Death of a Prankster

∨ Death of a Prankster ∧

6

It is a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma.

—Sir Winston Churchill

Priscilla Halburton-Smythe had some difficulty getting into the grounds of Arrat House. The narrow road leading to it was crowded with reporters, photographers and television crews. Satellite dishes like giant mushrooms glinted palely in the grey light. Ignoring the questions shouted at her by reporters, she rolled down the window and explained to one of the policemen on guard that she was a friend of the family. This was not true, but Priscilla could hardly explain she had arrived for the sole purpose of helping PC Hamish Macbeth in his inquiries.

At last she was through the crowd of press and inside the gates. Enrico answered the door. Priscilla asked for the Misses Trent and gave her name. Enrico knew the name of every landowner from Arrat to the coast as well as any Highlander and so ushered her into the drawing room. They were all gathered together, all the suspects.

“You won’t remember me,” said Priscilla, advancing on Angela. “I came here as a child. I am Priscilla Halburton-Smythe. I came to offer my condolences. The death of your father is a terrible tragedy. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Decent of you to call,” said Angela, “but there’s nothing to do at the moment. We haven’t had the hearing at the procurator fiscal’s yet and we can’t even plan the funeral. Sit down. Enrico, fetch Miss Halburton-Smythe a drink or something.”

“Too early, and call me Priscilla.”

“I’d better introduce everyone,” said Angela. “I feel I should say, enter first murderer and this is the second murderer.” She gave a shrill laugh.

“Control yourself,” snapped her sister. “I am Betty Trent. The tall young man over by the window is Paul Sinclair and the girl with pink hair is Melissa Clarke. To your left is Jeffrey Trent, our uncle; and to your right, his wife Jan. Charles is over there, by the fire. Now, have you heard the latest news?”

Priscilla shook her head.

“That actress has been found murdered.”

“Titchy Gold!”

“The same.”

“How was she murdered?”

Betty’s composure suddenly broke and she stared in an anguished way at Priscilla, opening and shutting her mouth.

“Sit down, Betty,” said Jeffrey. “I’ll explain. Titchy Gold was found dead in bed. A cup beside the bed was found to have been wiped clean of prints. A bottle of my sleeping pills has gone missing. We are waiting for the pathologist’s report and can only pray it turns out to be natural causes. If it hadn’t been for someone wiping that cup clean, then we might have supposed she murdered my brother and then took her own life.”

“And I suppose the police suspect one of you,” said Priscilla. There was a shocked silence. But why are we so shocked? thought Melissa. We’ve known all along one of us did it.

“I think it was that Spaniard, Enrico,” said Angela at last.

“Why?” asked Priscilla. Melissa suddenly experienced a fierce stab of resentment against this cool and beautiful blonde who asked questions with the impersonal incisiveness of a policeman.

“Why?” echoed Angela. “Cos he’s greedy and he’s got money in the will. Oh, stop snivelling, Betty. You’re getting on my nerves. No guts, that’s your problem.”

“And you’re an insensitive moron,” howled Betty.

Charles’s voice cut across the row. “Now look what you’ve done, Priscilla,” he said. “We’ve all endured a morning of questioning and then you come along and pour salt on all the wounds.”

Priscilla flushed. “I am sorry,” she said. She felt like an amateur. Hamish Macbeth would never have been so abrupt. She began to talk to Angela of her memories of her visit to Arrat House. Angela said she thought she had some old photographs taken during that visit and brought out an album. Priscilla bent over it. Yes, there she was herself, about age six, and there were Angela and Betty with their father, who was roaring with laughter about something. The small boy was recognizable as Charles. He was clinging on to the skirts of both sisters and looking over his shoulder with a look of horror on his face.

“What frightened you?” Priscilla asked Charles. He crossed the room and bent over the album. “Oh, that day. That was the man hanging in the tree.”

“One of Dad’s jokes,” explained Angela bitterly. “He had one of the gamekeepers pretend to be a hanged man. Frightened poor little Charles out of his wits.”

“And me,” said Priscilla, suddenly remembering that day clearly. She had felt sorry for Charles. Her furious parents had promptly taken her away and she had wondered for a short time afterwards what it was like to have to live with a parent who played such infernal tricks. Betty, who had recovered, said she had heard about Tommel Castle being turned into an hotel and asked how the business was going. Priscilla talked away while all the time she stored up impressions of the people gathered in the drawing room to tell Hamish. Charles had a sort of bland ease of manner over an undercurrent of nervousness. Jan was silent, strained and fidgeting the whole time. Betty was listening to the tales of running the hotel as if they were the most interesting stories she had ever heard. Angela was sitting four-square, her hands on her knees, staring into space. Melissa and Paul were having a low-voiced conversation at the window. Jeffrey was the only one who seemed at all at ease, as if the macabre goings-on at Arrat House had nothing to do with him.

Enrico reappeared and said that Charles was wanted in the library and the others exchanged looks as he walked out.

Priscilla rose to go. “I gather you are all being kept indoors,” she said to Angela. “Can I get you anything from the village?”

Angela said there was nothing she needed but Betty brightened. “Perhaps you could get me some more wool in this shade from Mrs Tallisker’s at the end of the village. It’s no use asking Maria. She always comes back with the wrong colour.”

Happy to have an excuse to return to Arrat House, Priscilla went out into the hall. Melissa followed her, with Paul close behind. “Could you smuggle us out past the press in your car?” asked Melissa.

“It might upset the police,” said Priscilla. “They’ll probably want to interview you all over again.”

“Just for a short time,” begged Melissa. “I feel I’ll go mad if I don’t get out of here. Paul, too.” Paul blinked at Priscilla myopically. Melissa was now feeling quite motherly and protective towards Paul. He had apologized to her that morning for his behaviour. He had begged her to help him get through this ordeal.

What would Hamish expect her to do? wondered Priscilla. Perhaps she might gain some useful information from Melissa and Paul.

She made up her mind. “All right, then. But you’d both better crouch down in the back seat until I get past the press. Where do you want to go?”

“There’s a little cafe-restaurant in the village,” said Melissa eagerly. She saw Enrico hovering in the shadows of the hall and lowered her voice. “Where is your car?”

“It’s a white Volvo, round the right-hand side of the house,” whispered Priscilla.

“We’ll go out the back way and meet you,” said Melissa urgently.

Soon Priscilla was driving carefully down to the village, with Melissa and Paul crouched down under travelling rugs in the back seat.

“Here we are,” she called over her shoulder as she parked outside the café. “Won’t the gentlemen of the press find you?”

“Not in a café,” said Melissa, popping up from under the rug. “They all go to The Crofter, the pub further along.”

“I’ll go and get Betty’s wool,” said Priscilla, “and then I’ll join you both.”

“Nice girl,” said Melissa as she entered the café with Paul.

“Yes,” agreed Paul, “and very beautiful.”

Melissa did not like that comment much. “Now, Paul,” she began, after they had ordered cups of coffee, “you must try to pull yourself together. The killing of Titchy can have nothing to do with you or me. We’ve only got to survive another day or two of questioning and then they’ll need to let us go.”

He drew patterns on top of the wax table-cloth with the edge of his teaspoon. “What if Mother did it?” he said.

Melissa took a deep breath. She privately thought Jan was capable of murder, but she said, “Of course she didn’t do it! Why should she? You know, Paul, your mother is quite capable of looking after herself. I wouldn’t run mad and give her all your money, but certainly enough to make her independent. I know: Tell her to go off on a cruise. That way you would be free of her for a bit and get a chance to settle down.”

Paul blinked at her mistily and took her hand. “That’s what I like about you, Melissa, your strength.”

Melissa gently disengaged her hand. She knew she was not a strong person. A strong person was like Hamish Macbeth. She wondered what it would be like to be a policeman’s wife. She wondered why he had never married. She dimly realized Paul was speaking.

“I’ve always been dominated by Mother, Melissa, and the time has come to really break free. I can’t do it right away while she’s upset over this break-up with Jeffrey. But once she’s settled, I’ll see less of her. That cruise is a good idea.”

They were joined by Priscilla. “I managed to get that wool,” she said cheerfully. “I’ll need to take you back soon or Blair will start howling and cursing.”

“Do you know Detective Chief Inspector Blair?” asked Melissa.

“Yes, I have met him. We had a murder in Lochdubh last year.”

“Lochdubh? Oh, you must know Hamish.”

A slight tinge of frost crept into Priscilla’s eyes. “Yes, he is a friend of mine.”

“Oh.” Melissa looked at her doubtfully and then her face cleared. Beautiful rich girls like Priscilla did not have anything to do with village constables. “Ready to go?” asked Priscilla, who had suddenly decided that it would be a waste of time to keep them out longer by interrogating them.

She drove back to Arrat House thinking perhaps it was as well Hamish was off the case. Melissa was a nice little thing, but too silly and susceptible. She parked the car at the side of the house. Melissa and Paul climbed out. And then ambling around the side of the house came Hamish Macbeth. Melissa let out a glad cry and ran straight into his arms, babbling about the second murder and about how frightened she had been, but now that he was back everything was all right, while Priscilla and Paul looked bleakly on.

Hamish disengaged himself quickly. “You’d best get indoors, Melissa, before Blair finds you were out of the house. A word with you, Priscilla.”

Melissa stood and stared as Hamish and Priscilla walked off together. They were both tall and looked at ease with each other.

“Have you been flirting with Melissa?” Priscilla was asking.

“I wass chust being my usual charming self,” said Hamish. “I am back on the case. The rest are having lunch but I wanted a bit of fresh air.”

“Where is Towser?”

“Being looked after by Mrs Wellington. Priscilla, there’s been another murder, and right under the noses of the police, too. I’ve mair to worry about than one spoilt mongrel. What did you find out?”

“Not much. Betty asked me to pick up some wool for her from the village and Melissa and Paul begged a lift. It’s a difficult business. There they all were and one of them a possible murderer. But with the atmosphere of Arrat House and the horrible furnishings, anyone looks like a murderer. Enrico is creepy. He hangs about listening, have you noticed? Paul Sinclair is a drip, in my opinion. He seems, at a guess, to be using that Melissa to try to get free from his mother. Hamish! I’ve suddenly thought, who was Mr Sinclair? I mean, who was Paul’s father? There might be insanity in the family, something like that.”

“There’s a point,” said Hamish. “The rain’s started again. We’re getting awfy wet, Priscilla.”

“There’s a summer-house thing over by the woods. We’ll go there.”

They walked into a rather damp and dilapidated summer house and sat down together. “I was reading an article about genes and heredity,” said Priscilla.

“That’s all verra well,” put in Hamish, “but I’ve never noticed murder running in families.”

“No, but insanity does.”

“Maybe,” he said slowly. “I’ll ask Anderson. He’s been ferreting into everyone’s past.”

“I can do it easier than that,” said Priscilla eagerly. “I’ll just ask Paul.”

“What? If his father was bonkers?”

“No, silly. I’ll ask if his father is still alive, and if so, where, and if not, what did he die of.”

He gave her a slow smile. “My, my,” he mocked. “Quite the detective. And here’s me thinking you didnae want tae come to Arrat House.”

“I found I had less work at the hotel than I thought,” said Priscilla primly.

Hamish clasped his hands behind his head and looked meditatively at the ceiling. “Aye,” he said dreamily, “that Melissa iss a nice wee lassie.”

“Hamish Macbeth. Unless you are seriously interested, leave her alone. She’s upset, young and far from home, and highly susceptible.”

Hamish grinned. “I wass only teasing,” he said, but Priscilla had already risen to her feet. “One of us had better do some work,” she said sharply, and walked out of the summer house.

Melissa, watching from the drawing room window, saw her approach, saw the long easy strides, the immaculate hair, the well-worn but well-cut tweeds, the air of assurance and clasped her arms about her body and shivered. It was always the same. She would find some man to dream about, some man to hope for, and then just when she began to imagine she had a chance, some female appeared over the horizon and took the man away. She gave a little sigh. The Melissas of this world always had to settle for second best. “Don’t look so gloomy,” came Paul’s voice from behind her. “We’ll soon be out of this nightmare.”

The drawing room door opened and Priscilla came in, holding the parcel of wool she had bought for Betty. “Where is everyone?” she asked.

“They’re all in the dining room,” said Melissa. “Neither of us felt like eating anything.”

“I’ll go and give this to, Betty,” said Priscilla. She hesitated in the doorway. “Is your father still alive?” she asked Paul.

He blinked at her in surprise.

“No,” he said curtly. “He died shortly after Mother divorced him.”

“I am sorry,” said Priscilla. “What did he die of?”

“A broken heart,” snapped Paul. “So go and report that to your policeman friend.”

“There’s no need for you to get so worked up,” said Melissa when Priscilla had left. “And what makes you think she is spying for Hamish?”

“Because she goes off with friend Hamish and then comes back for the express purpose of trying to find out about my father. It was all Jeffrey’s fault. He took Mother away.”

“Try not to get so upset.” Melissa took his arm. “Maybe we should get some food after all.” She smiled up at him. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you.”

His eyes filled with tears and he took off his glasses and scrubbed at them with his handkerchief. “Thank God you’re here with me,” he said in a choked voice. “Oh, Melissa, will you marry me?”

She stared back at him. Somewhere at the back of her brain a tiny warning voice was crying that Paul wanted a substitute mother, that her remark, “I’ll take care of you,” had sparked the proposal. But there were louder voices and bright images. He was a tolerably personable young man with a good job. He was a millionaire. She would have a diamond ring. Mum would be ever so pleased. White satin. Who would be her bridesmaid? Church. Bells ringing. Modern home. Shiny kitchen. Herself in apron. Had a good day, darling? “Yes,” said Melissa.

♦

They were drinking coffee when Priscilla entered the dining room. Betty accepted the wool with a cry of delight and begged Priscilla to join them. “Did you have a terrible time getting past the press?” asked Charles.

“Not really,” replied Priscilla. “I kept the car windows closed and let the people guide me through.”

“It shouldn’t be allowed,” said Angela. “Ghouls and vultures.”

“Understandable,” put in Jeffrey. “I mean, Titchy Gold and people like her cultivate publicity. You can’t turn it off like a tap just because she’s dead.”

“The press have descended on us in hordes,” said Charles evenly, “not because of Titchy’s publicity hunting but because two murders have been committed in this house.”

“Yes, yes, dear,” said Betty hurriedly. “But let’s not talk about it.”

“As you wish,” said Charles, “but not talking about it isn’t going to make the problem go away.”

“It’s because each one of us is a suspect that we’re all so frightened and nervous,” said Jan, “and that’s ridiculous. Andrew Trent tormented the villagers and the outside staff as well. This house is never locked, neither are the bedrooms. Anyone could have come in from outside.”

Charles glanced out of the window. “You may have your wish,” he said. “That gamekeeper, Jim Gaskell, is being marched in for interrogation. The police lunch-break is obviously over.”

Enrico, who had just brought in a fresh pot of coffee, said smoothly, “Perhaps the police now know that Jim Gaskell had more reason than most to want Mr Trent dead.”

“How? Why?” demanded several voices.

Enrico told them about the trick played on the gamekeeper.

“There you are!” said Jan triumphantly when he had finished.

Charles shrugged. “Let’s hope he keeps the police busy for the rest of the day. I’m tired of questions.”

“Don’t you want to find out who did it?” demanded Jeffrey.

“Of course I do,” said Charles. “My fiancée has been murdered. But I wish they would start looking in other directions. They keep going on at me. They should be looking for some homicidal maniac.”

The door opened and Paul and Melissa came in. Jan looked at her son sharply. “I’m glad someone’s happy,” she declared. “Don’t tell me that idiot Blair has actually found the murderer.”

Paul took Melissa’s hand in his. “We’re to be married, Mother. Melissa and I are engaged.”

“That’s all I needed,” said Jan. Everyone else murmured their congratulations. Priscilla looked at Melissa and thought, she’s not in love with him. After all this is over, she might regret it.

♦

While Jim Gaskell was being interrogated, the preliminary autopsy report on Titchy Gold came through. She had died from an overdose of sleeping pills. Furthermore, the forensic experts had already discovered traces of sleeping pills in the dregs of the chocolate.

The gamekeeper listened impassively and then said, “So what are you wasting time questioning me for? I didnae kill the lassie, nor had I any reason for doing so.”

Daviot sighed and dismissed him but told him to be available for more questioning.

“Was that dummy found?” Hamish asked suddenly. “I mean, the first joke that was played on Titchy was with a dummy.”

“Yes, we found it,” said MacNab. “It was down in a store room next to the games room along with a bunch o’ other tricks.”

“What did they all really think of Andrew Trent?” said Hamish, half to himself.

“Whit does that matter?” demanded Blair.

“Whoever killed him hated him, really hated him,” said Hamish. “If we solve the first murder, we’ll know the answer to the second. Although they may not be connected.”

“Never say that,” groaned Daviot. “But you have a point. Let’s have ‘em all back, one after the other.”

Jan Trent was the first to be asked to reply to the simple question, “What did you think of Andrew Trent?”

She looked at them, slightly goggle-eyed with amazement. “What did I…? Well, not much. Just a silly old man. Jeffrey didn’t like his brother much and did not see much of him, which meant I didn’t see much of him either.”

“What did your first husband do?” asked Hamish.

“He was a bank manager.”

“What did he die of?”

“A heart attack,” snapped Jan. “What has all this got to do with…?”

“Quite,” said Daviot, throwing a curious glance at Hamish. “Let us revert to the original question. What were your feelings towards Mr Andrew Trent?”

She sat silent for a few moments and then said, “Impatience, mild dislike, that’s all.”

When she had gone, Hamish asked, “Where did her husband die?”

“John Sinclair died in a nursing home in Baling,” said Anderson, consulting a sheet of notes.

“An ordinary nursing home?”

“I think so. Why?”

“I just wondered whether it might have specialized in mental patients – whether there’s any insanity that might have been passed on to the son.”

“I’ll check,” said Anderson and picked up the phone.

Charles Trent was next. Asked what he had thought of his adopted father, he said in a puzzled way, “Well, not much. Irritating old cove. I mean, I was sent away to boarding-school early on and left there as much as possible. It suited me. I didn’t like holidays at home. Then, after a bit, some of the boys used to invite me to their homes for the holidays and I liked that. I wished he’d been more like a real, ordinary father, you know. But I’ve always been pretty popular, lots of friends and all that, and he did pay up for a good education. I kept away from him as much as possible. It suited both of us.”

“And you didn’t hate him?” asked Daviot, thinking again what a singularly beautiful young man Charles Trent was.

“Not enough to murder him, if that’s what you mean,” said Charles.

He had no sooner left the library than Anderson said cheerfully, “You might hae something, Hamish. John Sinclair was as nutty as a fruit-cake. He did die of a heart attack. But the nursing home takes mental patients. He got out one night and was found running around the grounds in the middle of winter without a stitch on. They had to put him in a strait jacket, and while he was fighting and struggling, he had the heart attack that killed him.”

“Right,” said Daviot. “Let’s see what Paul Sinclair has to say to that.”

Hamish thought Paul Sinclair was thoroughly prepared for this line of questioning. Priscilla must already have asked questions about his father and that had alerted him.

He said quietly that his father had been perfectly sane until the divorce, which had turned his mind. “And do you blame your mother for your father’s death?” asked Daviot.

Cold anger blazed momentarily in Paul’s eyes but he had himself well in check. “Of course not. I blame Jeffrey Trent. He took my mother away. He told her that if she married him I would have the best schools, the best of everything. It was all his fault.”

Daviot leaned forward. “And what did you think of Andrew Trent?”

“I couldn’t stand him,” said Paul. “Filthy old fool and his disgusting jokes.”

Daviot’s voice was cold and even. “Did you murder him?”

Paul snorted with contempt. “No. I was getting away. I had planned to leave in the morning with Melissa. We all hated him. I’m the only one who’s honest about it.”

Betty Trent was next. She looked shocked when asked to tell them her feelings towards her father. “Well, how odd of you. I mean, he was my father. I loved him. His jokes were very tiresome, I admit, and Angela and I would not have come to visit him had we not believed him to be dying. You are very insensitive, Superintendent. What a horrible question to ask a recently bereaved daughter! It is possible to love a parent without liking him, you know.”

They did not get much farther with Angela, although she was more forthright than Betty. She said she and Betty had dreaded coming to Arrat House because of the practical jokes. They had not lived with their father for over twenty years. When they were both in their early thirties, Andrew Trent had had a house in Perm but had moved north when Arrat House and the land came up for sale. Although not Scottish, he had always wanted to be the laird, said Angela. She and Betty had persuaded him to let them go to London and live there. Hamish Macbeth said quietly, “Neither you nor your sister ever married. Did your father have a hand in that?”

“I suppose he did in a way,” said Angela, “but if you think either of us killed him because of that, you’re mistaken. Oh, I know people say, “The poor Trent sisters, they were quite good-looking in their youth and could have got married had it not been for their father.” Sometimes I would like to believe that myself. He did play his awful tricks on any fellow we brought home. But the fact is,” she said, her voice becoming harsh, “no one ever loved either of us enough.”

There was a long silence in the room while Angela fought for composure. By God, Hamish Macbeth thought, if the auld scunner were alive this day, I would be tempted to kill him myself!

After Angela, Jeffrey Trent came as something of a relief. He was dry and brisk. No, he had not liked his brother much, but as he had had little to do with him, he had not entertained any strong feelings against him. At present, he felt quite fond of his late brother because of the inheritance. It had given him the freedom he craved.

“Both Paul and Mrs Trent say you took her away from her first husband, John Sinclair, thereby causing the man to have a mental breakdown,” said Hamish.

“Pah,” snorted Jeffrey. “She threw herself at me. And men like John Sinclair don’t turn raving mad because a stick insect like Jan has left them. They’ve been raving mad all along.”

Were they all as dreadful as they sounded, thought Hamish, or was the brooding presence of the two murders making them seem worse than they were?

He almost regretted having been called back from Lochdubh. He felt he could get a dearer perspective if he could get away from Arrat House and think. He glanced out of the windows of the library. The rain had stopped and a thin pale sunlight was filtering through the glass. Charles Trent and Priscilla were walking up and down outside, talking. He wondered what they were talking about.

♦

“I wish I could get away from here,” Charles was saying. He had accompanied Priscilla outside after she had said her goodbyes. Sunlight was sparkling on the slushy snow and the air held a hint of warmth. “It’s so far from everything. I never felt at home here and it wasn’t entirely because of Father and his dislike of me or his hellish jokes. Sutherland is a foreign country, a different race of people, a different way of thinking. Outside that overheated house, I was always aware of the vastness of moorland and mountain. I love the city, the lights, the theatres, the bars, the noise and bustle. Sometimes when you walk out into the country here at night, the silence is so complete it hurts your ears. The land is so old, so very old, thin earth on top of antique rock.” He shivered. “Why am I telling you all this?”

“Because I’m a stranger,” said Priscilla gently. “Because I’m not a murder suspect. Did you really love Titchy?”

He gave a rueful laugh. “If you had asked me that twenty-four hours ago, I would have said yes and meant it. That’s what’s so awful. She’s dead, murdered, gone for ever. I didn’t really know her at all. That detective, the foxy one, Anderson, he told me that she had been sentenced for killing her own father. Maybe I’m a shallow person. I take everyone at face value. She was blonde and beautiful and everyone envied me, or I thought they did. We were always in the newspapers and I liked that. I don’t think about anything very deeply when I’m in the city, but up here…well, there’s nothing to hide behind, no trappings of civilization. Then who would murder Titchy? Not one of us, surely. They keep hinting that I hated my father. They can’t seem to understand that I didn’t have any strong feelings about him whatsoever. If I’d been unhappy at school, it might have been different. Can you understand that?”

“Yes, I think so,” said Priscilla cautiously. “When are the police going to let you go?”

“Soon, or we’ll have a team of lawyers up here making sure they do. Doing anything tonight?”

Priscilla looked at him in surprise. “Are you asking me out?”

“Yes, why not? Drive off somewhere for a bit of dinner.”

“Well…”

“Priscilla, might I hae a word with you?” The quiet voice of Hamish Macbeth sounded behind them.

Priscilla found to her annoyance that she was blushing like a schoolgirl caught out in some misdemeanour. “Yes, certainly,” she said. “Charles, would you excuse us?”

“Let me know about dinner,” he said and loped off.

“What is it, Hamish?” asked Priscilla.

“I haff to go back to Lochdubh tonight and I was hoping for a chance to discuss the case wi’ ye. Of course, if you prefer to go jauntering off with a murder suspect…”

“Don’t be silly, Hamish. I haven’t even had time to think. All right then, I’ll pick up some food for us on the road home and I’ll be waiting for you at the police station about seven, say.”

“Fine.” Hamish’s hazel eyes swivelled to the entrance of the house where Charles was lounging, watching them curiously.

“So I’ll deal with my admirer, if you deal with yours,” said Priscilla.

“Who?”

“Melissa, just coming around the corner of the house.”

Priscilla walked off as Melissa strolled up to Hamish. “Heard the news?” demanded Melissa.

“What news?”

“Paul and I are engaged to be married.”

“Why?”

“Why?” echoed Melissa. “What an odd thing to say. Aren’t you supposed to offer the lady your felicitations?”

“I suppose. You don’t look like a woman in love.”

“What does a woman in love look like, Hamish?”

“She looks happy. You don’t look happy, Melissa.”

“How in the hell am I supposed to look happy when I’m living in a place where two murders have been committed?” Melissa turned on her heel and strode off. Could Hamish…might Hamish…be a little jealous? Melissa’s steps faltered as her heart yearned towards that thought, but then she strode on as common sense took over, or what she decided was common sense. The Melissas of this world, she told herself sternly, were not destined to fall in love and get married. The lucky Melissas of this world settled for a nice man with money. A man given to outbursts of rage, taunted a voice in her head, and she shook it impatiently, as if to get rid of that mocking voice, and concentrated on a happy vision of a white wedding instead.

♦

Priscilla collected the key to the police station from Mrs Wellington, listened politely to the minister’s wife’s complaints that she could not go on looking after ‘that mongrel’, collected Towser and then let herself into Hamish’s narrow kitchen and began preparations for the meal. Why on earth didn’t Hamish Macbeth get himself a gas cooker? she thought, not for the first time, as she lit the black iron stove. Hamish’s large brood of little brothers and sisters over at Rogart were doing well, and so was his parents’ croft. They did not make demands on his money any longer, that she knew, but the years of necessary thrift had bitten deep into Hamish, she supposed. She made a simple meal of grilled lamb chops, baked potatoes and a large salad. It was almost ready by the time Hamish arrived.

How intimidating she looks, thought Hamish, as he paused in the kitchen doorway and removed his peaked cap. She had changed into a plain wool dress the colour of spring leaves and was wearing green high-heeled shoes of the same colour. Not a hair of her smooth blonde head was out of place. A dumpy little woman in an apron with mussed hair would have looked much more at home in his dingy kitchen.

“Tired?” she asked.

“A bit,” said Hamish, sinking down into a chair and patting Towser. “Rather, my brain’s tired. I cannae get the feel of anyone. One minute I think it’s your beau, Charles, the next I think it’s Paul. Oh, Melissa’s to marry Paul. I wonder if I can talk her out of it.”

“The only way you’re going to talk her out of it is by offering yourself as a substitute,” said Priscilla, putting the food on the table. “I brought mineral water to drink. I thought we would need all our wits about us.”

“Aye, that’s grand. What was Charles Trent talking about?”

“He was quite interesting,” said Priscilla. “The red-currant jelly is by your elbow.” She told him all that Charles had said.

“He’s probably being very clever and hoping you’ll repeat all this to me.”

“Could be. But I didn’t get that impression. I think he’s usually a carefree sort of chap who’s been rocked by all this murder and mayhem. I think, when it’s all over, he’s about the only one who will come out of this untouched by it.”

“No sane person could come away from two murders and remain untouched by it,” said Hamish. “And talking about insanity, I think Paul Sinclair’s got a bad temper, that’s all. I don’t really believe much in all this business of insanity running in families. People so often go mad with alcohol or drugs or Alzheimer’s disease or things like that.”

Priscilla looked stubborn. “I think you should concentrate on Paul Sinclair. With a father like that – ”

She stopped and stared at Hamish.

“What’s the matter?” he asked. “You look as if you’ve been struck by lightning.”

“Who were Charles Trent’s real parents?”

“We couldn’t find any adoption papers. Besides, what does it matter? You’ve got a bee in your bonnet about this hereditary thing.”

“But wouldn’t it be interesting?”

“I would hardly know where to start,” said Hamish. “Wait a bit. Perth. That’s where old Trent must have been when he adopted the boy. But I can hardly rush off to Perth tomorrow. I’ll be expected back at Arrat House first thing.”

“I could phone up Strathbane and say you were sick. They won’t really mind. The place is crawling with detectives and policemen and forensic teams. I’d take you to Perth myself.”

“We’ll probably only discover that his old neighbours, if they’re still alive, hated him as much as everyone else,” said Hamish gloomily. “On the other hand, I don’t like the thought of my mind getting bogged down in the atmosphere of Arrat House. One day wouldn’t matter, I suppose.”

“I’ll phone now,” said Priscilla.

Blair listened to her explanation that Hamish Macbeth was suffering from a virus infection.

“And is this his mother speaking?” he asked with heavy sarcasm.

“You know very well who is speaking,” said Priscilla coldly. “If you are unable to take this message, put me though to Superintendent Peter Daviot.”

“No, no,” said Blair hurriedly. “Jist ma wee joke.” He knew Daviot, a snob, would hit the roof if he thought Priscilla had been insulted.

Priscilla returned to the kitchen. “Well, that’s that,” she said cheerfully.

“It still seems a bit daft,” said Hamish. “What are you hoping to find? That Charles Trent’s parents were maniacs?”

“Something like that,” said Priscilla, unruffled. “At least it would be a start.”