“I just wondered. I mean, you go into the background of your clients pretty thoroughly, do you not? Would there have been something there that Peta might have got hold of and threatened to use?”
“Peta took no interest in the business.”
Hamish remembered what Priscilla had told him. “She had enough interest to operate your computer files and find out where you were,” he put in. “I had this idea she might have had hopes of finding a husband for herself, which might lead her to check up on backgrounds.”
“Yes, she could have done that,” said Maria slowly. “She never helped in the office, but she was very nosy, and yes, she did want another husband.”
“And did any of the men show any particular interest in her at any time?” Hamish asked.
“Ah’ll ask the questions,” muttered Blair, his Glasgow accent getting thicker the more irritated he became. It was just like Hamish Macbeth to start cluttering up the scene with red herrings when it was clear that the only person with a real motive was Crystal.
But Maria was still looking at Hamish. “Yes, three of them: John Taylor, Matthew Cowper and Sir Bernard. It was after she had announced she was worth three million. I think those three got temporarily greedy. We were off to the theatre in Strathbane and they did rather vie for her attention.”
“Was anyone else heard threatening her life, apart from yourself?” demanded Blair.
“Well, just in a joky way. When we went out on a fishing-boat trip, I remember Jessica Fitt and Peter Trumpington capping each other’s ideas about ways to kill Peta.”
“And why would they do that?”
“Peta Gore had become a thoroughly repulsive woman,” said Maria tearfully. “She used to be such fun, such a nice person. That’s why I’m crying. I can’t help remembering what she used to be like.”
When Maria had left, Hamish said, “I should tell you that Sean Gallagher, the cook, says that a picnic hamper is missing from the kitchen. It was taken along with some food during the night. It is also my belief that Sean has done time in Glasgow for assaulting his wife.”
Blair sent for Sean, who came in cringing. “I gather ye’ve got a record,” said Blair without his usual pugnacity, for Blair himself was from Glasgow and Glasgow was the Holy City and Sean was therefore a spiritual brother.
“Only a few months,” whined Sean. “Ah’m telling ye, it’s this wimmin’s lib. I only knocked the missus about a bit and they put me in the poky.”
“We’ll come tae that later. Now about the stuff that’s missing frae the kitchen.”
“Aye.” Sean looked relieved the subject had moved from his background. “A picnic hamper, bread and ham, a meat pie, fruit, a bottle o’ Beaujolais – that’s about as far as I can tell ye at the moment.”
“Would ye know if anyone had been in the kitchens during the night?”
“Not after ten o’clock.”
“What if someone wanted a late coffee?”
“There’s a coffee-machine in the bar.”
“Aren’t the kitchens locked at night?”
“No.”
Hamish shifted uneasily. Archie had told him about Sean’s threatening Peta. But if he told Blair that, then the whole story about the cat would come out and Priscilla’s business might collapse. He bit his lip and decided to interrogate Sean on his own later.
Blair asked Sean some more questions about whether he had seen any of the guests near Peta on the evening of her death and then let him go.
“Well, ah’m packing this in fur the night,” said Blair. “We’ll be back in the morning. We should hae a report from the pathologist by then and the forensic boys might hae matched these tyre tracks to one o’ the cars here.”
The rest who were waiting in the hotel lounge were not relieved to be told they would be questioned in the morning. All had been geared up to getting it over with as soon as possible.
Jenny had gathered from Jessica that the police were interested in where everyone had been the evening before and heaved a sigh of relief. She did not want to discuss Brian Mulligan or have to produce him as a witness.
But her fears rushed back as Mr Johnson came up to her. “Miss Trask,” he said severely, “you took out the Volvo and left it standing in the storm with the sunroof and the windows open. It took two maids an hour to clean and dry the inside of the car. Practically every other hotel would charge you for the use of a car. You abused the privilege and I am very angry with you.”
Jenny smiled at him. She was so relieved to find he was only angry about the car and not about her bedfellow.
“I am so sorry,” she said. “Give me a bill for the maids’ work and I will gladly pay it and for any damage to the car. I insist.”
“Well, I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” said Mr Johnson, mollified. “Just be more careful in future.”
He turned and addressed the whole group. “I am afraid the press will be here in the morning. They are already phoning. We will have gamekeepers at the castle gates to keep them out, so you should not be disturbed. If any of them sneak in, report them to me.”
Jenny brightened. She wondered what to wear when she took a stroll down to the castle gates in the morning. She could already see her picture on the front page of the tabloids. Then her face fell. Of course she could not let that happen. Imagine all her friends knowing she was reduced to going to a marital agency to find a partner.
“Newspapers,” echoed Peter Trumpington in a hollow voice. He turned to Jessica. “They’ll ferret out everything about our backgrounds.”
Someone let out a hiss of dismay. Jessica glanced quickly around but could not see anyone looking exceptionally disturbed. “Why should you worry?” Jessica asked him. “Do you have anything sordid in your past?”
“I was engaged to a starlet once and was in the papers a lot. She dumped me and that was in the papers. I don’t want to be reminded of that humiliation.”
“Perhaps the best thing would be to make sure you don’t speak to the press and then don’t read any newspapers until this is all over.”
Peter looked at her with affection. “You always say the right thing,” he said.
¦
Sir Bernard found he was going ‘off’ Deborah. She made him feel ancient. She was wildly excited about the murder and fancied herself as some sort of Miss Marple, suspecting everyone in turn.
“Gosh,” she said, not without a touch of malice, “look at the way you yourself were after her for her money. You could have got her to change her will and men bumped her off. Not that I can see you shoving an apple in her mouth. I would think a good clobber with a blunt instrument would be more in your line.”
“Shut up, you silly cow,” raged Sir Bernard and strode off.
Ever the professional despite her distress, Maria made a mental note that she would need to pay the hotel bills for Deborah and Sir Bernard, for they certainly weren’t going to make a match of it.
Nor did it look as if Mary French and Matthew Cowper were going to be much of a success either, for Mary said, “I always think murders are done by very common people from places like Birmingham or Liverpool,” and Matthew, who was from Birmingham originally, said nastily, “I should think someone like you would murder someone without thinking twice about it. It’s all that school-teaching. Gives people a power complex.” And Mary bridled and edged away from him.
John Taylor was reading a newspaper. He looked much older and his thin hands, freckled with liver spots, trembled as he held the paper. He was beginning to think the whole idea of Checkmate had been brought on by a brainstorm. He longed to see his son and daughter again, whatever they thought of him. He no longer wanted to marry anyone, he had never really wanted to marry anyone, only he had been so hurt and so vengeful. He felt as he had done all those years ago at his first day at boarding-school, when he had felt lost and alone and surrounded by threatening strangers.
He went into the bar for a drink, but that local policeman was sitting in a corner with Priscilla and he didn’t want to be anywhere near policemen until he had to face that interview. He felt that the police should really not dare interview such an eminent lawyer as himself.
