beaming with all this attention. She ate surprisingly moderately for her and it soon dawned on Maria that men were now the focus of Peta’s desires. She flirted with Sir Bernard and John Taylor. Her flirtation took the line of rather old-fashioned bawdy jokes about what the bishop had said to the actress. Only Crystal laughed. Crystal, too, was being very attentive to her aunt. Her new hair-style made her look as if she had been caught in a high gale, but her somewhat characterless face was as fashionably beautiful as ever. She was wearing very brief shorts with high- heeled sandals.
Maria, regretting that the pre-arranged programme meant that the party could not get off early and escape Peta, rose to her feet. “You will see from your programmes,” she said, “that we are planning a visit to the theatre in Strathbane this afternoon, although we will leave late in the morning and have a packed lunch on the bus. It is a Scottish comedy show and I hope you will all enjoy it.”
“Will the theatre be air-conditioned?” asked Sir Bernard, who was already sweating in the close heat.
“I doubt it. I don’t even know a London theatre that’s air-conditioned.”
Mr Johnson came in with a fax and handed it to Peta. She read it. “It’s from my accountant,” she said, beaming all round. “Do you know, Maria, I am now worth three million.”
“Three million
“Exactly,” said Peta.
“But that’s extraordinary. Surely a share in a matrimonial agency can’t bring in that sort of revenue.”
“No, sweetie, a rich husband who left me the lot and a good stockbroker.”
Sir Bernard gave her a calculating look. Three million. He was rich, but never too rich not to want more. He could expand his business with a dowry like that. And with the way she ate, she wouldn’t live long.
John Taylor felt shaken. He’d always thought of men having a lot of money, but not women.
Peta was surely nearly past the age of child-bearing. She must be…what…forty-five? And yet, three million. If he married her, that three million would become his, or rather, he would see to that. Then what would his son and daughter think when he died and left the lot elsewhere? Of course, the full impact would be spoilt if he died before Peta, but she couldn’t live long. That bulk of hers must be a terrible strain on the heart.
Three million, thought Matthew Cowper. I could buy a stately home with that and entertain the chairman and his wife and see their eyes pop out. I could have a Rolls to drive to work. Dammit, I could have a chauffeur. Peta looked a freak. But being married to a freak in a stately home was different from being married to a freak in a small bungalow. She would be considered Falstaffian and eccentric.
Of the men, only Peter Trumpington remained unmoved.
This is awful, thought Jenny Trask. Those men are all looking at her in such a horribly calculating way. They’re all rich. Well, Matthew Cowper, I gather, has simply got a good salary, but greed is stamped on their faces. In fact, we’re all greedy in one way – for romance, for money, for love. I wish Peta hadn’t said that about her millions. Deborah, Jessica, and Mary are looking as if they could kill her.
Crystal was leaning back in her chair, her cloud of artistically tangled hair shielding her expression. Jenny wondered what she was thinking and whether she had accompanied her aunt to the Highlands with a view to becoming Peta’s legatee. As they rose to go, however, Crystal said languidly that she had a lot of things to do and would not be going with them.
On the bus there was a scramble by Matthew, John and Sir Bernard to sit next to Peta. Matthew, being the youngest and most agile, got there first.
But at the theatre, it was John who succeeded in manoeuvring himself into a seat next to Peta by dint of buying her a large box of chocolates. The party were not all seated together, the seats being in twos throughout the auditorium. The noisy Scottish show ran its course, finishing up with a chorus line of small Scottish girls kicking their height in short tartan kilts to the wheezy music of the Strathbane Workers’ Pipe Band.
Sir Bernard managed to secure the seat next to Peta on the journey home. Deborah sat next to Jenny in silence. She had lost her exuberant spirits. Only Peter Trumpington and Jessica Fitt seemed happy as they sat together at the back, an odd couple, the handsome man and the grey woman.
Maria found her hands were shaking. Peta had probably arranged for that fax to arrive. The week was turning out a total disaster.
If only Peta would die.
That evening at dinner, Peta again ate very little and cracked jokes, and John and Matthew and Sir Bernard seemed to be vying with each other as to who could laugh the loudest.
After dinner, at nine o’clock, Peta suddenly announced she was going up to bed, and Crystal, like a beautiful shadow, followed her out. Deborah was not talking to Sir Bernard. She said she was going out for a walk. Mary French said something nasty about yuppies and said she had found the castle library and was going to retire there, books being better than men any time. John Taylor said he was going to bed. He was old and the day had been exhausting. Matthew went out for a walk, remarking that the light nights meant one could take a walk any hour of the day. Sir Bernard said he would accompany him and Matthew said nastily he preferred his own company, so Sir Bernard set out to go for a walk on his own.
Jenny asked Priscilla if she could borrow one of the castle cars. “Of course,” said Priscilla. “Come into the office, I have to take the number of your driving licence before you go.”
Once she had written down the number, Priscilla said, “You’ll find the keys in the ignition. Car theft is one crime that hasn’t reached Lochdubh yet. Where are you going?”
“Just a drive down to the village.”
“Going to visit anyone?” asked Priscilla sweetly.
“I don’t know anyone,” snapped Jenny and walked off.
Half an hour later, Priscilla decided to run down to the village herself and call on Hamish Macbeth.
She drove to the police station. The hotel car was parked outside.
She swung the wheel and drove back to the castle.
Inside the police station, Jenny was saying earnestly, “It must strike you as odd that I should join something like Checkmate.”
“I just thought it was the fashion these days.” Hamish heard a car driving up, stopping and then turning about and driving away. He was sure that it had been Priscilla and he looked at Jenny Trask with a certain amount of irritation in his eyes.
“I am a policeman, Miss Trask,” he said, “and not used to being disturbed so late in the evening except on police work. I do have a certain amount of chores to do before I go to bed. Did you come to see me about anything important?”
“I felt I had to see someone sane,” said Jenny, improvising wildly. Things were not turning out as she had expected. She had thought that Hamish might be intrigued by her visit. “I wish I had never come up here. It’s all so foreign and wild and weird. It gives me odd ideas.” She knew she was babbling on but somehow could not stop. “The other night, I looked out and there seemed to be this great darkness approaching the castle. It turned out to be a cloud, but it gave me a creepy feeling. I went to the cinema once with a friend and no sooner had we sat down than I said to her, “Let’s move. There’s someone mad behind us.” Well, it was pitch-black, for the film had started, so my friend said it was nonsense. But a few moments later, this old woman behind us started muttering obscenities.”
Hamish looked at her, a sudden alertness in his eyes. “So you think one of the party at the castle is mad?”
“There’s something about it all that makes me uneasy,” said Jenny a trifle defiantly because this Highland policeman was making her feel like a fool.
“Why do you want to get married?” asked Hamish.
Jenny coloured up. “Most people do, you know. I’m only a legal secretary. It’s not as if I would be throwing up a great career to be a wife and mother.”
“Why not have a great career?” Hamish leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head.
“What?”
“Your family must have money, or Checkmate wouldn’t have accepted you. So you could study for the bar. Take a law degree. My, my.” He half-closed his eyes. “I can see it all: Jenny Trask, QC, defender of the poor and oppressed.”
“I never even thought of it.” Jenny gave an awkward laugh. “Me…standing up in court! I’d be too shy.”
“I don’t think you would be shy at all if you were defending someone, fighting for someone’s innocence,” said
