himself disliking her but could not figure out why. It was not that she had killed her father. Only Titchy knew what dreadful cruelty she had had to put up with until driven to that desperate resort.

  With a sudden flash of intuition, he realized that it was because Titchy did not like anyone: one of those rare creatures who have a bottomless loathing for their fellow man or woman. He was surprised she had thrown such a fit of hysterics over the first trick played on her and over the headless knight, particularly the headless knight. Being an actress, she must be used to stage effects. Perhaps it was because she threw scenes as easy as breathing, or perhaps she was unbalanced.

  “I just want to make sure I can walk out of here tomorrow without that fat detective trying to stop me,” said Titchy.

  “You’ve made a statement,” said Hamish. “If the police want you, they can visit you in London. But why tell me?”

  “Because I am not telling anyone else,” said Titchy. “I want to get away from here and forget I ever knew any of them. Charles will fuss and fret and say I’m dumping him because he’s not coming into any money.”

  “And would that be true?” asked Hamish.

  “Of course. I’ve got my future to think of. If I married Charles, I’d end up working for the rest of my life to support him and I’m not the maternal type. Mind you, there’s always dear Jeffrey.”

  “He’s married.”

  “For the moment,” said Titchy cynically. “Haven’t you noticed the way he looks at that wife of his? He’ll get rid of her now, I bet. Yes, Jeffrey might be an idea.”

  “You’d better go easy,” said Hamish. “It is my belief that the murderer is in this house.”

  “And it could be Brother Jeffrey? Don’t you believe it, copper. That sort only dreams of violence.”

  There was a noise from the corridor outside. Hamish ran to the door and whipped it open. No one was there.

  “I think someone was listening at the door,” he said slowly.

  “Probably that Spaniard,” said Titchy. “He gives me the creeps. He’s always scuttling around, watching everybody. But do me a favour, and don’t tell your superiors I’m leaving.”

  “Well…” Hamish looked at her. “I’ll chust pretend you havnae spoken to me. But the results of the fingerprints should be through any time now. Don’t you want to find who cut up your dresses?”

  “Phone me in London and tell me. Whoever did it will get a bill from me. Send the clothes on to me.” She scribbled down an address in Hammersmith and handed it to him. “Blair’s got that, but I’d rather hear from you. You can’t get fingerprints off clothes anyway, can you?”

  “It’s amazing what they can get fingerprints off these days,” said Hamish. “How are you leaving?”

  “I’ll phone a taxi company in Inverness to come u
p and get me in the morning and take me to the airport.”

  “All that business about you and Charles Trent having a lovers’ conversation in the snow on the night of the murder. It iss my belief, Miss Gold, that you told him you were leaving him. Then after the murder, when it seemed he might become rich after all, you decided between you not to tell anyone about breaking off the engagement, for that might lead them to think Charles had killed the old man to keep you.”

  “Think what you like,” said Titchy indifferently.

  Hamish rose to go but hesitated in the doorway. “If I wass you, Miss Gold,” he said, “I would chust leave quietly. Don’t try to stir up any trouble.”

  She grinned but did not answer.

  Hamish went back downstairs to the kitchen and collected Towser. “Where are you going?” asked Melissa.

  “Down to the village again,” said Hamish.

  “Can I…can I come with you?”

  “Not this time,” said Hamish. “Blair’s waiting for the result of those fingerprints and he’ll want you all here.”

  After he had gone, Enrico and Maria came in and began making preparations for lunch. Melissa went up to the drawing room. She looked ruefully down at her stained fingers, wishing she had washed them. They had all been fingerprinted earlier in the day.

  Paul was having a low-voiced conversation with his mother. Jeffrey Trent was standing by the fireplace, watching them. Betty was sitting knitting something in magenta wool, the needles clinking and flashing in the light. Her sister Angela was reading a newspaper.

  Then the door opened and Detective Harry MacNab stood there. He looked across at Angela. “Miss Trent,” he said, “you’re to come to the library right away.”

  It was almost as if she had been expecting the summons. She calmly put down the newspaper, stood up, squared her shoulders and marched to the door.

  She was not gone long when Titchy Gold appeared. Melissa blinked. Titchy was ‘in character’. She was made up and dressed like the floozie she portrayed on television. She was wearing a short scarlet wool dress and she looked as if she had been poured into it. Her dyed blonde hair was once more dressed in her favourite Marilyn Monroe style. Her face was cleverly made up.