“He was stabbed to death. Now, if you’ve any more questions, put them to Detective Chief Inspector Blair, who is in charge of the investigations at Arrat House.” He turned to the driver. “No use taking the Struie Pass in this weather, Jamie. You’d best go round by the coast.”
Paul remained huddled up, his face still in his hands. Melissa shivered with dread. What did she know of him? What did she know of any of them? The countryside which had seemed so glorious in the morning sunlight now looked alien and forbidding, bleak and white in the headlights of the police car.
Back to Arrat House. Back to where among those overheated rooms was a murderer. She reached out to put an arm around Paul and then shrank back. The man she had been dreaming about getting married to was now a stranger to her.
? Death of a Prankster ?
4
—The Reverend Sydney Smith
While Melissa and Paul were speeding on their way back to Arrat House, Hamish was sitting quietly in the library, listening to Blair interviewing Charles Trent.
The young man interested him. He was surely old Andrew Trent’s heir. Charles was saying that Andrew had adopted him while he, Charles, was still a baby. No, he said amiably, he didn’t know who his real parents were and had never been curious.
What had his relationship with the dead man been like? Charles looked serious, opened his mouth to say something, and then shrugged. “Why pretend?” he said. “He despised me. It seemed I couldn’t do a thing right as far as he was concerned. I wanted to go into the business instead of going up to Oxford, but he said nastily it was a successful business and I would probably ruin it. He did all right by me in material ways, best school and all that, but I never remember him particularly wanting to have me around. I’m not upset by his death…yet. The shock is still too great, so I don’t know whether I am going to grieve or not.”
“Did you speak to him at all just before he died?”
“No, I was out in the snow, talking to my fiancee.”
“With whom you spent the night?”
“Gosh, did she tell you that? Yes.”
“And when you went to her room, didn’t you see the body?”
“No, the room was in shadow apart from a little pool of light from a lamp beside the bed. I looked at Titchy, you see. I didn’t look anywhere else.”
“What were you and Miss Gold talking about?” asked Hamish suddenly.
“Well, lovers’ talk, you know, things like that.”
“Why did you go outside in the cold?”
“Needed a breath of fresh air. This house is always over-heated. When will I know what’s in the will?”
“Tomorrow,” said Blair. “About eleven o’clock provided the roads stay clear.”
When Charles had left, Blair rounded on Hamish.
“Why were you so interested in what he was talking about?”
“I just wondered,” said Hamish, “whether they might have been quarrelling. I mean, he brought her up here and she must know it was because he hoped the old man was really dying. It turns out he’s not. She gets awful jokes played on her and then her dresses are cut. Charles Trent got a modest yearly allowance from Mr Andrew Trent. So he had to work but he doesn’t seem to be able to keep a job for long or get a successful one. I wondered if maybe Titchy had decided to dump him.”
“It’s an idea,” admitted Blair ungraciously. “But mark my words, that Jan Trent knows Paul Sinclair did it. It’s jist a matter o’ breaking him down.”
Hamish stifled a sigh. Blair’s bullying methods rarely got him anywhere but he never seemed to understand that.
“What are you going to do about Enrico?” he asked maliciously.
“I’ll deal wi’ that one in my ain good time,” snarled Blair. “Look, why don’t you shove off, Hamish? It’s getting late. I’ll see this Paul Sinclair and his girl and then start again tomorrow. We’ll have the will and the autopsy report then.”
Hamish knew Blair wanted to be rid of him because the detective was sure that Paul Sinclair was the murderer and he didn’t want Hamish around to share in the credit.
He walked out of the library and collected his overcoat from a peg in the hall. Then he heard a scrunch of car wheels on frozen snow and went outside.
Melissa and Paul had arrived. Paul was white-faced. Melissa looked tired and scared. Hamish watched as they were ushered inside. He felt sorry for them. Blair would give them both a hard time of it.
He drove slowly homeward, the great bright stars of Sutherland burning fiercely overhead. The roads had been gritted and salted but were beginning to freeze in a hard frost.
The police station would be freezing cold, he thought gloomily. Maybe if he could solve this murder, he would offer Blair the credit in return for a suggestion to police headquarters that central heating was installed. Instead of going straight home, he turned into the drive leading to Tommel Castle Hotel. Landowner Colonel Halburton-Smythe had turned his home into an hotel after he had lost a great deal of money. The suggestion had come from Hamish. The hotel had quickly become a great success, but the colonel never gave Hamish Macbeth any credit for the idea, perhaps because he frowned on the village bobby’s friendship with his daughter Priscilla.
The guests had finished dining and were having their coffee in the hotel lounge, formerly the castle drawing room. Jenkins, once butler, now
“Still working?” said Hamish. “I thought now that Mr Johnson had taken over as hotel manager you would be able to lead a life of ease.”
“There’s still a lot to do,” said Priscilla, shutting a ledger with a firm bang. “Besides, the barman’s off with flu – not that the bar gives me much work. This party of guests like their drinks in the lounge and the waiters cope with that. Mr Johnson and I have finally talked Daddy into getting a computer for the accounts. Have a whisky on the house, and tell me your news.”
Hamish watched her as she poured him a shot of whisky. She was as cool, blonde and competent as ever in a severe black dress and black high heels.
“I refuse to stand behind the bar any longer,” said Priscilla with a sigh. “It’s been a long day. Let’s take our drinks over to the table at the window. If anyone comes in, I’ll get Jenkins to find one of the waiters to take over.”
“The morning room,” exclaimed Hamish. “I couldnae remember what room this used to be.”
“Changed times,” said Priscilla. “We’re making money hand over fist and we’re booked up all year round, but if I suggest to Daddy that he might now go back to being lord of the manor, he turns green at the gills with fright. Losing that money scared the hell out of him. What brings you here?”
“I wanted to see you,” said Hamish, remembering briefly the time when he had been so much in love with her that he would have been unable to say anything as honest as that. “Besides, I’ve got a murder. Arrat House. I’ve been there all day. It was the thought o’ going back to that freezing police station, apart from wanting to see you, that brought me here.”
“Where’s Towser?” asked Priscilla. Towser was Hamish’s dog.
“At the station, but Priscilla, that animal doesn’t feel the cold.”
“Hamish, you are so lazy! A fire takes no time to get going. Drink up and we’ll both go to the station and warm that poor dog and feed it.”
“Towser can look after himself,” pleaded Hamish, but Priscilla replied that she was going to fetch her coat.
Proof that the mongrel could indeed take care of itself was discovered when they found Towser snuggled
