Death of a Prankster (8 page)

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 drink 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 Titchy. 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’ Titchy’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. ‘Titchy wants to see you,’ she said.

Now what? thought Hamish. He asked Melissa to look after Towser. ‘Where is Titchy?’

‘In the bedroom, Charles’s bedroom.’

‘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 up 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.

She went straight to Jeffrey. ‘Well,’ she said huskily, leaning one elbow on the mantelpiece and smiling up at him, ‘how does it feel to be a millionaire?’

Jeffrey’s thin grey face broke into a smile. ‘Great,’ he said.

‘Jeffrey!’ Jan’s scandalized voice sounded from the other side of the room.

Neither of them paid Jan the slightest attention. ‘And what are you going to do with it, you old money-bags?’ said Titchy, twisting a coy finger in Jeffrey’s buttonhole.

‘I tell you what I’m going to do with it.’ Jeffrey’s voice was loud and precise. ‘I am going off to lie on the beach somewhere and never, ever do a stroke of work again.’

‘Taking anyone with you?’

‘No,’ said Jeffrey cheerfully.

Jan approached the pair, her thin hands clenched into fists. ‘Jeffrey, you appear to have forgotten that your brother has just been murdered. Do stop talking rubbish.’

‘But I am not talking rubbish, my precious,’ said Jeffrey. ‘I am leaving you, Jan. I am going as far away from you as I can possibly get. It will do you good to try to support yourself for the first time in your greedy life, although I suppose you’ll batten on that wimp of a son of yours.’

One minute Paul was sitting with his head down. The next he had leaped across the room and seized Jeffrey by the throat. ‘No,’ screamed Jan. ‘Paul, don’t –’

Paul released his stepfather and stood panting. Melissa felt shaken and sick. But Titchy appeared delighted. She linked her arm in Paul’s. ‘Well, well, tiger cat,’ she cooed. ‘Why don’t we go out for a walk.’ Paul shook his head in a bewildered way as if to clear it. His glasses were askew and he straightened them with a shaking hand and then went meekly off with Titchy.

‘Where’s Charles?’ asked Betty Trent.

Jeffrey and Jan were staring at each other. ‘I don’t know,’ said Melissa nervously. ‘I think I’ll just go and –’

‘Don’t ever humiliate me like that again,’ said Jan.

‘I won’t be round to do it,’ said Jeffrey cheerfully. ‘I’m leaving you. I’m leaving Britain.’

‘You can’t. I’ll sue you.’

Jeffrey suddenly looked years younger. ‘You’ll never find me … ever,’ he said happily. ‘I may even take young Titchy with me.’

‘You forget, Miss Gold is engaged to Charles,’ remarked Betty Trent.

Jan rounded on her. ‘You don’t think that little tart is going to marry Charles now that he hasn’t any money. How incredibly stupid.’

Betty folded up her knitting and stowed it away in a large cretonne work-bag. She looked at Jeffrey. ‘You’re quite right to leave her,’ she said. ‘I have always considered your marriage a disaster.’

Melissa ran out of the room and collected her jacket and headed down to the village. She did not want to join the others for lunch. There was no sign of Paul or Titchy outside.

The weather had made one of its rapid Sutherland changes. It was mild and balmy, the sun was shining, and the air was full of the sound of running water as the snow melted from the hills and mountains. A stream ran beside the road, gurgling and chuckling, peat-brown and flashing with gold lights. Before the entrance to the village was a hump-backed bridge. Everything seemed to shimmer and dance in the clear light. Melissa walked on, ignoring the crowd of reporters who were pursuing her with badgering questions. The only way she knew how to cope with them was to pretend they weren’t there. Fortunately for her, just as she reached the bridge, one of them shouted that he had just seen Titchy Gold walking in the grounds and they all scampered off, leaving her alone.

In the main street, she saw a café and headed for it, hoping it was not one of the ones which opened only in the tourist season.

But as soon as she approached it, she saw through the glass of the front window the tall figure of Hamish Macbeth. She opened the door and went in.

‘I thought you were investigating something,’ she said accusingly.

‘I wanted to get away on my own and think for a bit,’ said Hamish amiably.

A waitress approached and asked Melissa what she wanted. Melissa realized she was very hungry.

‘Have you anything local?’ asked Melissa hopefully.

The waitress recited in a sing-song voice, ‘Pie and chips; sausage, bacon and chips; ham, egg and chips; haggis and chips; hamburger and chips.’

Melissa ordered ham, egg and chips. ‘Beans is extra,’ said the waitress.

‘No beans.’

‘Is that yer own hair, lassie?’

‘Yes,’ said Melissa stiffly.

‘How did yiz do it?’

Melissa glared.

‘She really wants to know,’ said Hamish
sotto voce
.

‘Oh, in that case, I bleached it first and then dyed it pink. It’s a dye called Flamingo.’

‘My, it’s right pretty. Flamingo, did ye say? Maybe my man’ll be able tae get it in Inverness.’

‘You’re changing fashion in the Highlands,’ said Hamish. ‘It is nice now you’ve washed all the gel out of it. But won’t it be awfy difficult when your roots start showing?’

‘Yes, it will. But I’ll just dye it back to my normal colour. Oh, there was the most awful scene in the drawing room.’ She told him what had happened.

‘You’d better get that boyfriend of yours away from her, for a start. She’s out to make trouble.’

‘I don’t want to have anything more to do with Paul,’ said Melissa. ‘But the thing that puzzles me is that Titchy was Charles’s fiancée when he didn’t have money or the prospect of it. She must have been fond of him.’

‘I think she was fond of his looks,’ said Hamish. ‘He is a verra good-looking young man and she was often photographed with him. I think that was the attraction. Also, perhaps after sleeping her way into show business, she found having a good-looking lover a refreshing change. Where was he when all this was going on?’

‘I don’t know. Nobody appears to have seen him today.’

‘They might find out who it was who cut up Titchy’s frocks.’

‘Oh, I forgot to tell you,’ said Melissa. ‘Before I left, Blair sent for Angela. So
she
might have been the one.’

‘Ah. Here’s your food. I’d better leave you.’

‘Can’t you wait? I won’t be long.’

‘I cannae be seen too often in the company of a murder suspect,’ said Hamish deliberately.

Melissa gave him a wounded look.

‘Think about it,’ said Hamish. ‘As far as Blair is concerned, you’re engaged to Paul. Paul might have known about the will, so you might have known about the will and you could have planned the whole thing between you.’

Melissa’s large grey eyes filled with tears. ‘You’re horrid,’ she said shakily.

He relented. ‘Look, I’m trying to frighten you into being on your guard. Don’t trust any of them.’

‘If Angela cut up the dresses,’ said Melissa, anxious to keep him longer, ‘does that mean she might have committed the murder?’

‘I think it might mean she thought Titchy was being too successful in engaging the auld man’s affections and wanted to put a spoke in the wheel.’

‘Poor Angela,’ murmured Melissa. ‘Blair will be giving her a dreadful time.’

Hamish rose to go. ‘I think Blair will find out that Miss Angela Trent is not easily bullied.’

Detective Chief Inspector Blair was glaring at Angela. ‘I do not think you realize the seriousness of the matter,’ he said in carefully enunciated English. ‘One of thae … those … frocks had bugle beads on the trim and those beads carried bits of your fingerprints.’

‘Have I protested?’ boomed Angela. ‘Have I said otherwise? Yes, I admit I sliced the seams of those frocks. My motive was simple. Titchy Gold was flirting disgustingly with my father. I was afraid he would leave her something in his will. I knew she would suspect him of being the culprit, which she did. Quite clever, really. If Miss Gold feels like pressing charges, I shall settle out of court, and handsomely too. So pooh to you.’

Blair crouched forward over the desk and snarled, ‘Your father was murdered. In my opinion, a woman who could play a trick like that could murder her ain father.’

‘Oh, really? Well, you do not strike me as being a very intelligent man. In fact, while you are wasting your breath and bullying me, there is a murderer in this house.’

Angela suddenly raised a handkerchief to her lips, as if she realized for the first time that there
was
actually a murderer lurking about.

Blair plodded on, taking Angela back over the evening leading up to the murder, checking everything against the statement she had previously made.

At last he growled at her to keep herself in readiness for further questioning and Angela lumbered off.