asked Paul.
He blinked at her in surprise.
“No,” he said curtly. “He died shortly after Mother divorced him.”
“I am sorry,” said Priscilla. “What did he die of?”
“A broken heart,” snapped Paul. “So go and report that to your policeman friend.”
“There’s no need for you to get so worked up,” said Melissa when Priscilla had left. “And what makes you think she is spying for Hamish?”
“Because she goes off with friend Hamish and then comes back for the express purpose of trying to find out about my father. It was all Jeffrey’s fault. He took Mother away.”
“Try not to get so upset.” Melissa took his arm. “Maybe we should get some food after all.” She smiled up at him. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you.”
His eyes filled with tears and he took off his glasses and scrubbed at them with his handkerchief. “Thank God you’re here with me,” he said in a choked voice. “Oh, Melissa, will you marry me?”
She stared back at him. Somewhere at the back of her brain a tiny warning voice was crying that Paul wanted a substitute mother, that her remark, “I’ll take care of you,” had sparked the proposal. But there were louder voices and bright images. He was a tolerably personable young man with a good job. He was a millionaire. She would have a diamond ring. Mum would be ever so pleased. White satin. Who would be her bridesmaid? Church. Bells ringing. Modern home. Shiny kitchen. Herself in apron. Had a good day, darling? “Yes,” said Melissa.
¦
They were drinking coffee when Priscilla entered the dining room. Betty accepted the wool with a cry of delight and begged Priscilla to join them. “Did you have a terrible time getting past the press?” asked Charles.
“Not really,” replied Priscilla. “I kept the car windows closed and let the people guide me through.”
“It shouldn’t be allowed,” said Angela. “Ghouls and vultures.”
“Understandable,” put in Jeffrey. “I mean, Titchy Gold and people like her cultivate publicity. You can’t turn it off like a tap just because she’s dead.”
“The press have descended on us in hordes,” said Charles evenly, “not because of Titchy’s publicity hunting but because two murders have been committed in this house.”
“Yes, yes, dear,” said Betty hurriedly. “But let’s not talk about it.”
“As you wish,” said Charles, “but not talking about it isn’t going to make the problem go away.”
“It’s because each one of us is a suspect that we’re all so frightened and nervous,” said Jan, “and that’s ridiculous. Andrew Trent tormented the villagers and the outside staff as well. This house is never locked, neither are the bedrooms. Anyone could have come in from outside.”
Charles glanced out of the window. “You may have your wish,” he said. “That gamekeeper, Jim Gaskell, is being marched in for interrogation. The police lunch-break is obviously over.”
Enrico, who had just brought in a fresh pot of coffee, said smoothly, “Perhaps the police now know that Jim Gaskell had more reason than most to want Mr Trent dead.”
“How? Why?” demanded several voices.
Enrico told them about the trick played on the gamekeeper.
“There you are!” said Jan triumphantly when he had finished.
Charles shrugged. “Let’s hope he keeps the police busy for the rest of the day. I’m tired of questions.”
“Don’t you want to find out who did it?” demanded Jeffrey.
“Of course I do,” said Charles. “My fiancee has been murdered. But I wish they would start looking in other directions. They keep going on at me. They should be looking for some homicidal maniac.”
The door opened and Paul and Melissa came in. Jan looked at her son sharply. “I’m glad someone’s happy,” she declared. “Don’t tell me that idiot Blair has actually found the murderer.”
Paul took Melissa’s hand in his. “We’re to be married, Mother. Melissa and I are engaged.”
“That’s all I needed,” said Jan. Everyone else murmured their congratulations. Priscilla looked at Melissa and thought, she’s not in love with him. After all this is over, she might regret it.
¦
While Jim Gaskell was being interrogated, the preliminary autopsy report on Titchy Gold came through. She had died from an overdose of sleeping pills. Furthermore, the forensic experts had already discovered traces of sleeping pills in the dregs of the chocolate.
The gamekeeper listened impassively and then said, “So what are you wasting time questioning me for? I didnae kill the lassie, nor had I any reason for doing so.”
Daviot sighed and dismissed him but told him to be available for more questioning.
“Was that dummy found?” Hamish asked suddenly. “I mean, the first joke that was played on Titchy was with a dummy.”
“Yes, we found it,” said MacNab. “It was down in a store room next to the games room along with a bunch o’ other tricks.”
“What did they all really think of Andrew Trent?” said Hamish, half to himself.
“Whit does that matter?” demanded Blair.
“Whoever killed him hated him, really hated him,” said Hamish. “If we solve the first murder, we’ll know the answer to the second. Although they may not be connected.”
“Never say that,” groaned Daviot. “But you have a point. Let’s have ‘em all back, one after the other.”
Jan Trent was the first to be asked to reply to the simple question, “What did you think of Andrew Trent?”
She looked at them, slightly goggle-eyed with amazement. “What did I…? Well, not much. Just a silly old man. Jeffrey didn’t like his brother much and did not see much of him, which meant I didn’t see much of him either.”
“What did your first husband do?” asked Hamish.
“He was a bank manager.”
“What did he die of?”
“A heart attack,” snapped Jan. “What has all this got to do with…?”
“Quite,” said Daviot, throwing a curious glance at Hamish. “Let us revert to the original question. What were your feelings towards Mr Andrew Trent?”
She sat silent for a few moments and then said, “Impatience, mild dislike, that’s all.”
When she had gone, Hamish asked, “Where did her husband die?”
“John Sinclair died in a nursing home in Baling,” said Anderson, consulting a sheet of notes.
“An ordinary nursing home?”
“I think so. Why?”
“I just wondered whether it might have specialized in mental patients – whether there’s any insanity that might have been passed on to the son.”
“I’ll check,” said Anderson and picked up the phone.
Charles Trent was next. Asked what he had thought of his adopted father, he said in a puzzled way, “Well, not much. Irritating old cove. I mean, I was sent away to boarding-school early on and left there as much as possible. It suited me. I didn’t like holidays at home. Then, after a bit, some of the boys used to invite me to their homes for the holidays and I liked that. I wished he’d been more like a real, ordinary father, you know. But I’ve always been pretty popular, lots of friends and all that, and he did pay up for a good education. I kept away from him as much as possible. It suited both of us.”
“And you didn’t hate him?” asked Daviot, thinking again what a singularly beautiful young man Charles Trent was.
“Not enough to murder him, if that’s what you mean,” said Charles.
He had no sooner left the library than Anderson said cheerfully, “You might hae something, Hamish. John Sinclair was as nutty as a fruit-cake. He did die of a heart attack. But the nursing home takes mental patients. He got out one night and was found running around the grounds in the middle of winter without a stitch on. They had to put him in a strait jacket, and while he was fighting and struggling, he had the heart attack that killed him.”
“Right,” said Daviot. “Let’s see what Paul Sinclair has to say to that.”
Hamish thought Paul Sinclair was thoroughly prepared for this line of questioning. Priscilla must already have asked questions about his father and that had alerted him.
