Death of a Prankster

∨ Death of a Prankster ∧

7

If your lips would keep from slips,

Five things observe with care.

To whom you speak; of whom you speak;

And how, and when, and where.

—William Edward Morris

For the first time in years the bedroom doors at Arrat House were locked at night. Jan and Jeffrey Trent still shared the same bedroom, lying without touching, the air between their bodies twanging with hate. Not particularly an unusual state of affairs in a marriage but adding to the tense and frightening atmosphere of Arrat House. The wind had got up, that famous Sutherland wind, howling and baying and shrieking, taking away any feeling of security engendered by thick walls, thick carpet and central heating, raising dormant fears in civilized minds of the days when Thor, the god and protector of warriors and peasants, rode the heavens. The old gods and demons of Sutherland had taken over, tearing through the countryside over the cowering heads of petty men.

And women.

Melissa Clarke lay awake. One particularly furious blast of wind boomed in the old chimneys and shrieked across the roof.

She switched on the light. They would never return here, she thought. They would go on honeymoon to Italy or France.

The wind dropped for a few seconds and she heard a soft shuffling noise from the corridor outside her room. Then the wind returned in force. She lay rigid, staring at the door.

As she looked, the handle of the door began to turn slowly. This was not a horror movie, she told herself sternly. Police were patrolling outside and a policeman was on guard in the hall downstairs. But she was unable to move.

The doorknob turned again. She looked wildly around. There must be some sort of bell to ring the servants. Yes, there was one over by the fireplace. But she was paralyzed with fear. There was no way she could get out of bed and walk over to that bell. And then she noticed that the doorknob was still again, unmoving, the light from the lamp beside her bed winking on the polished brass.

She lay there for a long time, listening to the heaving, shrieking and roaring of the wind, and then, quite suddenly, she fell asleep.

When she awoke early in the morning, the wind had dropped. She hoisted herself up on one elbow and looked in a dazed way at the door, wondering if she had imagined it all. And suddenly the room was filled with hellish, mocking laughter. Her terror grew as she realized it was not mechanical laughter from one of old Mr Trent’s machines. It was from the world of dark nightmare. It was from the sulphurous pit where the demons dwelled. Sobbing with fear, but somewhat emboldened this time by daylight, she found strength to leap from the bed and run to that bell and lean on it, ringing and ringing the bell, sweat pouring down her body. She heard the sound of footsteps running up the stairs and then a hammering at the door. Whimpering with relief, she went to it and turned the key and flung it open. Enrico was there, with a policeman behind him.

“I’m haunted,” gasped Melissa. “That laughter.”

Both men stood and listened. Nothing.

“I heard it,” wailed Melissa.

And suddenly, the hellish laughter started again.

Enrico went to the fireplace and peered up the chimney.

“Jackdaws,” he said in disgust. “And I took a nest out of this chimney only last year.”

“You must be a townee,” said the policeman. Melissa sank down on the edge of the bed. “It’s dreadful,” she said. “Are you sure it’s only jackdaws?”

“Yes,” said the policeman. “Right nasty noise they make.”

“I’m sorry to have troubled you, but I was so frightened. You see, someone tried the handle of my door last night.”

“What time was this?” asked the policeman.

“About two o’clock this morning.”

“You should have rung the bell then,” he said severely.

Melissa put a hand up to her head. “I was so frightened, I couldn’t move. The only reason I found courage to ring that bell this morning was because it was daylight.”

Paul Sinclair appeared in the doorway. “What’s going on, Melissa?”

Melissa told him about the turning doorknob and the jackdaws.

Paul blushed. “Actually, I tried your door last night. I wanted to talk to you.”

“At two in the morning?” asked the policeman suspiciously.

“I couldn’t sleep,” said Paul defiantly, “and we are engaged to be married.”

Enrico straightened up from the fireplace. “I can prepare you an early breakfast if you would like.”

“Oh, that would be nice,” said Melissa, feeling a little surge of power, despite her recent distress, at being able to give orders to a servant. “Some scrambled eggs and coffee, Enrico, and what would you like, darling?”

“Just toast and coffee,” said Paul. “I’ll see you downstairs, Melissa. Won’t be long.”

After they had all gone, Melissa began to wash and dress. They would have servants, she thought. Perhaps a couple to live in. Not British. A couple of foreigners. Of course, only the terribly rich could afford servants, but Paul would be very rich if he did not give all that money away to his mother. Melissa’s soft lips moulded themselves into a hard line. Why should he? Why should Jan have everything? They could have a flat in town and perhaps a nice old farmhouse in the country. That would be nice. Chintz and beams, and put the car away, Costas, and tell Juanita to bring in the drinks for our guests. Yes, all that should be hers. And clothes like those worn by Priscilla. Expensive, subtle clothes. Real materials, silk and fine jersey wool and chiffon velvet. But seats at the theatre, a box, even. First nights. Little parties. Villa in the south of France. Send the servants ahead with the luggage and tell them to get things ready. Plane to Marseilles and Costas waiting with the white Rolls-Royce to run them along the coast to where their summer home was perched on a thyme-scented hill above the blue of the Mediterranean. Parents at the wedding…

The dream began to splinter. Mum and Dad would need to wear nice clothes and be very, very quiet so that no one could hear their accents. And smelly old Auntie Vera was definitely not coming. Hairbrush poised above her head, Melissa thought, why get married in church at all? Simple service in a registry office, brief visit home to Mum. Surprise, surprise. Got married. Isn’t it fun? So no embarrassment of working-class parents and relatives at the wedding. Yes, that was the way to do it. Now to get Paul to keep that money. Why should both of us work? If he loved her, he would surely rather please her than his mother. Give the old trout something, but not all.

Dreams of wealth were so rosy that they kept the fear engendered by the murders at bay and so the more highly coloured they became in Melissa’s mind.

She went down the stairs determined to start work on Paul right away.

♦

Jeffrey Trent wandered into his nieces’ bedroom later that morning. “What a storm last night!” he said. “I could hardly sleep.”

Betty was sitting at the dressing-table unrolling old–fashioned steel curlers from her head. Angela was sitting up in bed, reading The Times.

“I slept through it all,” said Betty to Jeffrey’s reflection in the mirror. “Are you still set on leaving Jan?” she went on. “I mean, it does seem rather odd in someone of your age.”

“Meaning I shall shortly die an unhappy man anyway? No, Betty, I plan to enjoy myself.”

Angela put down the paper. “I’ve often wondered why you married Jan in the first place. I liked your first wife, Pauline. Very sweet.”

“She was all right,” said Jeffrey, “but a bit frigid, if you must know. That was the attraction about Jan. She hooked me into bed half an hour after she had first met me.”

“Jeffrey!” Betty looked at him in distress.

“Well, it’s the truth. Manipulating bitch that she was. Oh, it was a successful marriage right up until the money began to dry up. Now I’m going to get my revenge. It’s a pity I can’t talk Paul out of giving her any money.”

“Talking about money,” said Angela, “I do think it’s awful that Charles hasn’t got anything.”

“I suppose we could give him some,” said Betty. “What do you think, Jeffrey? I mean, we’re going to have millions each, aren’t we?”

“Yes, even after death duties. I think I’ll give him something myself…and tell Jan.”

Angela looked uncomfortable. “You mustn’t be so spiteful. After all, you’re getting your freedom. Leave the woman alone. Why so bitter?”

“You haven’t been married,” said Jeffrey, “so you don’t know what it’s like to be sucked dry of money. That parasite deserves every pain I can give her.”

♦

“Jeffrey is being quite horrible,” said Jan to her son. “He seems determined to ruin me.” Paul pushed at the frame of his glasses with a nervous finger and looked owlishly at his mother. “You’d best get a divorce, and quickly,” he said, “and then you’ll be shot of him. Why are you still sharing the same bedroom? Enrico could find you another.”

“I’m not going to let him off easily,” said Jan. “I’m going to make him pay and pay.”

“If he beetles off to South America, as he’s threatening to do, you won’t be able to get anything out of him. Don’t worry. Haven’t I promised to give you my share?”

Jan’s eyes misted over with grateful tears. “You are the very best son any mother could have. What is it, Melissa? I didn’t see you standing there.”

“I just wanted a word with Paul,” said Melissa.

Paul took her hand. “Go on,” he said. “We’re listening.”

“In private, Paul.”

Paul smiled at his mother and then went out with Melissa, who led him upstairs to her bedroom. She locked the door behind him. “Just so that we’re not disturbed. The police have started their damned questions again.”

“What do you want to talk to me about?” asked Paul.

“Well, it’s about us. You’ve asked me to marry you and yet we’ve never made love or anything.”

Paul blushed. “Plenty of time for that after we’re married.”

“But you might kiss me or something like that.” Melissa gently took off his glasses.

Paul, who was a virgin, was not destined to remain so. If anyone had told him that a bare quarter of an hour after kissing Melissa he would be lying in bed naked with her, he would not have believed them. But that was how it happened. Quick, sharp, clumsy, but most satisfying. He felt marvellous. He felt ten feet tall.

“What do you say to a flat in town and a cottage in the country, somewhere near the research station, when we’re married?” he realized Melissa was saying.

“Take a lot of money for that,” he said sleepily.

Melissa took his hand and laid it on her breast. “But you’ll have a lot of money,” she pointed out.

He caressed her breast, marvelling at the smoothness of her skin. “Trouble is, I’ve promised Mother the lot.”

“Now that’s silly,” cooed Melissa. “I mean, she doesn’t need it all. A bit for her and the rest for us. That’s fair. You wouldn’t want to deprive our children of a good education.”

“Children,” said Melissa softly. “Lots and lots of them and we may as well start now.”

She did a few ecstatic things to his body. Paul’s last thought before another wave of red passion crashed over his head was that his mother was not going to be very pleased.

At last he fell asleep, wrapped in her arms. Awake, Melissa stared at the ceiling and thought hard. It was not that she was mercenary, she told an imaginary Hamish Macbeth. It was just that if Paul was going to get all that money, why should she let him give it away? Like most women of low self-esteem, Melissa was like six characters in search of an author, always looking for a role to play to keep reality at bay. The new one was to be wife and mother. But rich wife and mother.

♦

Hamish Macbeth and Priscilla were speeding down the A9 to Perth. “I feel a bit guilty about this,” said Hamish. “It’s like a holiday. It’s like not having to go to school on exam day.”

“We might find out something,” said Priscilla. “Thank goodness, they haven’t had the snow down here as bad as we did in Sutherland.”

“I’ve never asked you,” said Hamish curiously, “what you think of being stuck in Lochdubh all year round. I mean, you used to go off to London for most of the year.”

“Oh, I like it. It suits me. It was a bit of a shock at first, I mean having to live permanently in an hotel. It’s not as if we ever close down. But ever since Mr Johnson took over as manager, things have been much easier. Daddy’s had the architects in. We’re going to build a gift shop next to the hotel and I’m going to run it. No tourist trash. I’m going to have all the best Scottish stuff I can find. After all, the sort of guests we have can afford to pay for the best. I can always go and stay with a friend in London if I feel I want a break from Sutherland.”

“It was just what Charles Trent said started me thinking. I mean, your father’s English.”

“Never let him hear you say that,” said Priscilla in mock horror. “He’s ordered a kilt – evening dress. He says the guests will like it. What do you think of them all at Arrat House the further away you get from it?”

Hamish gave a groan. “They all seem quite ordinary. Now if old Mr Trent had been alive and someone else had been killed, I would point to him and say, “There’s your murderer.” I mean, you have to be wrong in the head to want to go on playing awful jokes like that and know everyone hates you for it.”

“I wonder if he did know,” said Priscilla. “There’s Blair Atholl Castle. Not far to go now. I mean, everyone toadied to him in a way. Look, no snow here at all and the sun is shining. Another world.”

Hamish took out notes he had made on the case and studied them until Priscilla drove into Perth. “We’ll start with the hospital,” said Priscilla. “Have you got Charles Trent’s date of birth?”

“Yes, he told Anderson it was November 5, 1964.”

The main hospital had no record of a Charles Trent or in fact a Charles anything having been born at the right time. Adoption societies seemed to be housed in the larger towns like Aberdeen, Edinburgh and Glasgow.

“This is a waste of time,” said Hamish. “All this way on a wild-goose chase.”

“Let’s have lunch,” said Priscilla, “and find out what to do next.”

“As long as I’m paying,” said Hamish. Her remark about him being a moocher still rankled, though why this latest remark should rankle when previous ones had not he had not worked out – or did not want to work out.

“What about a burger then?” he asked.

“Don’t insult me. I meant a proper lunch. Mr Johnson said there was a good wine bar in the centre.”

The wine bar turned out to be very good indeed, and to Priscilla’s relief the prices were modest. Hamish began to enjoy himself. Perth, he thought, was a little gem of a town – good shops, good restaurants and the beauty of the River Tay sliding through its centre.

They were sitting over cups of excellent coffee when Priscilla called the waitress over and asked her if there were any hospitals on the outskirts of Perth, or maternity homes. “There’s a wee cottage hospital on the road out to the west,” said the waitress. “It’s called the Jamieson Hospital. Blaimore Road.”

“There you are,” said Priscilla triumphantly. “We can try there.”

“Before we do,” said Hamish, “let’s go to where Andrew Trent used to live and see if any of the neighbours can remember him.”

Andrew Trent’s former home was on the outskirts of the town, a large brown sandstone double-fronted house, with a bleak gravelled stretch in front of it ornamented with dreary laurels in wooden tubs. A legend above the door proclaimed it to be the Dunromin Hotel. As they approached the main doors, they could see various geriatric guests peering at them from a front lounge window, like so many inquisitive tortoises.

The air inside had an institutional smell of Brown Windsor Soup, disinfectant and wax polish.

The girl at reception fetched the owner, who turned out to be an old lady of grim appearance. “Well, out with it!” she demanded. She jerked a gnarled thumb in the direction of the lounge. “Whit’s that lot been complaining about now?”

“We are not here because of a complaint,” began Priscilla.

“Just as well,” said the owner. “They’re never satisfied. Always phoning up their nieces or nephews or sons or daughters to say they’re being cheated or getting poisoned or some such rubbish.” Priscilla gathered Dunromin was one of those sad hotels which catered for permanent elderly residents cast off by their families, who did not want the indignities of the nursing home and so settled for the indignities of the cheap hotel instead.

“What we wanted to ask you, Mrs…?” said Hamish.

“Miss Trotter.”

“What we wanted to ask you, Miss Trotter, was whether you bought this house from Andrew Trent, who used to live here in the early sixties.”

“Aye, I did. And what’s it to you, may I ask? I paid a fair price for it.”

“Look,” said Priscilla patiently, “Mr Macbeth here is a policeman investigating the murder of Andrew Trent. Did you not read about the murder in the newspapers?”

Miss Trotter’s eyes gleamed. “Oh, it was him, then. I thought it was someone else. That’s a bit of luck. Mrs Arthur at Ben Nevis next door is always bragging about how the chap that mugged old Mrs Flint once stayed there. I’ll have a murdered man. She’ll be green with envy. Yes, that will put madam in her place. In fact, I’ll just get my coat and run over there.”

“Before you go,” said Hamish, “did Mr Trent have a baby in the house when you came to buy it?”

“Not that I can recall.”

“What about the other neighbours?”

“You could try Mrs Cumrie, two doors away on the right. She was here when I moved in.”

Mrs Cumrie was very old, wrinkled and frail, but with bright sharp eyes. Yes, she said, she remembered Andrew Trent and had not liked him one bit. No, he hadn’t played any tricks on her. She had thought him a bully. He always seemed to be shouting and complaining about something or another. Yes, she remembered the baby. She did not know he had adopted it. She had assumed it belonged to some relative who was staying in the house. The baby had had a nanny, but she couldn’t remember the woman’s name or whether she had been a local.

“So that’s that,” said Hamish.

“Not yet,” pointed out Priscilla. “We’ve still got the Jamieson Hospital.”

Her spirits sank, however, when they arrived outside the hospital. It was small but new, certainly newer than thirty years.

They asked for the matron and put their request to her. She shook her head. “I would help you if I could,” she said. “But the hospital was burnt down ten years ago aind all the records were lost in the fire.”

They gloomily thanked her and rose to go. They were just getting into the car when the matron appeared at the entrance and called them back.

“I’ve just had a thought,” she said. “My mother was a midwife in Perth for years. She might be the one to help you. Even if she can’t, she’d be right glad of some company. Wait a minute, and I’ll write the address down for you.”

“I suppose we’d better try everything since we’re here,” said Hamish as they drove off. “I’d clean forgotten about midwives. Charles Trent’s mother could have had the baby at home.”

The matron’s mother was a Mrs Macdonald. She lived in a small neat council house, new on the outside, but belonging to an older age on the inside where it was furnished with horsehair-stuffed chairs and bedecked with photographs in silver frames. Although very old, Mrs Macdonald was a tiny, agile woman. She insisted they had tea and as soon as it was served began to hand them one photograph after another, telling them about deliveries long past and their difficulties. “I was a great amateur photographer in my day,” said Mrs Macdonald. “These were all taken with a box Brownie. Now that little laddie there is now Bailie Ferguson. He sometimes comes to see me, yes. You’ll be having children of your own one day, Miss Halburton-Smythe, but I suppose you’ll be going into the hospital. It’s become fashionable again to have babies at home, though. Funny how the old ways come back.”

“Mrs Macdonald,” said Hamish desperately. “I am a policeman, investigating the murder of a Mr Andrew Trent. You may have read about it in the newspapers.”

“And this one here,” said Mrs Macdonald, apparently deaf to his question, handing a photograph to Priscilla, “is Mary McCrumb. She calls herself Josie Duval now and runs a wee French restaurant in Glasgow. She never did like the name McCrumb. Pretty baby and an easy delivery.”

“Andrew Trent,” said Priscilla firmly. “A baby was born in Perth and he adopted it.”

“And this is Jessie Beeton. Lovely wee dress, that. Nun’s veiling. Cost a fortune.”

Hamish signalled with his eyes that it was all hopeless.

They rose to go. “You must excuse us,” said Priscilla. “Thank you for the splendid tea.”

Mrs Macdonald’s childlike eyes showed disappointment. “I’ll just see you out then,” she said. “I talk too much, I know that, but I get lonely, although my daughter’s a good girl and comes as much as she can. Watch the step there. What was you saying? Trent. Ah, yes, poor little Miss Trent.”

Priscilla and Hamish, now both outside the front door, turned slowly, as though being pulled by wires. “What about poor little Miss Trent?” asked Hamish.

“I swore on the Bible not to say a word,” said Mrs Macdonald, “but that’s when Mr Trent was alive and you say he’s dead now?”

“Yes, murdered, and you really must tell me what you know,” said Hamish. “Promises, even ones made on the Bible, must be broken if you know something which will help the police in a murder investigation.”

“Yes, yes, I suppose…Come back in.”

“Let her tell the story in her own good time,” Hamish muttered to Priscilla. “We’ll get more out of her that way.”

Priscilla marvelled at his patience, for they had to wait while another pot of tea was made and more scones produced.

“Well, let me see,” she began. “The two Trent ladies lived in Perth. Miss Betty got into trouble. Miss Angela had taken up an interest in archaeology at that time and was off in foreign parts. Perth was a smaller town then but I never found out who the man was. Miss Betty would not say. Mr Trent came to see me. A fine-looking man. He said that it was a dreadful scandal, and of course, it would have been if news of it had leaked out. Now what I tell you may make Mr Trent sound a hard man, but forget what you’ve heard about the Swinging Sixties. For a woman of Miss Betty’s standing, it was a scandal to have an illegitimate child. Mr Trent said that Miss Betty would be kept indoors from the time she started to ‘show’. He said he would move out of Perth after the birth, take the baby with him, and bring it up as his own son or daughter, whatever sex the child should prove to be. Miss Betty was a bit dumpy in shape, so she didn’t have to hide away the way a slimmer woman would have had to. Mr Trent was in a fair rage. He felt the fact that Miss Betty had disgraced herself was a reflection on him.

“Well now, I attended the birth and I was glad it was an easy one, for I felt poor Miss Betty had enough to worry her. It was a lovely baby. She doted on it. She loved that little boy with her whole heart and soul. But Mr Trent told her he had bought a house up in Sutherland and a flat for Miss Betty and Miss Angela in London. She was to go to London right away and forget about the child. She was to forget it was her own. He had already engaged a nanny. He made her swear to keep quiet about it. He said if she ever told anyone, he would hand the boy back to her and then make sure she never had a penny to support him.

“Miss Betty was weak in spirit after the childbirth, the way mothers are, and she agreed, but she cried something dreadful until I was glad to see her go. I thought she would upset the baby by clutching him and crying over him the way she did. More tea?”

“And did he legally adopt the boy?”

“No, I don’t think so. Miss Betty said, what about the birth certificate? He’d find out when he saw his birth certificate. Mr Trent said there was no need for him ever to see it. He would arrange things like the boy’s school and his first passport and things like that. So I don’t think he really adopted him.

“I called round to see the baby after Miss Betty had gone and just before Mr Trent was moving up north. It was a lovely baby and the nanny was very efficient. English, she was, but I can’t recall her name. But Miss Betty stuck in my mind. She was crazy about that baby of hers. Crazy, she was.”

They finally managed to escape after having made sure she had nothing left to tell them.

“Drive on and park somewhere quiet,” ordered Hamish. “We need to think.”

Priscilla obediently drove out of Perth and eventually pulled into a parking place on the A9.

“We’ve got it at last,” said Hamish. “We’ve got the Why. We need the How. Betty Trent is not a big strapping woman like her sister. How could she get the old man into the wardrobe? Where are my notes? Let me think.”

He flicked through them impatiently. “Here we are. The night of the murder, she was seen speaking to him. What could she have said? Let me think. I am Betty Trent. I worship my son from afar. I may just have been told that day that he is to inherit nothing. I am mad with rage. My brain is working double time with rage. I get the knife and substitute the blade of the boning knife in the shaft.” Hamish fell silent.

Priscilla sat and watched him. He suddenly struck his brow. “Of course!” cried Hamish. “Listen to this, Priscilla. It’s easy. Old Trent must have been mad at Titchy Gold for having accused him of ruining her dresses. Say Betty goes up to him. Say she praises him for that joke with the dummy in the wardrobe. Say she says she has an even better idea. What if Dad were to hide himself in the wardrobe with a monster mask on? That would frighten her out of her wits. Trent steps into the wardrobe. Instead of handing him the knife, Betty lets him have it.”

“Wait a bit,” said Priscilla. “Betty’s a small woman. It was a direct blow.”

“Damn!” He rubbed his red hair in agitation. “She could have stood on a chair.”

“Why?”

“I know. To help him on with the mask…something like that. He turns round in the wardrobe, she ties the strings. He turns to face her. She stabs him and slams the door shut and the door must have kept him propped upright. It’s a huge wardrobe but a shallow one and the door is heavy with that great mirror on it.”

“And Titchy? Why Titchy?”

“Because I think Betty’s mind was already turned by the first murder. Titchy had turned her beloved son down flat. So she takes a cup of chocolate laced with sleeping pills in to Titchy. ‘Drink it up like a good girl. It’ll make you sleep’.”

“And would Titchy just meekly have done that?”

“I think for all her faults, Titchy would have been disarmed by a show of kindness from one of the ladies of the house. Yes, I think that’s the way it was.”

“An awfully long shot, Hamish. How are you going to prove it?”

“She’s off balance. I’ll just tell her how she did it and see if she cracks.”

“She may not.”

“I’ll have the others there.”

Priscilla laughed. “Great detective gathers suspects in the library?”

He grinned. “It’s just that it might be amazing what some of the others might remember about Betty if they hear her accused of murder.” His grin faded. “I hate Andrew Trent. I think he was damned lucky to have lived so long and then to die from a nice clean knife stab. He deserved worse. He’s the real murderer in that, by his actions, he created a murderess out of his daughter.”

“It’s getting late,” said Priscilla. “We won’t be back till midnight.”

“I’ll go up in the morning,” said Hamish. “Betty’s killing days are over. There’s nothing that can happen before tomorrow.”

♦

“I could kill you,” said Jan, glaring at Melissa.

They were all sitting round the dinner table.

“Why do you want to kill her?” asked Charles.

“Because she has talked my gullible son out of giving me any money.”

“That’s not true, Mother,” protested Paul. “We have agreed to give you some money, but not all. You’ll find yourself very comfortably off.”

“I wouldn’t mind,” said Jan, “if the girl were really in love with you. But it’s your money she wants.”

“Is that true?” Betty asked Melissa.

“No, of course not,” said Melissa, blushing and angry. “I would marry Paul if he didn’t have a penny.”

“There you are, Mother,” said Paul. “That’s the sort of woman you could never understand. Melissa loves me. Damn it. I’ll prove it. You can have all the money. All I want is Melissa.”

Melissa’s stomach felt as if she had just been dropped from a very great height without a parachute. Oh, dear thyme-scented villa on the Mediterranean, dear Costas and Juanita – gone for ever. She and Paul would work and scrimp and save for the rest of their lives. The fact that both of them earned very good salaries did not occur to her. What was a very good salary compared to millions? And what of all those clothes she had been studying in a copy of Vogue? In her mind’s eye, a white Rolls-Royce purred along the coast towards that villa carrying, not her, but Jan, selfish, greedy, clutching Jan.

Melissa raised her eyes and looked at Jan, who was sitting next to Paul. One of her bony beringed hands was fondly caressing Paul’s sleeve and Paul was giving her a myopic, doting look. Melissa had not been a virgin when she had gone to bed with Paul that day. She’d had one previous affair and one one–night stand. But now she felt, made unreasonable by fury, that Paul had seduced her with promises of money. He had used her. She pushed back her chair and got shakily to her feet.

“You never meant to let me have any money,” she shouted at Paul. “All the time you meant to give it to Mummy dearest. Well, I’m not going to marry anyone with an Oedipus complex. Stuff you and stuff your bloody mother.”

She slammed out and ran to her room and threw herself face down on the bed and cried her eyes out. After a while, she grew calmer. If anyone had ever told her that the very prospect of a lot of money would drive her mad with greed and dreams, thought Melissa, sitting up and wiping her eyes, she would not have believed it.

♦

Down in the dining room, Charles was returning to the topic of Melissa. “I thought her a nice little thing,” he said. “I wouldn’t have thought money would have meant that much to her.”

“What about Titchy?” demanded Betty.

“I suppose so,” said Charles ruefully. “But Htchy was different. She had an insecure, unstable sort of life. Now Melissa has a brain and a good job. Come to think of it, I rather fancy her myself, if you must know. I think you’ll find, Paul, that she didn’t mean a word of it. Girls don’t like chaps who are too tied to their mother’s apron-strings, not that I would know anything about that personally.”

“I’m sorry for Paul,” said Betty. “I think he’s well rid of Melissa. She reminds me of Titchy with that tarty hair.”

“I wish you would all keep your noses out of my business,” shouted Paul. “For Christ’s sake! One of us is a murderer. I thought that would be enough to occupy your minds.”

He walked out, leaving the rest of them looking at each other.

“Yes, but we can’t think of that every minute of the day,” said Charles at last. “The police are coming again tomorrow and then we should all be free to go our separate ways. I cannot tell you, Betty, Angela and Jeffrey, how deeply moved I am by your generosity.”

“What’s this?” demanded Jan, her voice shrill.

“Oh, Lor’,” said Charles. “Well, you’ll know soon enough. Betty, Angela and Jeffrey are going to make over a big chunk each of their fortunes to me.”

“Why?” demanded Jan, aghast.

“Because, precious one,” sneered her husband, “it’s only fair. He should have got the lot, you know.”

“You fool,” hissed Jan. “You bloody old fool.” She stormed out.

“Dear me,” said Charles, raising his eyebrows. “I hope the ones of us left can pass the rest of the evening in peace and tranquillity. How is Jan getting back to London, by the way? You drove her up, Jeffrey.”

“I’ll drive her back,” said Jeffrey. “We’re still married.”

“I’ll never understand you,” said Charles in amazement. “You spit hate at each other and yet you continue to share the same bed, and now you’re driving her back. I owe you a lot, Jeffrey. I’ll escort her if you like.”

“No, it’s all right,” said Jeffrey. “She can’t frighten me any more. Funny, that. I’ve been married for years to a woman who frightened me.”

♦

Paul was sitting beside Melissa on her bed, holding her hand. “You can’t mean you only wanted the money,” he was saying.

“Not at first,” said Melissa drearily, “but then the prospect of it all went to my head. So good luck to you and Mother dear. I hope you will be very happy.”

“I didn’t mean it,” said Paul quietly. “I only wanted to show them you weren’t mercenary. I agree it would be foolish not to enjoy ourselves.” His hand caressed the soft pink feathers of her hair. She shivered under his touch. Just before he had said that, she had begun to feel like her own woman again. But the dreams were rushing back in, the clothes, the villa, the servants, the old farmhouse…She gave a groan. “Go away, Paul, and let me think,” she said. “I can’t think straight living in this house.”

He got up reluctantly. “Won’t you let me stay with you?”

“Not tonight,” said Melissa. “With luck, we’ll be allowed to leave tomorrow. I’ll know what I want as soon as I’m away from here.”

When Paul had left, Melissa washed and undressed and settled down and tried to sleep, tried to banish all those rosy, wealthy dreams, but they came thick and fast.

Paul had been down to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. He met Betty on the stairs. “You are well out of that engagement, young man,” she said.

“Oh, I don’t think so,” he said cheerfully. “In fact, I’m pretty sure it’s back on again.”

“Why? Did you tell her you were keeping the money?”

“Well, yes, some of it. But she’s not mercenary.”

Melissa was just drifting off to sleep when she heard someone entering her room. She had forgotten to lock the door! She sat up in alarm and then relaxed as she saw the dumpy figure of Betty Trent silhouetted against the light from the corridor.

“You’ve had a horrid evening,” said Betty, approaching. “I’ve brought you a nice glass of hot milk and I want you to drink it all up.”

“Oh, thank you.” Melissa’s eyes filled with tears at this unexpected piece of kindness.

“Think nothing of it,” said Betty gently, and she went out and closed the door.