death of Titchy Gold.
A man from the forensic team popped his head round the door. “No fingerprints on that cup,” he said cheerfully.
“Well, that’s that,” said Daviot gloomily. “You are not going to persuade me that a suicide wiped that cup clean. Get Charles Trent.”
Charles Trent looked strained and shaken. “Sit down,” said the superintendent. “We have reason to believe that your fiancee did not take her own life. Now you were heard to threaten her yesterday. You said something like, “I could make you very, very sorry.” And when Miss Gold asked if you were threatening her, you replied, “Just think what I could do to you,” or words to that effect. What did you mean?”
Charles put a hand up to his brow. “I was miffed because she was dumping me, and quite heartlessly, too. I wanted to get back at her. I meant that I could sell my story about our relationship to one of the sleazier tabloids, that’s all.”
“Did you go to her bedroom last night?”
He shook his head. “There didn’t seem to be any point. It’s all my fault, in a way. She was happy enough with me before I roused her expectations about that damned will. She got greedy, that’s all. But why would anyone kill her?”
“Did she upset anyone apart from you?” asked Daviot.
“I believe she was making a play for old Jeffrey, and that upset his wife. You’d better ask her.”
“We will.” Charles was then questioned exhaustively about his movements the day and night before. He seemed to gain composure rather than lose it as the questioning went on.
At last Daviot sent him away and asked for Enrico to be brought in.
Had anyone, he asked the Spaniard, used the kitchen the night before? Enrico said that Miss Angela had come down about eleven o’clock in the evening for a glass of hot milk. Earlier, Mrs Jeffrey Trent had come in to make herbal tea, Charles Trent had wanted a sandwich, and Melissa Clarke had asked for a flask of tea for her room.
Blair interrupted, his voice loaded with sarcasm. “Whit’s a’ this? Don’t these grand folks just ring the bell and ask fur ye to bring whatever it is they want upstairs?”
Enrico looked mildly amused. “It is not the Middle Ages,” he said in his precise English. “Maria and I had served dinner. It is generally understood that we are off duty after that.”
“Quite, quite,” said Daviot hurriedly. “It is believed the sleeping pills, if that’s what they were, were put into a cup of hot chocolate. Where is the chocolate kept?”
“In the large cupboard in the pantry off the kitchen with the other dry groceries.”
“And was the carton of drinking chocolate still there this morning?”
“Yes, members of the forensic team took it away.”
Daviot then questioned him all over again about what time he had gone to bed and if he had heard anyone moving about the kitchen. Enrico said that he had gone to bed about midnight and that he and his wife would not remark particularly if they heard any sounds from the kitchen. They would assume one of the guests had come down for a late drink or snack. No, he could not remember any particular sounds. He had gone to sleep almost immediately.
Daviot glanced through the file he had already read on the road up. “Let us go back to the first murder. I see here that you removed the body of Mr Trent and laid it out in the games room and then cleaned the bedroom upstairs. Can you tell me in your own words why you did that?”
Enrico’s eyes flicked briefly to Blair. “It was understood at the beginning that Mr Trent had been the victim of one of his own practical jokes. My wife and I did what we thought was fitting.”
Daviot swung round to Blair. “Would you say that was correct as far as you could judge from your investigations?”
“Aye,” said Blair and mopped his forehead. He was dreading the arrival of Hamish Macbeth. What if Hamish told Daviot about Mrs Trent’s paying the servants to clean up? Daviot would wonder why they had not been charged.
Daviot questioned Enrico further and then dismissed him.
“Now,” said Daviot, “I would like an independent witness.” He studied a list of names in front of him. “Let’s have the Clarke girl in.”
Melissa felt she was living in a nightmare. She clung to the hope that it would turn out that Titchy had murdered old Mr Trent and then had taken her own life. She was vaguely relieved that the questioning was started by Blair’s superior and not Blair.
“Now,” said Daviot, “take your time. We need you to tell us what went on yesterday.”
In a shaking voice, Melissa said, nothing in particular. All she wanted to do was to get away from this roomful of policemen. But Daviot probed on and on, question after question, until Melissa found she was telling him everything about Titchy’s flirting with Jeffrey, about Jeffrey’s saying he was leaving his wife, about Paul’s attacking Jeffrey, every little thing until she felt weak and exhausted and near to tears.
When she had been dismissed, Daviot frowned down at his notes. “We seem to be getting more suspects by the minute instead of less. Oh, well, we’ll have Jan Trent in next.”
Jan was wearing a severe tweed suit with a white blouse and sensible brogues. She slid into the chair opposite Daviot, folded her skeletal hands on her lap, and waited.
“Now, Mrs Trent,” began Daviot, “your husband told you publicly that he was leaving you. Is that not true?”
Jan gave a slight shrug. “He said something like that. But Jeffrey has been extremely overwrought.”
“He also said he might take Titchy Gold with him. He was attacked by your son.”
“Jeffrey was behaving outrageously. I fear the murder of his brother has turned his mind. My poor Paul has been in an understandable state of nervous tension.” Her voice sharpened. “I will not have you bullying him.”
Daviot questioned her closely about her movements the previous night and then took her back through her movements on the night of the murder of Mr Trent. Throughout the interview, Jan seemed to come under increasing strain. She pleated a handkerchief between her long fingers, then smoothed it out on her knee, and then began to pleat it all over again.
The superintendent watched her closely. He became sure that she might have committed murder in the hope of getting money through her husband.
After he had finished with her, he decided to interview the dead man’s daughters.
Betty was the first. She seemed strained and shocked. Her dumpy figure was encased in correct mourning and her eyes were red. “I am not sorry about the death of that silly girl,” she said. “In fact, I’m glad. She was, she must have been, unstable. It stands to reason. She killed Dad and then took her own life.”
“That would be a very comfortable solution,” said Daviot. “Unfortunately, the cup which contained, we think, sleeping pills, was wiped clean. I do not think anyone bent on committing suicide would do that.”
Betty burst into tears and then, between sobs, she said incoherently that the police were fools and simply letting the investigation drag on and on out of sheer sadism.
Daviot gave up trying to question her further and she was led from the room.
She was replaced by her sister Angela, who appeared made of sterner stuff. Angela said roundly that she had thought about the murders and was sure they had been done by some maniac from the village. “There’s a lot of inbreeding in these Highland villages,” she said. “Mark my words, while you are wasting your time questioning us, there is some drooling homicidal maniac loose in Arrat.”
She then grumpily described what she had been doing the night before, movements which Daviot noticed were as vague as everyone else’s. No one so far could put an exact time on where they had been last evening or when they had gone down to the kitchen.
Paul Sinclair was next. His face was white and there were purple shadows under his eyes, but he told them his movements in a quiet, measured voice. “Now let’s go back to yesterday afternoon,” said Daviot. “You attacked your stepfather when he said he was leaving your mother, did you not?”
“The bastard was jeering at her,” said Paul. “She’s my mother, for God’s sake! You wouldn’t expect me to sit there and say nothing.”
“You have a record of outbursts of rage,” said Daviot quietly. “It is possible, you know, that you could have killed Titchy Gold because your stepfather was insulting your mother by suggesting he might take Titchy with him
