Death of a Prankster by MC Beaton Page A

at the couple, revealed through the door held open by Betty.
    ‘Are you threatening me?’ screeched Titchy.
    ‘Think about it,’ said Charles coolly. ‘Just think what I could do to you.’
    He walked out through the front door into the melting snow.
    Titchy shrugged and laughed. Numbly Betty stood aside to let her into the drawing room. Everyone stared at her silently.
    ‘Don’t let me spoil your fun,’ said Titchy. ‘What were you all talking about?’
    ‘They were talking about you,’ said Melissa suddenly. ‘Angela was asking Jeffrey if he really meant to go off with you and Paul said if you did, he would murder you.’
    ‘Melissa!’ exclaimed Paul in a hurt voice.
    Melissa rounded on him. ‘You asked for that,’ she said fiercely. ‘You brought me up here and landed me in the middle of a murder and yet all you’ve done since we were brought back from Inverness is run to your mother or flirt with that tart.’
    ‘My, my,’ said Titchy, who seemed to be enjoying herself immensely. ‘Jealousy will get you nowhere, pet, nor will pink hair, for that matter. So old-fashioned. Dead seventies, that.’
    ‘Jealous … of you ?’ raged Melissa. ‘I don’t care who Paul runs after. He’s nothing to me. You’re all sick!’
    Hamish Macbeth wondered what was going on as Melissa erupted from the drawing room, but he had decided he had better tell Blair about Jim Gaskell, the gamekeeper, and so he went on into the library.
    Blair swore when he heard about the trick played on the gamekeeper. ‘There’s damn suspects comin’ oot o’ the woodwork,’ he groaned. ‘Anderson, fetch that gamekeeper in here. And Macbeth, arnae you neglecting the duties o’ your parish? There’s no need for you here fur the rest o’ the day.’
    ‘If it hadn’t been for me,’ said Hamish stiffly, ‘you’d never haff heard about the gamekeeper.’
    ‘Aye, aye, laddie. Jist piss off and take that mongrel wi’ ye. You should know better than to take your pet on a murder case.’
    ‘I told you before,’ said Hamish. ‘This is a trained police dog.’
    ‘If thon thing’s a trained police dog, then I’m Lassie,’ hooted Blair. ‘Off wi’ ye.’
    Hamish muttered under his breath as he and Towser scrambled into the police Land Rover. It was already dark, the north of Scotland seeing very little daylight during the winter. As he approached Lochdubh, he thought of calling on Priscilla and then changed his mind. She had called him a moocher. She would think he had only called at the hotel to cadge a free drink. He drove on towards the police station. At the end of the waterfront, the Lochdubh Hotel stood dark and empty. It was usually closed for the winter, but rumour had it that it was being put up for sale because the competition from Tommel Castle was killing off trade.
    He parked the car and let himself into his kitchen, noticing as he switched on the light that frost was forming on the inside of the window and that last night’s dirty dishes were still in the sink.
    He lit the kitchen stove and cooked some kidneys for Towser and then walked up and down rubbing his hands, waiting for the room to heat up.
    There was a tentative knock at the kitchen door. He thought it was probably the minis-ter’s wife, Mrs Wellington, who expected payment in fresh eggs from Hamish’s hens for walking Towser.
    But it was Priscilla who stood there, and she was holding a foil-covered dish.
    ‘Truce,’ she said. ‘I brought you dinner. Venison casserole. It only needs to be heated up.’
    ‘Come in,’ said Hamish eagerly. ‘I’m sorry I snapped at you, Priscilla, but Blair drives me mad and I wass hungry and … and it’s grand to see you.’
    ‘That’s more like it.’ Priscilla put the casserole into the oven and sat down at the kitchen table. She slipped off her wool coat, which crackled with electricity from the frosty air. ‘Turned cold again,’ she said. ‘Damn winter. I’m sick of it. I would like to go and lie in