Death of a Prankster

you.”

Melissa’s large grey eyes filled with tears. “You’re horrid,” she said shakily.

He relented. “Look, I’m trying to frighten you into being on your guard. Don’t trust any of them.”

“If Angela cut up the dresses,” said Melissa, anxious to keep him longer, “does that mean she might have committed the murder?”

“I think it might mean she thought Titchy was being too successful in engaging the auld man’s affections and wanted to put a spoke in the wheel.”

“Poor Angela,” murmured Melissa. “Blair will be giving her a dreadful time.”

Hamish rose to go. “I think Blair will find out that Miss Angela Trent is not easily bullied.”

¦

Detective Chief Inspector Blair was glaring at Angela. “I do not think you realize the seriousness of the matter,” he said in carefully enunciated English. “One of thae…those…frockshad bugle beads on the trim and those beads carried bits of your fingerprints.”

“Have I protested?” boomed Angela. “Have I said otherwise? Yes, I admit I sliced the seams of those frocks. My motive was simple. Titchy Gold was flirting disgustingly with my father. I was afraid he would leave her something in his will. I knew she would suspect him of being the culprit, which she did. Quite clever, really. If Miss Gold feels like pressing charges, I shall settle out of court, and handsomely too. So pooh to you.”

Blair crouched forward over the desk and snarled, “Your father was murdered. In my opinion, a woman who could play a trick like that could murder her ain father.”

“Oh, really? Well, you do not strike me as being a very intelligent man. In fact, while you are wasting your breath and bullying me, there is a murderer in this house.”

Angela suddenly raised a handkerchief to her lips, as if she realized for the first time that there was actually a murderer lurking about.

Blair plodded on, taking Angela back over the evening leading up to the murder, checking everything against the statement she had previously made.

At last he growled at her to keep herself in readiness for further questioning and Angela lumbered off.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So what will you do?”

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

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

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

Blair doggedly continued to question him for another hour.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you threatening me?” screeched Titchy.

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

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

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

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

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

“Melissa!” exclaimed Paul in a hurt voice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Come in,” said Hamish eagerly. “I’m sorry I snapped at you, Priscilla, but Blair drives me mad and I wass