Death of a Glutton

∨ Death of a Glutton ∧

7

Sweet is revenge – especially to women.

—Lord Byron

Hamish answered the phone and listened in alarm as he heard of the attack on Deborah. “And I know why it happened,” added Priscilla.

“Why?”

“I’ll tell you when you get here, Hamish, but if you had not decided to play the Lone Ranger and had answered the door when I called this evening, we wouldn’t be in this fix.”

When Hamish arrived at Tommel Castle, it was to find them all gathered in the lounge, along with the hotel servants and Mr Johnson, the manager, who greeted him with words to the effect that Sean had been locked in his room.

Hamish then listened to what had nearly happened to Deborah and phoned Strathbane and reported an attempted murder.

He went back to the lounge and his eyes fell on Priscilla. “Before I see Sean, Priscilla,” he said, “you’d best explain how it is you know why this attempt on Miss Freemantle’s life took place.”

Priscilla explained about the ‘saw you’ game, adding that as Deborah had tried it out on her, she had no doubt tried it out on everyone else.

“Is that right?” Hamish asked Deborah. “Were you playing a game?”

“You didn’t think Mary had done it,” said Deborah tearfully, “and so I thought I would help a bit. I mean, if someone else was guilty and I startled them, he or she might betray themselves…or so I thought.”

“I won’t waste time at the moment with lecturing you on playing a spiteful and dangerous game,” said Hamish. “I know you’ve had a terrible shock. Dr Brodie will be here shortly to look after you and give you a sedative, but right now you are going to have to pull yourself together and tell me what reactions you got. Now, first, Sean, the cook.”

“It must have been him,” said Deborah through white lips.

“Why?”

“I said to him, ‘I saw you do it’, and he raised his meat cleaver and said he would shut my mouth for me and I ran away.”

“And that wasn’t enough to persuade you to drop it?” marvelled Hamish. “Did you approach Maria Worth?”

“Yes, I said something like I knew there was something she should be telling the police and she looked awfully guilty.”

“Did you look guilty?” Hamish asked Maria.

“I suppose I did,” said Maria. “There certainly is something I forgot to tell the police. Before Peta was discovered dead, I went to her room to make sure she really had gone. Everything appeared to have been packed up except her sponge-bag, which was hanging from one of the taps in the bathroom. I took it and put it in my room and then forgot about it. I really did, until Deborah’s question reminded me. I’ll get it for you now.”

She went out. “Next?” asked Hamish.

“Matthew Cowper, he looked terribly guilty,” said Deborah.

Matthew had his story ready. “I’d gone down one night, looking for a drink,” he said. “With all the fuss, they’d forgotten to put the grille down over the bar. I took a bottle of Scotch. I’d forgotten to tell Johnson or to replace it until Deborah played her silly trick on me and I thought that must be what she meant.”

“So you took the whole bottle of Scotch up to your room and drank the lot?”

“No, of course not. I’m not a drunk. There was plenty left in the morning.”

“And yet that didn’t remind you to tell Johnson or the barman you had taken the bottle? Pay him now. If this wasn’t a murder inquiry, I would seriously think of charging you with theft.”

“Miss Freemantle, who else seemed guilty?”

Deborah was recovering from her fright and even beginning to enjoy being the centre of attention. “Jenny, Miss Trask,” she said eagerly. “She was in such a state, she threatened to wring my neck.”

“You know what I thought she meant,” cried Jenny. “You know, Hamish.”

“And that’s all it was?” asked Hamish, remembering the forestry worker.

“I swear.”

“Okay, next?”

Deborah said defiantly, “Sir Bernard looked mad as anything.”

“Sir Bernard?”

“She said something about being glad she hadn’t married me because of what I did. I thought she was bitching on about my interest in Peta. To be quite frank, I don’t come out of that looking very good, but the thought of those millions got to me.”

“Mr Taylor?”

“I didn’t know what she was talking about, so I told her not to be so silly.”

“Miss Fitt?”

“It was only after she had gone that I realized I had nothing to feel guilty about. But I’m one of those people who feel guilty about anything. Everything in the whole wide world is my fault,” said Jessica.

“And Mr Trumpington?”

“I thought she’d overheard me talking to Maria,” mumbled Peter.

“I’m afraid I must know what you said,” prompted Hamish.

“Why?” put in Jessica fiercely. “If Jenny can keep her secret, so can Peter. Take him outside and ask him there.”

“It’s all right,” said Peter, taking her hands in his. “The fact is, I told Maria I thought we’d make a pretty good pair. Stupid way to propose, isn’t it?”

Jessica’s grey face became suffused with colour and her eyes shone. It was her one moment of beauty. She clasped his hand tightly.

“The police from Strathbane will soon be here,” said Hamish. “I will go and question the cook. Then I will return and take statements from you one after another, if they have not arrived by the time I’m through with the cook.”

Mr Johnson led him to the cook’s bedroom and unlocked the door.

“I’ll be all right,” said Hamish. “Go and ask the staff if they saw anyone on the tower stair and if there is any sign of that missing light bulb. Priscilla said the light would not come on, so I suppose someone removed it.”

Sean was sitting crouched on the end of his bed. He was fully dressed.

“Now, Sean,” said Hamish severely, “I’m not going to be able to keep quiet about that cat anymore. You threatened to kill Peta. You threatened to kill Deborah Freemantle and, lo and behold, someone takes your meat cleaver and does just that. I suppose it is your meat cleaver?”

“Aye, it’s gone,” said Sean wearily. “Johnson took me to look for it when ah got back frae the village.”

Hamish’s eyes sharpened. “Back from the village?”

“I wus down fur a wee dram wi’ Dougie, the gamekeeper.”

“Where?”

“The bar. There wus a lot in, so they kep’ it open late.”

“When did you get back?”

“Dougie waud know. It was himself that ran me back. I came in the door and Johnson grabs me and drags me off to the kitchen yelling about the meat cleaver. It’s gone, so he says ah’ve tae stay in my room till the polis comes.”

Hamish wondered why he should feel so relieved that this unlovely cook had an alibi. Probably for Priscilla’s sake, he decided after a moment’s reflection.

“As long as you’ve got witnesses to say you weren’t in the castle, you should be all right.” Hamish looked down at him thoughtfully. “How bad was the attack on your wife?”

“Oh, her, broke her jaw.”

“Why? Were you drunk, man?”

“Naw, ah fixed the Sunday dinner. Sole a l’ltalienne, it wus.”

“And?”

“The silly cow looks at it and says, “Whaur’s the ketchup?” So I let her have it.”

“Your last job, I remember from your file, was at the Glasgow Queen. Why did you leave?”

Sean stared at the floor.

“Out wi’ it. I’ll find out anyway.”

“The boss’s missus – we called her auld tattie-heid – says ah was spending too much time ower the soups. Ah says they had to thicken and she says ah was tae thicken them up wi’ cornflour. Sacrilege, that! I telt her she wus a greasy penny-pinching auld whore.”

“Oh, my. Look, Sean, when this is over, if it iss ever over, you should watch that tongue o’ yours. You’ve got a comfy billet here and Johnson’s a good man. You can stay in here until Blair arrives, for I cannae trust you not to do something stupid like running away.”

He went out and locked the door and pocketed the key.

He found Priscilla and asked her to lead him to the tower stair.

He peered up at the empty light-bulb socket. It was above where he stood on a half-landing and could easily be reached by someone of normal height.

“I’ll need to search for that light bulb,” he said. “If, say, a light bulb goes dead in one of the guest’s rooms, do they ask you for a replacement?”

“Not usually,” said Priscilla. “There are spare light bulbs in all the rooms in the shelf under the bedside table.”

“Show me, but not Deborah’s room. That’d better be left alone till the forensic team arrives.”

Priscilla led the way along the narrow corridor below the tower room. “Here’s an unoccupied guest room,” she said, opening the door. “In fact, Hamish, there are going to be a lot of unoccupied guest rooms next week. Cancellations have been coming in. This has hit us hard. Oh, why didn’t you answer the door when I called? If I’d told you what Deborah was up to, you might have thought it worthwhile coming back to the castle with me to warn her.”

“You might haff warned her yourself,” said Hamish stiffly. He went into the room. Three 60-watt light bulbs lay in their packets on the ledge under the top of the bedside table.

“Three in each room?” he asked.

“No, sometimes two, sometimes one, sometimes four. It varies.”

“Wait a minute, if someone wanted to hide the light bulb taken out of the tower stair, they couldn’t just leave it lying alongside the packets.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, but they could. Often there are empty packets, or packets with used light bulbs in them. Some guests put in a new light bulb and put the old one in the packet and then replace it with the others. Or they simply throw the old light bulb into the wastepaper basket. But a used light bulb would not be a sign of guilt.”

“Damn. Damn this whole case. There’s something wrong, something nagging at the back of my mind, something someone said.”

He went back to the lounge and began to question the guests again, where they had been at the time Deborah was attacked. They all said they had been in their bedrooms but had no witnesses and, apart from Sean, no one had an alibi.

The contingent from Strathbane arrived headed by Superintendent Peter Daviot, who looked tired and cross. Jimmy Anderson took Hamish aside and explained that Mary French had called for a lawyer immediately she had arrived in Strathbane. Mr Daviot had sat in on the questioning and it had soon transpired that Blair had not a shred of evidence against her. Her lawyer pointed out that a ‘mercy killing’ in the past was no proof that she had anything to do with the murder of Peta Gore, who, until this visit north, had been a complete stranger to her. And Mary French was out for blood, threatening to sue for damages. “She’ll be back in today,” said Jimmy ruefully. “I wish she had done it, for she’s a nasty piece o’ work.”

Hamish was called into the library by Mr Daviot. He gave the superintendent a brief summary of what had happened. “I also had to interview Matthew Cowper as to his movements on the night of the murder,” added Hamish, not without a tinge of malice. “He appears to have been overlooked in all the excitement.”

Blair gave Hamish a lowering look but remained silent.

“While the forensic team search all their rooms again,” said Mr Daviot, “we had best have them in again, one after another. One of them’s a killer, and we are going to stay here until we find out.”

The members of Checkmate and Crystal found Mr Daviot’s questioning worse than Blair’s. Blair was so rude and angry, one could always react and hit back. But Mr Daviot went on and on persistently, question after question, seemingly tireless. The cool Crystal broke down and confessed that she had been worried Auntie meant to change her will, that her parents had said that when she returned from the north, she was to train for a job, and that she didn’t want to work. Jenny told him all about the forestry worker. Everyone told Mr Daviot an awful lot more than, they felt, they had ever told anyone about themselves in their lives before, while the tape recorder hummed and a policewoman from Strathbane sat in a corner and took shorthand notes, Mr Daviot not trusting what he called ‘these new-fangled machines’.

By breakfast time none of them had been to bed. Despite the fact that one of them was possibly a killer, they huddled together against the forces of law and order.

Priscilla prepared the breakfast for them all, as the police had just begun a lengthy questioning of Sean. She felt exhausted and wondered why she had gone to all the trouble to feed them when they only picked miserably at their food. Then her mother phoned, alarmed to learn the latest developments, and said she would be home immediately, but the receiver was snatched out of her hand by Colonel Halburton-Smythe. Priscilla repeated her story. Her father said again it was due to her folly that Checkmate had been allowed to come in the first place. He was not going to come back to be badgered by the press as he had been before when there had been that unfortunate shooting, which he was still convinced had been an accident, despite the fact that Hamish Macbeth had proved it to be murder and the murderer had confessed to the killing. Priscilla would just need to cope. There was no question of her mother’s returning. It was selfish of Priscilla to be so unfeeling.

Priscilla wearily put down the phone and went in search of Mr Johnson. “My father’s still not coming back,” she said, “not until this is all over. We’ll have to house this lot until the police give up their questioning. I suppose the next thing is that the servants will be giving notice.”

“Not them,” said Mr Johnson cynically. “This is meat and drink tae them. I’ve even had women phoning up from the village tae ask if I need any extra help. They’ve never had such a good gossip in years. We’ll need tae work shifts. You go tae bed first and I’ll call you in five hours’ time and then get a bit o’ sleep myself. Would ye look at that!” He pointed out of the window. Bus-loads of uniformed police were arriving.

They both walked to the window and looked out. Not only were there uniformed police but a team of frogmen. “We’re not looking for another body, are we?” he asked.

“Peta’s luggage and typewriter,” said Priscilla. “When I was in for questioning, Mr Daviot was furious that a thorough search had not been made for it. The frogmen will be here to search the lochs and tarns and rivers.”

“Aye, well, off you go and get some sleep.”

Priscilla went up to her room, but she lay awake for a long time, her mind racing. At first the whole hotel venture had been exciting, and the idea of repairing the family fortunes exhilarating. But now she wished she had her home back again, that the lounge could once more be the drawing room and the bar the morning room, and all the signs taken down. And they could do it. For the colonel had invested well and wisely this time, thanks to a good broker in the City. But she knew her father would make this set-back an excuse to keep the hotel going. Saved from the hard work by Mr Johnson and herself, he was left free to take all the credit, which he did. It was sad to discover that one’s father was a silly, selfish man. The wind of Sutherland was moaning outside, great clouds scudding quickly across a vast sky. The odd and unusual summer was over. It was a time for settling down, for comfortable fishing parties, and shooting parties. She had not even Hamish to turn to, Hamish who would go around collecting drips of little girls like Jenny, Jenny with her so-called sensitive feelings about madness. Priscilla’s weary mind called up the faces of the suspects. The only one who seemed at all odd was Mary French, with her mixture of arrogance and stupidity, a woman who had killed before. Perhaps Blair had been right all along, thought Priscilla just before she fell asleep.

♦

By evening, Mary French was back, and as the party had been united in their resentment against Peta, now they were united against Mary French and her long, vindictive tales of how she would sue the police and how she had phoned her third cousin, the Earl of Derwent, mark you, and he had been horrified at this evidence of police brutality. Matthew Cowper wondered why on earth he had thought even for a minute that she would make a suitable partner. He felt he would like to strangle her.

And the questioning went on. Mr Daviot would go off for a rest and the questioning would be taken over by Blair. Even John Taylor, who had been haughty and outraged at the beginning that they should dare to suspect him, had become quiet and subdued. Maria’s cheerful face had grown lines of worry and she had become fidgety and irritable. Crystal wandered around in a dressing-gown, not even having bothered to do her hair or face, and was sitting moodily drinking a great deal of champagne. Peter Trumpington and Jessica Fitt sat very close together, but not saying anything. Jenny felt so alone and frightened. She longed for an opportunity to speak to Hamish but he did not emerge from the library.

And then, to her surprise, Matthew Cowper came up to her and said, “Let’s get out of here.”

“We’re not allowed to leave,” said Jenny wearily.

“I thought instead of having dinner here, we could go down to that Italian place in the village,” said Matthew. “We can tell that super where we are.”

“Oh, all right,” said Jenny wearily, “only don’t murder me on the road.”

Matthew gave a surprised laugh but went to the library.

He returned a few moments later. “We’re fixed,” he said. “They say we can go. We can take my car.”

They went out in silence, conscious of the watching eyes of the policemen, who had returned from a futile search of the moors and were now standing beside their buses, joking and laughing.

“What are they so cheerful about?” asked Jenny as she got into the passenger seat of Matthew’s car.

“Overtime,” he said briefly.

He accelerated past the press, who were huddled outside the castle gates, and drove down to Lochdubh. How it had changed from an idyllic village, thought Jenny. Great waves were surging down the loch, which was lit with fitful gleams of sunlight. Boats bobbed crazily at anchor. Rose-petals from the cottage gardens were blowing down the waterfront and the wind held a chill edge.

The restaurant was full of locals. “I am looking forward to some Italian cooking,” said Matthew.

It was a small restaurant, formally a craft-shop, with chequered table-cloths and candles in wine bottles. It was quite full, but they found a table in a corner. The prices were very cheap, which meant that the locals had begun to patronize it. The restaurant was a mixture of British and Italian cooking.

Jenny and Matthew settled for spaghetti Bolognese and a bottle of Chianti.

“Do you think we’ll ever get home to London?” asked Jenny drearily. “I’ll need to phone the office and tell them I’ve got to be here for a few more days at least.”

“I’ve already phoned mine,” said Matthew. “They’re all right about it but I am going to have to put up with some pretty tiresome jokes about signing up with a marital agency.”

“Me, too,” said Jenny. “Why did you join? Can’t you get a girl on your own?”

“Don’t be rude,” said Matthew huffily. “I’m a pretty common sort of chap but I want to go far and I need a wife with a good social background. What about you?”

“I’m too shy. I got tired of dating and hoping for Mr Right to come along. It seemed an exciting idea. Also I knew I would be meeting men who were in the same boat. I never thought I would land up in the middle of a murder investigation.”

She looked at Matthew. His normally unexceptional face looked sinister in the flickering candle-light and she added suddenly, “Did you really steal that whisky?”

“Of course not,” said Matthew hotly, and then, in the same moment, he was overcome with a desire to tell the truth. “Well, I did,” he said in the next breath. “I’ve never stolen anything in my life before and I could easily have afforded to pay for it. I went down to the bar late and they had forgotten to lock it up. I was going to ring the bell and get someone to fetch me something and then I found myself looking at all those bottles, just lying there. It was like turning a kid loose in a sweetshop. I had pretty poor beginnings and I remember when my mother died, longing for a stiff drink to kill the pain and not being able to afford one. I got an excited feeling, just from pinching it, and then I had the safe knowledge that if I were caught out, I could make some excuse and pay for it. The maids must have seen the bottle in my room, for I never even bothered to hide it. Have you ever stolen anything?”

“No,” said Jenny, and then coloured. “Just the once. I was going out on this date and one of the other secretaries had this marvellous new shade of lipstick. I noticed she had left it on her desk. So I took it. I was to meet my date in a pub in Chancery Lane, so there I was all lipsticked up and do you know, he stood me up. And the next day, the other secretary raised a song and dance about that missing lipstick. I could have said, “Oh, sorry, here it is. I was going on a date and I borrowed it.” But the words stuck in my throat. And she did go on to the senior partner, on and on, and I began to be terrified she’d call the police. I could almost see that lipstick through the leather of my handbag. At lunchtime, I threw the wretched thing into a rubbish bin in the street.”

Matthew raised his glass and grinned. “Partners in crime,” he said.

Jenny did not return the toast. She looked at him seriously. “Who did it?” she asked.

He shrugged. “I don’t know. But I think the police are making a mistake focusing solely on us. Why should it be one of us? Look at it this way. Peta was in a sulk and probably wanted to leave. So she decided to borrow the hotel car and drive to London through the night. But she couldn’t resist eating and so she took a hamper of goodies with her for the journey. But being a glutton, the quarry was as far as she got. She was sitting there, stuffing her face, when some local madman came on her.”

“If only that could turn out to be the case,” said Jenny wistfully.

“Oh, forget the murder. Tell me about yourself.”

Jenny told him about her idea of taking her law exams, and to her surprise and delight, he was enthusiastic. “Of course you should,” he said warmly. “You’re a bright girl. You could go far.”

And as Jenny talked on, he eyed her speculatively. If she got over that shyness and diffidence of hers, she would probably be successful. She looked bright enough. And there was bound to be money in the background. As a pair, they could grow together, go far.

The spaghetti arrived, enormous portions of it, and soothed with carbohydrate and alcohol, they talked on until they found they were the last in the restaurant.

“Time to go,” said Matthew reluctantly.

He drove her back to the castle. He thought it might be a start if he kissed her. Perhaps just before they went into the castle. Then they might have a cosy drink in the bar. Then…who knows?

But as they approached the castle, Superintendent Peter Daviot came out to meet them, his face stern in the half-light. Behind him stood Blair, Hamish, Anderson and MacNab.

“Matthew Cowper,” said the super, “will you come with us to the library? We have some further questions to ask you.”

“No,” said Jenny desperately. “You must have made a mistake.”

Mr Daviot ignored her. “Mr Cowper?”

Head down, Matthew allowed himself to be ushered into the library. “Sit doon!” barked Blair menacingly.

Matthew sat down in a hard-backed chair facing the long desk behind which the detectives and Hamish were ranged. He felt like the little Cavalier boy in that well-known painting, When Did You Last See Your Father?

“Now,” said Mr Daviot, studying a sheaf of notes, “during an extensive interview, you said you did not know Peta Gore, had never known her or heard anything about her.”

“Yes,” croaked Matthew, his small eyes ranging wildly from face to face.

“The brokerage firm for which you work is Waring’s, one of the biggest in the City, is it not?”

“Yes.”

Mr Daviot leaned back in his chair.

“Would it surprise you to know that Peta Gore was one of your firm’s biggest clients?”

Matthew looked at the floor.

“And that she once paid a rare visit to the office and was seen talking to you? Shall we start at the beginning again, Mr Cowper? And try to be truthful this time.”