Death of a Glutton

“You have television sets in your rooms, don’t you?”

“Yes, but we are just friends and it would not be very correct to have a man in my room or go to his when there is a perfectly good television set downstairs.”

“What was the movie?”

“It was Monsieur Hulot’s Holiday, Channel Four.”

“So what time would that be?”

“The film started at nine-thirty. I don’t know when it finished, but it isn’t all that long, although you have to account for time for the ads.”

“We can check it in the newspaper,” said Blair. “And then what did you do?”

“I went up to my room and went to bed. Maria has been organizing very early starts.”

“And Mr Trumpington?”

“I think he went to bed as well,” said Jessica and scratched her knee.

“Now, Miss Fitt, can you think of anyone in the party who would want to murder Peta Gore?”

“Oh, we all thought of killing her,” said Jessica and then wriggled miserably. “Well, you know what I mean. “I could kill that woman,” that kind of thing. But I cannot think of anyone who would actually have done it.”

“Do you know if Peta Gore was a wealthy woman?”

“I know that. She was very wealthy. Worth three million.”

Blair’s gaze sharpened. “And how do you know that?”

“Because she told us. She had a fax from her accountant delivered to her at the table and she announced it. Someone said something about being surprised that marital agencies could rake in that sort of money and Peta said that it was due to her late husband’s fortune and a good stockbroker.”

“That will be all for now, Miss Fitt.”

Jessica blinked at him in surprised relief and exited, scratching.

Blair looked round triumphantly. “Well, we don’t need tae look any further. She was worth three million, she doesn’t have children, her niece is here with her, so the niece did it.”

“I don’t think it’s going to be as easy as that,” volunteered Hamish.

Blair gave a snort of disgust and demanded that Crystal be shown in.

Crystal had found something black to wear, although black was the only thing decent about her outfit. It consisted of a short divided skirt and a halter-top that left an expanse of bare, lightly tanned midriff. She sat down and crossed her legs.

“Your name is Crystal Debenham, and you are how old?” began Blair.

“Nineteen.”

“Job?”

“Not yet,” said Crystal huskily.

“What were your relations with your aunt?”

“Used to be all right,” said Crystal laconically. “When I was at school, she’d come and take me out for tea and things like that. More than my parents did. She was jolly and good company.”

“And when did she ask you to come up here?”

“The morning she went. She’d found out Maria was up here with a group and phoned and asked me to come. So I packed and came. First time I’d seen Auntie since I got back from finishing school in Switzerland.”

“Do you benefit from your aunt’s will?”

“Yes, I think I get all of it,” said Crystal equably.

“Therefore – ” Blair hunched over the desk – “you had a strong motive for wanting rid of her.”

“Well, I wouldn’t have liked her to leave the money to the old cat’s home or something,” said Crystal, “but Mummy and Daddy are quite rich, so it’s not as if I was lusting after her millions, now was it?”

Blair gave her a look of irritation. “What were you doing yesterday evening after dinner?”

She frowned in concentration. “Oh, I know – I went upstairs same time as Auntie, went to my room. That’s it.”

“What did you do in your room?”

“I painted my toe-nails.” Crystal opened her eyes to their fullest. “That took simply ages because I’d painted them pink and then I thought, I’ve this new orange lipstick, why not paint them orange? So I took off the pink and put on the orange, and then of course I had to do my fingernails.” She waggled long orange-painted fingernails at him.

“And you did not see your aunt or hear her go out?”

“No, heard nothing. Can I go now?”

“Miss Debenham,” said Blair, his voice harsh and his accent slipping, “yer Auntie was murdered and you don’t seem to give a damn.”

“Maybe I’m in shock,” said Crystal, unmoved. “But she had become a bit of a pain, slobbering all over her food. Gross!”

“Are there any witnesses who can testify that you were in your room all the time?”

“No, although I had the television on. Someone might have heard that.”

“You could have left that on while you lured your aunt out on to the moors into the quarry and murdered her,” roared Blair.

Crystal leaned back in her chair, and her voice was silky, “Oh, do be so very careful, whatever your name is, before you start accusing me, or it will be me who puts you in the dock.”

Hamish leaned forward and surveyed her with interest. For under that sluttish appearance of hers, Crystal had all the tough arrogance of a privileged background. She was either too stupid to cover up the fact that she expected to inherit her aunt’s money and was not grieving over her death, or she was clever enough to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

Blair looked like a baffled bull. “We will be questioning you, Miss Debenham, as soon as we have the forensic reports.”

“Do that,” said Crystal languidly and rose and swayed from the room.

Blair struck the desk with his fist. “That bitch did it. I’ll stake ma life on it.”

Jenkins, the maitre d’hotel, came in. Blair looked up angrily. “We dinnae need you yet.”

“But I have vital information,” said Jenkins pompously.

“Out wi’ it then!”

“I was passing Mrs Gore’s bedroom earlier in the week and I heard Miss Maria Worth threatening her.”

“Ho, and whit did she say?”

“She shouted something like, “If I have to kill you to get rid of you, then I’ll do it.” It appears to be a well- known fact that Miss Worth wished to buy Mrs Gore out and Mrs Gore would not be bought out.”

“Thanks, Jenkins. Tell Maria Worth to step in here.”

“Mr Jenkins to you,” snapped the maitre d’hotel and stalked out.

“Still think Crystal did it?” asked Jimmy Anderson.

“Aye, maybe. Let’s see this wumman.”

Maria came in. It was evident to all she had been crying.

“Miss Worth,” said Blair. “I’ll come straight to the point. You were overheard threatening to kill Peta Gore because she would not let you buy her out.”

“Yes, I did,” said Maria shakily. “She was ruining everything with her appalling eating habits and by trying to flirt with the men. I was furious with her. But I did not kill her. It’s just something one says when one is furious.”

“Oh, does one,” sneered Blair. “Where were you last night?”

“I was in my room making calls to various clients in London to see how they were getting on. That would be right up until eleven o’clock. The hotel switchboard will have a record of those calls.”

“Mrs Gore could have been killed after eleven o’clock.”

“Well, I didn’t do it,” said Maria wearily.

“Apart from her niece,” asked Hamish suddenly, “did any of the clients of Checkmate know Peta before this trip to the Highlands?”

“I don’t think so. Why?”