when he left her.”
Paul looked at him wearily. “You can’t pin that one on me. Poisoning is hardly the action of someone given to outbursts of rage. Nor did I kill old Mr Trent. I had no interest in his money. I am going to sign most of it over to my mother.”
“Had you already discussed such an eventuality with her – in the event of Mr Trent’s death?”
“No, of course not,” snapped Paul. “I did not expect Mr Andrew Trent to die. He was as fit as a flea when I arrived. I did not expect to inherit anything. Why should I? I thought it would all go to Charles. I only came up to this hell-hole to please my mother.”
He was questioned about his movements for half an hour before he was allowed to go.
Jeffrey Trent was summoned next. Of all the people Daviot had interviewed, Jeffrey seemed the least affected; in fact, he looked positively cheerful. He said he had had no intention of going off with Titchy Gold but had merely said so in order to get revenge on his wife.
For what?
For years of complaint and humiliation, for the years she had bled him like a leech, said Jeffrey. No, he had not liked his brother Andrew. Yes, he had simply come to Arrat House in the hope of getting something in his brother’s will. He answered all questions in a dry, precise manner but underneath it all ran a current of amusement that Daviot found highly irritating.
“Well, that’s that for now,” said Daviot when he had finished questioning Jeffrey. “We will sit and go over what we have heard while we wait for forensic reports and the pathologist’s report.”
The door of the library opened and a tall, gangly figure wandered in.
“Hamish!” said the superintendent. “Sit down, lad, while we discuss this case.”
Blair shifted uneasily. Somehow, the superintendent had a habit of calling Hamish Macbeth by his first name when he was displeased with him – Blair. What if Daviot were to go back to the laying out of the body and what if Hamish Macbeth were to tell him the truth?
? Death of a Prankster ?
6
—Sir Winston Churchill
Priscilla Halburton-Smythe had some difficulty getting into the grounds of Arrat House. The narrow road leading to it was crowded with reporters, photographers and television crews. Satellite dishes like giant mushrooms glinted palely in the grey light. Ignoring the questions shouted at her by reporters, she rolled down the window and explained to one of the policemen on guard that she was a friend of the family. This was not true, but Priscilla could hardly explain she had arrived for the sole purpose of helping PC Hamish Macbeth in his inquiries.
At last she was through the crowd of press and inside the gates. Enrico answered the door. Priscilla asked for the Misses Trent and gave her name. Enrico knew the name of every landowner from Arrat to the coast as well as any Highlander and so ushered her into the drawing room. They were all gathered together, all the suspects.
“You won’t remember me,” said Priscilla, advancing on Angela. “I came here as a child. I am Priscilla Halburton-Smythe. I came to offer my condolences. The death of your father is a terrible tragedy. Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Decent of you to call,” said Angela, “but there’s nothing to do at the moment. We haven’t had the hearing at the procurator fiscal’s yet and we can’t even plan the funeral. Sit down. Enrico, fetch Miss Halburton-Smythe a drink or something.”
“Too early, and call me Priscilla.”
“I’d better introduce everyone,” said Angela. “I feel I should say, enter first murderer and this is the second murderer.” She gave a shrill laugh.
“Control yourself,” snapped her sister. “I am Betty Trent. The tall young man over by the window is Paul Sinclair and the girl with pink hair is Melissa Clarke. To your left is Jeffrey Trent, our uncle; and to your right, his wife Jan. Charles is over there, by the fire. Now, have you heard the latest news?”
Priscilla shook her head.
“That actress has been found murdered.”
“Titchy Gold!”
“The same.”
“How was she murdered?”
Betty’s composure suddenly broke and she stared in an anguished way at Priscilla, opening and shutting her mouth.
“Sit down, Betty,” said Jeffrey. “I’ll explain. Titchy Gold was found dead in bed. A cup beside the bed was found to have been wiped clean of prints. A bottle of my sleeping pills has gone missing. We are waiting for the pathologist’s report and can only pray it turns out to be natural causes. If it hadn’t been for someone wiping that cup clean, then we might have supposed she murdered my brother and then took her own life.”
“And I suppose the police suspect one of you,” said Priscilla. There was a shocked silence. But why are we so shocked? thought Melissa. We’ve known all along one of us did it.
“I think it was that Spaniard, Enrico,” said Angela at last.
“Why?” asked Priscilla. Melissa suddenly experienced a fierce stab of resentment against this cool and beautiful blonde who asked questions with the impersonal incisiveness of a policeman.
“Why?” echoed Angela. “Cos he’s greedy and he’s got money in the will. Oh, stop snivelling, Betty. You’re getting on my nerves. No guts, that’s your problem.”
“And you’re an insensitive moron,” howled Betty.
Charles’s voice cut across the row. “Now look what you’ve done, Priscilla,” he said. “We’ve all endured a morning of questioning and then you come along and pour salt on all the wounds.”
Priscilla flushed. “I am sorry,” she said. She felt like an amateur. Hamish Macbeth would never have been so abrupt. She began to talk to Angela of her memories of her visit to Arrat House. Angela said she thought she had some old photographs taken during that visit and brought out an album. Priscilla bent over it. Yes, there she was herself, about age six, and there were Angela and Betty with their father, who was roaring with laughter about something. The small boy was recognizable as Charles. He was clinging on to the skirts of both sisters and looking over his shoulder with a look of horror on his face.
“What frightened you?” Priscilla asked Charles. He crossed the room and bent over the album. “Oh, that day. That was the man hanging in the tree.”
“One of Dad’s jokes,” explained Angela bitterly. “He had one of the gamekeepers pretend to be a hanged man. Frightened poor little Charles out of his wits.”
“And me,” said Priscilla, suddenly remembering that day clearly. She had felt sorry for Charles. Her furious parents had promptly taken her away and she had wondered for a short time afterwards what it was like to have to live with a parent who played such infernal tricks. Betty, who had recovered, said she had heard about Tommel Castle being turned into an hotel and asked how the business was going. Priscilla talked away while all the time she stored up impressions of the people gathered in the drawing room to tell Hamish. Charles had a sort of bland ease of manner over an undercurrent of nervousness. Jan was silent, strained and fidgeting the whole time. Betty was listening to the tales of running the hotel as if they were the most interesting stories she had ever heard. Angela was sitting four-square, her hands on her knees, staring into space. Melissa and Paul were having a low-voiced conversation at the window. Jeffrey was the only one who seemed at all at ease, as if the macabre goings-on at Arrat House had nothing to do with him.
Enrico reappeared and said that Charles was wanted in the library and the others exchanged looks as he walked out.
Priscilla rose to go. “I gather you are all being kept indoors,” she said to Angela. “Can I get you anything from the village?”
Angela said there was nothing she needed but Betty brightened. “Perhaps you could get me some more wool in this shade from Mrs Tallisker’s at the end of the village. It’s no use asking Maria. She always comes back with the
