Death of a Prankster

∨ Death of a Prankster ∧

5

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 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 Htchy, 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 humpbacked 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 put 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…frockshad 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.

“Strong woman, that,” said Jimmy Anderson. “She could ha’ done it.”

“I’ll just keep on until one o’ them breaks,” said Blair. “Fetch Charles Trent in again. He’s the one who would have expected to inherit.”

It took some time before Charles could be found. Harry MacNab at last ran him to earth in the games room, where he was trying to play a game of table tennis with himself by hitting the ball and darting around to the other side of the table to try to return his own serve.

Blair looked up as Charles Trent was ushered into the room. The young man looked a trifle pale but carried himself easily.

“Well now,” began Blair, “that will must have come as a shock to you.”

“Yes,” said Charles Trent. “Of course it did. I mean, if he had left it to a home for retired parrots or something, it would have been less of a shock. But to leave something to everyone except me, well, that was a bit of a blow.”

“So what will you do?”

Charles smiled ruefully. “Work, work, work, I suppose. Pity, I was looking forward to a life of ease.”

“Is there any way you or anyone else could have known what was in that will?” asked Blair.

“Don’t think so,” said Charles. “We were all strung up before the reading of the will. If you think I killed him because I thought I was getting something, you’re way off beam. You have to hate to commit a murder like that. He hated me. I didn’t like him. But that’s another thing entirely.”

Blair doggedly continued to question him for another hour.

Charles left feeling depressed but he brightened at the sight of Titchy. She was standing in the hall with her back to him, talking to Enrico.

“I want you to move my stuff out of Mr Charles’s room,” he heard Titchy say. Enrico inclined his head and moved quietly off.

“What’s this?” demanded Charles. “Ditching me, Titchy?”

She flushed when she saw him. “Well, it’s not quite the thing, Charles dear, us sharing a room when we’re not married. Angela and Betty are so stuffy.”

Charles looked down at her. “I repeat: Are you ditching me, Titchy?”

She looked at him defiantly. “Why not? You’re a waste of time.”

His eyes went quite blank and he stood very still. “I could make you very, very sorry,” he said quietly.

The drawing room door opened. Betty Trent stood there. Behind her were the others: Paul, his mother, Jeffrey, Angela and Melissa, who had just joined them. They were sitting in various frozen attitudes looking out at the couple, revealed through the door held open by Betty.

“Are you threatening me?” screeched Titchy.

“Think about it,” said Charles coolly. “Just think what I could do to you.”

He walked out through the front door into the melting snow.

Titchy shrugged and laughed. Numbly Betty stood aside to let her into the drawing room. Everyone stared at her silently.

“Don’t let me spoil your fun,” said Titchy. “What were you all talking about?”

“They were talking about you,” said Melissa suddenly. “Angela was asking Jeffrey if he really meant to go off with you and Paul said if you did, he would murder you.”

“Melissa!” exclaimed Paul in a hurt voice.

Melissa rounded on him. “You asked for that,” she said fiercely. “You brought me up here and landed me in the middle of a murder and yet all you’ve done since we were brought back from Inverness is run to your mother or flirt with that tart.”

“My, my,” said Titchy, who seemed to be enjoying herself immensely. “Jealousy will get you nowhere, pet, nor will pink hair, for that matter. So old–fashioned. Dead seventies, that.”

“Jealous…of you?” raged Melissa. “I don’t care who Paul runs after. He’s nothing to me. You’re all sick!”

Hamish Macbeth wondered what was going on as Melissa erupted from the drawing room, but he had decided he had better tell Blair about Jim Gaskell, the gamekeeper, and so he went on into the library.

Blair swore when he heard about the trick played on the gamekeeper. “There’s damn suspects comin’ oot o’ the woodwork,” he groaned. “Anderson, fetch that gamekeeper in here. And Macbeth, arnae you neglecting the duties o’ your parish? There’s no need for you here fur the rest o’ the day.”

“If it hadn’t been for me,” said Hamish stiffly, “you’d never haff heard about the gamekeeper.”

“Aye, aye, laddie. Jist piss off and take that mongrel wi’ ye. You should know better than to take your pet on a murder case.”

“I told you before,” said Hamish. “This is a trained police dog.”

“If thon thing’s a trained police dog, then I’m Lassie,” hooted Blair. “Off wi’ ye.”

Hamish muttered under his breath as he and Towser scrambled into the police Land Rover. It was already dark, the north of Scotland seeing very little daylight during the winter. As he approached Lochdubh, he thought of calling on Priscilla and then changed his mind. She had called him a moocher. She would think he had only called at the hotel to cadge a free drink. He drove on towards the police station. At the end of the waterfront, the Lochdubh Hotel stood dark and empty. It was usually closed for the winter, but rumour had it that it was being put up for sale because the competition from Tommel Castle was killing off trade.

He parked the car and let himself into his kitchen, noticing as he switched on the light that frost was forming on the inside of the window and that last night’s dirty dishes were still in the sink.

He lit the kitchen stove and cooked some kidneys for Towser and then walked up and down rubbing his hands, waiting for the room to heat up.

There was a tentative knock at the kitchen door. He thought it was probably the minister’s wife, Mrs Wellington, who expected payment in fresh eggs from Hamish’s hens for walking Towser.

But it was Priscilla who stood there, and she was holding a foil-covered dish.

“Truce,” she said. “I brought you dinner. Venison casserole. It only needs to be heated up.”

“Come in,” said Hamish eagerly. “I’m sorry I snapped at you, Priscilla, but Blair drives me mad and I wass hungry and…and it’s grand to see you.”

“That’s more like it.” Priscilla put the casserole into the oven and sat down at the kitchen table. She slipped off her wool coat, which crackled with electricity from the frosty air. “Turned cold again,” she said. “Damn winter. I’m sick of it. I would like to go and lie in the sun on a beach somewhere.”

“Like Jeffrey Trent,” said Hamish. He sat down as well and told her what had happened that day, ending up with, “I don’t like the way Titchy Gold is going on. But then I don’t like Titchy.”

“Why?” asked Priscilla.

“I don’t know. She’s such a mixture. One minute she’s as hard as nails, the next she’s playing the vamp…and neither of those characters ties in with the one which was sick with fright over the appearance of that headless knight.”

“I think I know why. A lot of theatrical people are very superstitious, Hamish. Do you think she did the murder and then calmly went to bed with her lover?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know,” he muttered. “But when I see her, I see death.”

“But to get the body in the wardrobe in the first place, you would need someone very strong…or two people,” pointed out Priscilla.

“Aye, They could all have done it, to my mind. Of course, the whole setting is unnatural, Priscilla. There’s that overheated house, the ghastly noisy carpets and furnishings, all in the shadow of the mountain…so I’m looking at all these people through a distorting glass.”

“What about Jan Trent? Instead of getting the servants to clean up to protect her son, she could have been protecting herself. She loves money, you said.”

“Aye,” agreed Hamish. “Then there’s the daughters, Angela and Betty. Odd couple. One of them couldn’t have done it, but two…although Angela Trent’s a hefty woman. Mind you, both had a generous allowance from the old man while he was living. If they did not know what was in the will, why kill him and kill the goose that was laying the golden eggs?”

“When there are millions to be inherited,” said Priscilla, “even a generous allowance can begin to seem like a pittance.” She went to the oven and took out the casserole and served the contents deftly on to a plate. We’re like an old married couple after all the passion has long died away, thought Hamish, at first privately amused, and then, for some reason he could not fathom, angry.

He had a sudden childish desire to push the food away and say it was not very good. He then wondered uneasily if he was coming down with some sort of virus. He always got tetchy just before a bout of the flu.

“Anyway, I’m out of the case,” said Hamish. “Blair has ordered me back. I don’t see much hope of solving it long-range.”

“I know Angela Trent very slightly,” said Priscilla. “Daddy took me to Arrat House on a visit when I was a child. I could always go over there to offer my sympathies and tell you what’s going on.”

Hamish brightened. “I wouldn’t mind a fresh eye on the case,” he said eagerly. “Also, you could keep an eye on Melissa. She’s a nice little thing and I worry about her.”

“Oh, really? The one with the pink hair?”

“Yes. It’s an odd thing, but the pink hair suits her. She’s got nice eyes.”

“And Miss Pink Punk wouldn’t hurt a fly?” demanded Priscilla sarcastically.

“In my opinion, no,” said Hamish, his mind too deep in the case to notice the sarcasm.

Priscilla got up and put on her coat with brisk nervous movements. “I’m off, Hamish. I’ll think about going over to Arrat House, but there’s a lot to do at the hotel.”

Hamish looked at her in hurt surprise. “But I thought ye said ye were going!”

“Well, we’ll see.” Priscilla went out and banged the kitchen door behind her with unnecessary force.

♦

A sort of torpor seemed to have descended over Arrat House the next day. The hard frost of the night before had given way to a thin weeping drizzle driven in on an Atlantic gale. Blair was restless and tired. He had been commuting between Strathbane and Arrat, leaving late at night and arriving early the next morning. Soon he would need to take final statements and let them all go. He could charge Jan Trent and Enrico with interfering with the evidence, but he was perfectly sure the hellish Spaniard would promptly send that tape to his superior.

He settled down in the library and rustled through his notes. Surely he should be concentrating on the one likely suspect and that was Titchy Gold. She was a murderess and therefore the one person who was likely to kill again. He looked up at Anderson. “Get that actress in here again,” he said gruffly, “and let’s see if we can get mair oot o’ her.”

Anderson walked out. Titchy was not with the others, who were sitting morosely in the drawing room. He asked if anyone had seen her.

“She’s probably still asleep,” said Betty, knitting ferociously, the light from a lamp above her head shining on the busy needles.

Anderson went down to the kitchen and asked Enrico to take him up to Titchy’s room.

“I put her in another of the guest bedrooms,” said Enrico as he led the way up the stairs. “She no longer wanted to share a room with Mr Charles.”

He pushed open a door. Both men looked inside. Titchy was lying in bed on her side, her blonde hair tumbled over the pillow.

“You’d better wake her up,” said Anderson.

Enrico called, “Miss Gold!”

The figure in the bed did not move.

The manservant approached the bed. He took a tissue from a box beside the bed and then shook Titchy’s bare shoulder with one tissue-covered hand.

Anderson was amused. “I’d heard butlers and folk like that werenae supposed to touch the mistress’s bare flesh when waking her in the morning, but this is the first time I’ve ever seen anyone do it.”

Enrico straightened up and turned to face the detective. “I think Miss Gold is dead,” he remarked.

“Whit? She cannae be, man.” Anderson strode to the bed and jerked down the covers. He felt Titchy’s body and then uttered an exclamation. The actress was cold and rigid.

“Get Blair,” snapped Anderson. “Man, man, this is terrible.”

While he waited for Blair, he bent over the body again. He saw no signs of violence. There was a cup and saucer beside the bed. He bent over the cup and sniffed it. It smelt of chocolate.

Blair came crashing in, his eyes bulging out of his head.

“Tell me she’s had a heart attack,” he roared, “but jist don’t tell me there’s been another murder.”

♦

An hour later, Superintendent Peter Daviot gazed bleakly around the assembled police and detectives in the library. He looked like a younger version of Jeffrey Trent.

“So,” he said, “a murder was committed under your noses. Were any police on duty last night?”

“Two patrolling outside last night and two mair this morning,” said Blair. “There’s nae accommodation here, sir, and – ”

Daviot held up his hand for silence. “Now the preliminary opinion of the pathologist is that she died from a possible overdose of sleeping pills. Who in this house takes sleeping pills? I just hope it turns out she did it herself.”

Anderson opened his notebook. “Angela and Betty Trent,” he said, “and Mr Jeffrey Trent. A bottle of some stuff called Dormadon is missing from Jeffrey’s bathroom cabinet, but the servants say the Trents never locked their bedroom door and so anyone could have got in.”

“Have you interviewed any of them yet?” demanded Daviot.

“No,” oiled Blair. “The minute we heard you were coming, we decided tae wait.”

“Right,” said Daviot. “We’d better see Charles Trent first. I gather he was heard threatening Miss Gold, or so Mr Jeffrey Trent obligingly told me as I arrived.” He paused. “Where’s Hamish Macbeth?” he asked.

“He’s back at Lochdubh,” muttered Blair.

“Whatever for? He’s covering this area for Sergeant MacGregor. He knows the locals. It may not be an inside murder. Get him back over here immediately.”

Anderson raised a hand to hide a grin as Blair reluctantly picked up the phone and dialled Lochdubh police station and then in strained, polite tones asked Hamish Macbeth to return to Arrat House and briefed him on the death of Titchy Gold.

A man from the forensic team popped his head round the door. “No fingerprints on that cup,” he said cheerfully.

“Well, that’s that,” said Daviot gloomily. “You are not going to persuade me that a suicide wiped that cup clean. Get Charles Trent.”

Charles Trent looked strained and shaken. “Sit down,” said the superintendent. “We have reason to believe that your fiancée did not take her own life. Now you were heard to threaten her yesterday. You said something like, “I could make you very, very sorry.” And when Miss Gold asked if you were threatening her, you replied, “Just think what I could do to you,” or words to that effect. What did you mean?”

Charles put a hand up to his brow. “I was miffed because she was dumping me, and quite heartlessly, too. I wanted to get back at her. I meant that I could sell my story about our relationship to one of the sleazier tabloids, that’s all.”

“Did you go to her bedroom last night?”

He shook his head. “There didn’t seem to be any point. It’s all my fault, in a way. She was happy enough with me before I roused her expectations about that damned will. She got greedy, that’s all. But why would anyone kill her?”

“Did she upset anyone apart from you?” asked Daviot.

“I believe she was making a play for old Jeffrey, and that upset his wife. You’d better ask her.”

“We will.” Charles was then questioned exhaustively about his movements the day and night before. He seemed to gain composure rather than lose it as the questioning went on.

At last Daviot sent him away and asked for Enrico to be brought in.

Had anyone, he asked the Spaniard, used the kitchen the night before? Enrico said that Miss Angela had come down about eleven o’clock in the evening for a glass of hot milk. Earlier, Mrs Jeffrey Trent had come in to make herbal tea, Charles Trent had wanted a sandwich, and Melissa Clarke had asked for a flask of tea for her room.

Blair interrupted, his voice loaded with sarcasm. “Whit’s a’ this? Don’t these grand folks just ring the bell and ask fur ye to bring whatever it is they want upstairs?”

Enrico looked mildly amused. “It is not the Middle Ages,” he said in his precise English. “Maria and I had served dinner. It is generally understood that we are off duty after that.”

“Quite, quite,” said Daviot hurriedly. “It is believed the sleeping pills, if that’s what they were, were put into a cup of hot chocolate. Where is the chocolate kept?”

“In the large cupboard in the pantry off the kitchen with the other dry groceries.”

“And was the carton of drinking chocolate still there this morning?”

“Yes, members of the forensic team took it away.”

Daviot then questioned him all over again about what time he had gone to bed and if he had heard anyone moving about the kitchen. Enrico said that he had gone to bed about midnight and that he and his wife would not remark particularly if they heard any sounds from the kitchen. They would assume one of the guests had come down for a late drink or snack. No, he could not remember any particular sounds. He had gone to sleep almost immediately.

Daviot glanced through the file he had already read on the road up. “Let us go back to the first murder. I see here that you removed the body of Mr Trent and laid it out in the games room and then cleaned the bedroom upstairs. Can you tell me in your own words why you did that?”

Enrico’s eyes flicked briefly to Blair. “It was understood at the beginning that Mr Trent had been the victim of one of his own practical jokes. My wife and I did what we thought was fitting.”

Daviot swung round to Blair. “Would you say that was correct as far as you could judge from your investigations?”

“Aye,” said Blair and mopped his forehead. He was dreading the arrival of Hamish Macbeth. What if Hamish told Daviot about Mrs Trent’s paying the servants to clean up? Daviot would wonder why they had not been charged.

Daviot questioned Enrico further and then dismissed him.

“Now,” said Daviot, “I would like an independent witness.” He studied a list of names in front of him. “Let’s have the Clarke girl in.”

Melissa felt she was living in a nightmare. She clung to the hope that it would turn out that Titchy had murdered old Mr Trent and then had taken her own life. She was vaguely relieved that the questioning was started by Blair’s superior and not Blair.

“Now,” said Daviot, “take your time. We need you to tell us what went on yesterday.”

In a shaking voice, Melissa said, nothing in particular. All she wanted to do was to get away from this roomful of policemen. But Daviot probed on and on, question after question, until Melissa found she was telling him everything about Titchy’s flirting with Jeffrey, about Jeffrey’s saying he was leaving his wife, about Paul’s attacking Jeffrey, every little thing until she felt weak and exhausted and near to tears.

When she had been dismissed, Daviot frowned down at his notes. “We seem to be getting more suspects by the minute instead of less. Oh, well, we’ll have Jan Trent in next.”

Jan was wearing a severe tweed suit with a white blouse and sensible brogues. She slid into the chair opposite Daviot, folded her skeletal hands on her lap, and waited.

“Now, Mrs Trent,” began Daviot, “your husband told you publicly that he was leaving you. Is that not true?”

Jan gave a slight shrug. “He said something like that. But Jeffrey has been extremely overwrought.”

“He also said he might take Titchy Gold with him. He was attacked by your son.”

“Jeffrey was behaving outrageously. I fear the murder of his brother has turned his mind. My poor Paul has been in an understandable state of nervous tension.” Her voice sharpened. “I will not have you bullying him.”

Daviot questioned her closely about her movements the previous night and then took her back through her movements on the night of the murder of Mr Trent. Throughout the interview, Jan seemed to come under increasing strain. She pleated a handkerchief between her long fingers, then smoothed it out on her knee, and then began to pleat it all over again.

The superintendent watched her closely. He became sure that she might have committed murder in the hope of getting money through her husband.

After he had finished with her, he decided to interview the dead man’s daughters.

Betty was the first. She seemed strained and shocked. Her dumpy figure was encased in correct mourning and her eyes were red. “I am not sorry about the death of that silly girl,” she said. “In fact, I’m glad. She was, she must have been, unstable. It stands to reason. She killed Dad and then took her own life.”

“That would be a very comfortable solution,” said Daviot. “Unfortunately, the cup which contained, we think, sleeping pills, was wiped clean. I do not think anyone bent on committing suicide would do that.”

Betty burst into tears and then, between sobs, she said incoherently that the police were fools and simply letting the investigation drag on and on out of sheer sadism.

Daviot gave up trying to question her further and she was led from the room.

She was replaced by her sister Angela, who appeared made of sterner stuff. Angela said roundly that she had thought about the murders and was sure they had been done by some maniac from the village. “There’s a lot of inbreeding in these Highland villages,” she said. “Mark my words, while you are wasting your time questioning us, there is some drooling homicidal maniac loose in Arrat.”

She then grumpily described what she had been doing the night before, movements which Daviot noticed were as vague as everyone else’s. No one so far could put an exact time on where they had been last evening or when they had gone down to the kitchen.

Paul Sinclair was next. His face was white and there were purple shadows under his eyes, but he told them his movements in a quiet, measured voice. “Now let’s go back to yesterday afternoon,” said Daviot. “You attacked your stepfather when he said he was leaving your mother, did you not?”

“The bastard was jeering at her,” said Paul. “She’s my mother, for God’s sake! You wouldn’t expect me to sit there and say nothing.”

“You have a record of outbursts of rage,” said Daviot quietly. “It is possible, you know, that you could have killed Titchy Gold because your stepfather was insulting your mother by suggesting he might take Titchy with him when he left her.”

Paul looked at him wearily. “You can’t pin that one on me. Poisoning is hardly the action of someone given to outbursts of rage. Nor did I kill old Mr Trent. I had no interest in his money. I am going to sign most of it over to my mother.”

“Had you already discussed such an eventuality with her – in the event of Mr Trent’s death?”

“No, of course not,” snapped Paul. “I did not expect Mr Andrew Trent to die. He was as fit as a flea when I arrived. I did not expect to inherit anything. Why should I? I thought it would all go to Charles. I only came up to this hell-hole to please my mother.”

He was questioned about his movements for half an hour before he was allowed to go.

Jeffrey Trent was summoned next. Of all the people Daviot had interviewed, Jeffrey seemed the least affected; in fact, he looked positively cheerful. He said he had had no intention of going off with Titchy Gold but had merely said so in order to get revenge on his wife.

For what?

For years of complaint and humiliation, for the years she had bled him like a leech, said Jeffrey. No, he had not liked his brother Andrew. Yes, he had simply come to Arrat House in the hope of getting something in his brother’s will. He answered all questions in a dry, precise manner but underneath it all ran a current of amusement that Daviot found highly irritating.

“Well, that’s that for now,” said Daviot when he had finished questioning Jeffrey. “We will sit and go over what we have heard while we wait for forensic reports and the pathologist’s report.”

The door of the library opened and a tall, gangly figure wandered in.

“Hamish!” said the superintendent. “Sit down, lad, while we discuss this case.”

Blair shifted uneasily. Somehow, the superintendent had a habit of calling Hamish Macbeth by his first name when he was displeased with him – Blair. What if Daviot were to go back to the laying out of the body and what if Hamish Macbeth were to tell him the truth?