Death of a Glutton (9 page)

‘What’s the matter, Hamish?’ she said when she saw his face.

‘Blair’s charging Mary French with the murder.’

‘Why?’

‘She killed her mother and got off with it. The woman was dying of cancer and the jury chose to believe it was a mercy killing. Blair’s a fool. I’ve been ordered back to the police station.’

‘Look, Hamish, there’s really not much I can do here. Daddy phoned in a rage. Says he’s not coming back till it’s all over. I could come down to the police station with you.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, I’ve helped you to sort things out before. We could sit down and have a cup of tea and –’

‘No, I’m far better off on my own,’ snapped Hamish.

He marched off, cursing himself for having been so rude but yet unable to go back and apologize. Blair’s stupidity had rattled him. Also, he remembered the days when he had been so yearningly in love with Priscilla and he did not want to put himself in any danger of those days returning.

Mary French was being led out to the police car. Her face was tight with strain, but she looked grim and composed. A little huddle of people at the door watched her go. Maria, John, Jenny, Matthew, Sir Bernard, Jessica and Deborah.

They watched in silence until the police car disappeared down the drive.

Deborah approached Hamish as he reached his Land Rover. ‘I say,’ she gasped, ‘why are they taking Mary away?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Hamish testily. ‘I’m not on the case.’

‘I mean, why would Mary kill Peta?’

‘God knows,’ said Hamish, unlocking the car door.

‘You don’t think she did it!’ cried Deborah. ‘You think they’ve made a terrible mistake.’

‘Aye, maybe.’

‘I say, gosh, this is exciting. Here’s your chance to make your mark. With my help, we could probably find out who did it.’

Another Watson, thought Hamish sourly, and the wrong one. ‘Policing should be left to the police,’ he said coldly. ‘Don’t interfere, Miss Freemantle.’

Deborah pouted and bounced off in a huff. She had hitherto led an uncomplicated life, without many ups or downs. But Sir Bernard’s rejection of her had hurt. If only
she
could find the murderer. Now in a detective story she had read recently, the clever detective, Sir Bartholomew Styles, had caused the murderer to betray himself at his cousin’s stately home by letting everyone there think he knew who the murderer was.

Then Deborah remembered a game she and the other girls had played in the sixth form at the expensive boarding-school she had attended. One of them would say to one of the girls in the fifth, ‘I saw you. You shouldn’t have done that. I think I’ll have to tell someone.’ If it didn’t work on that girl, it was tried on another, but it usually worked, schoolgirls having often been up to some small sin they didn’t want found out. Deborah and her friends would then award a prize of ten pounds at the end of the term to whichever one of them had ‘scored’ the highest.

Why not try it on this lot? thought Deborah, bouncing with excitement.

She started with Matthew Cowper. ‘I saw you, you know,’ she whispered and then walked quickly away. Matthew stared after her, his hands clenched. He had stolen a bottle of old malt whisky out of the bar when no one was looking. He could easily have paid for it, but it had given him a kick to take it. Damn! What if she told that manager? He would tell the police. Matthew decided to borrow a car and go and see if he could buy a bottle of the same brand and replace it. That must have been what Deborah meant. She could not possibly mean anything else. She couldn’t have
seen
anything else. Could she?

‘I saw you,’ said Deborah reproachfully to Jenny. ‘But I haven’t told the police yet.’

Jenny thought she meant the episode with Brian Mulligan and her face went white. ‘You say one word,’ she hissed, ‘and I’ll wring your neck.’

‘I saw you do it,’ said Deborah to Sean, the cook. He was chopping meat. He raised the cleaver, ‘I’ll shut yer mouth for ye, you stupitt bitch, and I’ll take this cleaver through your heid.’

Deborah squeaked with fright and fled from the kitchen. But Sean’s reaction had elated her. Deborah was young enough to feel immortal. Besides, she was convinced that the murderer would not now murder anyone else, but might, with her ‘stirring up’, become rattled enough to betray himself – or herself.

‘Isn’t there something you should be telling the police?’ said Deborah to Maria and had the satisfaction of seeing Maria start and flush guiltily. Next came Jessica. Her reaction, too, was satisfying, as was that of Peter Trumpington.

John Taylor said crossly, ‘Saw what? Oh, never mind, run along.’ That made Deborah pause, for he had made her feel like a silly schoolgirl, but she then saw Sir Bernard approaching and the temptation was too great. ‘I know everything about you,’ said Deborah, ‘and gosh, am I glad I decided not to marry you. I know what you did.’

Sir Bernard’s face turned dark with anger and he marched off without replying.

As Deborah watched him go, a pang of rejection pierced her again. Priscilla was working at the reception, sitting behind a computer making out bills, for the rest of the guests were free to go provided they left their addresses, and most had decided to leave.

‘I saw you,’ said Deborah.

Priscilla looked up.

‘What?’

‘I saw you.’

‘Saw me doing what?’

‘You know,’ said Deborah mysteriously and walked away.

When they all sat down to dinner that night, the atmosphere was strained. It should have been relaxed, now that someone had been arrested, but Deborah kept discussing the case, chewing over every little morsel, saying over and over again that she happened to
know
that Mary had not done it.

‘You’re just showing off,’ said Sir Bernard.

Deborah glared at him and tossed her head. ‘That’s all you know,’ she said defiantly.

After dinner, everyone seemed to be avoiding everyone else, with the exception of Peter Trumpington and Jessica Fitt, who appeared to have become inseparable.

They were all sitting around the lounge, but well away from each other, when John Taylor finally stood up. ‘I’m going to bed,’ he announced to no one in particular. He strode to the doorway and then paused, ‘Good heavens! With someone arrested for the murder, that means we can all go home!’

They all brightened. Home! Outside, a chill wind was blowing and a log fire had been lit in the lounge. Home to buses and tubes and noise and streets, and crowds and crowds of people. Home to London, far away from this weird, twisted countryside of mountain, loch and moorland where the old gods rode the wind.

‘Don’t go,’ called Sir Bernard suddenly to John’s retreating back. ‘I’ll order champagne for everybody.’

John came back and sat down. Sir Bernard pushed down an old-fashioned china bell-push on the wall and the barman came in to take the order for champagne. They all chattered and laughed. Matthew Cowper told some really dreadful jokes which everyone, inebriated with relief and champagne, enjoyed immensely.

Deborah began to feel ashamed of herself. If Mary had not done the murder, then some madman had come across Peta on the moors. Not one of these sane, regular people could attack anyone, let alone murder them.

She set herself to enjoy the impromptu champagne party and was one of the last to leave the lounge.

Only Jessica and Peter were left when she rose to go to bed.

‘Aren’t you tired?’ Peter asked Jessica.

‘A little,’ she replied. ‘But it’s warm and bright and cosy here. I feel safe. But once I get to my room, all the fears come back.’

‘Do you think Mary did it?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Jessica slowly. ‘But I can’t help hoping so. It would be awful to think there was a murderer still amongst us.’

*    *    *

It was nearly midnight, but Priscilla decided to call on Hamish. She wondered why he had been so angry and if she had done or said anything to offend him. Then she was worried about Deborah. Priscilla had attended an English boarding-school and knew all about the ‘I saw you’ game. She was sure Deborah had tried it on the rest. In any case, she would feel easier if she told Hamish about it.

Hamish heard the hotel Range Rover arrive. He recognized the sound of the engine. Priscilla. He was on the phone to Rory in London and taking down notes on the background of the members of Checkmate. He decided to stay where he was and not answer the door. He did not want to see Priscilla, did not want any more intimate midnight chats until he had got his feelings under control again. He ignored the banging at the kitchen door. Rory was saying, ‘Yes, Mary French was found not guilty of the death of her mother, and yes, John Taylor was the prosecuting counsel. What else? Oh, there were some nasty rumours floating around that Sir Bernard Grant had been dealing in arms, but nothing really came of that. Peter Trumpington’s been in the gossip columns, but nothing sinister. John Taylor once punched a policeman outside the Old Bailey for not showing him “due respect” when all the bobby had been trying to do was to stop him parking on a double-yellow line. But nothing odd about that. He’s a great old character. Mary French hit the newspapers again when she made a speech to the pupils advocating the return of caning. But you don’t think she did it.’

‘I didnae say that.’ Hamish heard the Range Rover drive off and felt suddenly bleak. ‘What about Peta Gore herself?’

‘Married to millionaire Bobby Gore, who died in ’82 and left her a fortune. A few society snippets, that’s all.’

‘And Maria?’

‘Nothing on her background. Only a little piece on the society page of the
Express
saying that it was through Checkmate run by Maria Worth that Lord Bullsden met his bride.’

Hamish sighed. ‘Nothing there to bite on. But how Blair thinks he can charge Mary French wi’ the murder when he hasn’t a shred of proof, I don’t know.’

Deborah yawned and put down the detective story she had been reading and switched out her bedside light. Tomorrow she would start making plans to go home. But the minute the light was out, she felt awake and restless. She had made such a fool of herself. That editor in the office, Sally Blye, kept saying things like, ‘Oh, why don’t you grow up, Deborah? I swear to God you think you’re still at school.’ School had been super. One knew where one was at school. But none of her old school chums had remained the same. One minute, it seemed, they were regular jolly girls in school uniform, and the next, they were mature sirens in lipstick and the latest fashions. She wished the wind would stop howling. It was increasing in force, great buffets of it striking the tower room where she slept.

She was so preoccupied with her thoughts that she did not see the door of her bedroom open gently, did not see the dark figure creeping in. She was suddenly thinking how sunny and hopeful it had all been at the beginning of the week, how her marriage to Sir Bernard had seemed inevitable, and then, how at the smell of Peta’s fortune, he had rushed off after her and of how cruel and rude he had subsequently become.

She was sleeping in a double bed. ‘Damn,’ she said and flung herself restlessly to the other side of the bed just as something heavy swept down with vicious force and struck the pillow where her head had been only a moment before. She could feel the wind of it. She rolled on to the floor and under the bed, screaming loudly as she went, huge, great rending screams. She heard footsteps hurrying out.

She crouched there, knees drawn up to her chin, screaming ‘Help me, help me’ over and over again.

Priscilla ran to the turret steps. She pressed the light switch at the bottom of the stairs but the light did not come on. In a blind panic, she ran straight up to Deborah’s room and clawed at the switch by the door. ‘Thank God,’ she muttered as the room was flooded with bright electric light.

She knelt down beside the bed and shouted over the noise of Deborah’s screaming, ‘It’s all right. It’s me … Priscilla.
It’s all right!
’

Deborah slowly crawled out, babbling, ‘Someone tried to kill me.’

Priscilla helped her to her feet and put an arm about her shoulders.

‘It must have been a nightmare,’ she said soothingly. ‘It must –’

She broke off and stared at the bed. Deborah stared too and then began to scream again.

Feathers were floating in the draughty air of the tower room. And lying on the bed was a meat cleaver which had struck the pillow with such force that it had split it in half.

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

‘Why?’

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

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

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

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

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

‘Is that right?’ Hamish asked Deborah. ‘Were you playing a game?’

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

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

‘It must have been him,’ said Deborah through white lips.

‘Why?’

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

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

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

‘Did you look guilty?’ Hamish asked Maria.

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

She went out. ‘Next?’ asked Hamish.

‘Matthew Cowper, he looked terribly guilty,’ said Deborah.

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

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

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

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

‘Miss Freemantle, who else seemed guilty?’

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

‘You know what I thought she meant,’ cried Jenny. ‘You know, Hamish.’

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

‘I swear.’

‘Okay, next?’

Deborah said defiantly, ‘Sir Bernard looked mad as anything.’

‘Sir Bernard?’

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

‘Mr Taylor?’

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

‘Miss Fitt?’

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

‘And Mr Trumpington?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hamish’s eyes sharpened. ‘Back from the village?’

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

‘Where?’

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

‘When did you get back?’

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

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

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

‘Oh, her, broke her jaw.’

‘Why? Were you drunk, man?’

‘Naw, ah fixed the Sunday dinner.
Sole à l’Italienne
, it wus.’

‘And?’

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

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

Sean stared at the floor.

‘Out wi’ it. I’ll find out anyway.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Three in each room?’ he asked.

‘No, sometimes two, sometimes one, sometimes four. It varies.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

Blair gave Hamish a lowering look but remained silent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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