the sun on a beach somewhere.’
‘Like Jeffrey Trent,’ said Hamish. He sat down as well and told her what had happened that day, ending up with, ‘I don’t like the way Titchy Gold is going on. But then I don’t like Titchy.’
‘Why?’ asked Priscilla.
‘I don’t know. She’s such a mixture. One minute she’s as hard as nails, the next she’s playing the vamp … and neither of those characters ties in with the one which was sick with fright over the appearance of that headless knight.’
‘I think I know why. A lot of theatrical people are very superstitious, Hamish. Do you think she did the murder and then calmly went to bed with her lover?’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he muttered. ‘But when I see her, I see death.’
‘But to get the body in the wardrobe in the first place, you would need someone very strong … or two people,’ pointed out Priscilla.
‘Aye. They could all have done it, to my mind. Of course, the whole setting is unnatural, Priscilla. There’s that overheated house, the ghastly noisy carpets and furnishings, all in the shadow of the mountain … so I’m looking at all these people through a distorting glass.’
‘What about Jan Trent? Instead of getting the servants to clean up to protect her son, she could have been protecting herself. She loves money, you said.’
‘Aye,’ agreed Hamish. ‘Then there’s the daughters, Angela and Betty. Odd couple. One of them couldn’t have done it, but two … although Angela Trent’s a hefty woman. Mind you, both had a generous allowance from the old man while he was living. If they did not know what was in the will, why kill him and kill the goose that was laying the golden eggs?’
‘When there are millions to be inherited,’ said Priscilla, ‘even a generous allowance can begin to seem like a pittance.’ She went to the oven and took out the casserole and served the contents deftly on to a plate. We’re like an old married couple after all the passion has long died away, thought Hamish, at first privately amused, and then, for some reason he could not fathom, angry. He had a sudden childish desire to push the food away and say it was not very good. He then wondered uneasily if he was coming down with some sort of virus. He always got tetchy just before a bout of the flu.
‘Anyway, I’m out of the case,’ said Hamish. ‘Blair has ordered me back. I don’t see much hope of solving it long-range.’
‘I know Angela Trent very slightly,’ said Priscilla. ‘Daddy took me to Arrat House on a visit when I was a child. I could always go over there to offer my sympathies and tell you what’s going on.’
Hamish brightened. ‘I wouldn’t mind a fresh eye on the case,’ he said eagerly. ‘Also, you could keep an eye on Melissa. She’s a nice little thing and I worry about her.’
‘Oh, really? The one with the pink hair?’
‘Yes. It’s an odd thing, but the pink hair suits her. She’s got nice eyes.’
‘And Miss Pink Punk wouldn’t hurt a fly?’ demanded Priscilla sarcastically.
‘In my opinion, no,’ said Hamish, his mind too deep in the case to notice the sarcasm.
Priscilla got up and put on her coat with brisk nervous movements. ‘I’m off, Hamish. I’ll think about going over to Arrat House, but there’s a lot to do at the hotel.’
Hamish looked at her in hurt surprise. ‘But I thought ye said ye were going!’
‘Well, we’ll see.’ Priscilla went out and banged the kitchen door behind her with unnecessary force.
A sort of torpor seemed to have descended over Arrat House the next day. The hard frost of the night before had given way to a thin weeping drizzle driven in on an Atlantic gale. Blair was restless and tired. He had been commuting between Strathbane and Arrat, leaving late at night and arriving early the next morning. Soon he would need to take final statements and let them all go. He could charge Jan Trent and Enrico with interfering with the evidence, but
‘Like Jeffrey Trent,’ said Hamish. He sat down as well and told her what had happened that day, ending up with, ‘I don’t like the way Titchy Gold is going on. But then I don’t like Titchy.’
‘Why?’ asked Priscilla.
‘I don’t know. She’s such a mixture. One minute she’s as hard as nails, the next she’s playing the vamp … and neither of those characters ties in with the one which was sick with fright over the appearance of that headless knight.’
‘I think I know why. A lot of theatrical people are very superstitious, Hamish. Do you think she did the murder and then calmly went to bed with her lover?’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he muttered. ‘But when I see her, I see death.’
‘But to get the body in the wardrobe in the first place, you would need someone very strong … or two people,’ pointed out Priscilla.
‘Aye. They could all have done it, to my mind. Of course, the whole setting is unnatural, Priscilla. There’s that overheated house, the ghastly noisy carpets and furnishings, all in the shadow of the mountain … so I’m looking at all these people through a distorting glass.’
‘What about Jan Trent? Instead of getting the servants to clean up to protect her son, she could have been protecting herself. She loves money, you said.’
‘Aye,’ agreed Hamish. ‘Then there’s the daughters, Angela and Betty. Odd couple. One of them couldn’t have done it, but two … although Angela Trent’s a hefty woman. Mind you, both had a generous allowance from the old man while he was living. If they did not know what was in the will, why kill him and kill the goose that was laying the golden eggs?’
‘When there are millions to be inherited,’ said Priscilla, ‘even a generous allowance can begin to seem like a pittance.’ She went to the oven and took out the casserole and served the contents deftly on to a plate. We’re like an old married couple after all the passion has long died away, thought Hamish, at first privately amused, and then, for some reason he could not fathom, angry. He had a sudden childish desire to push the food away and say it was not very good. He then wondered uneasily if he was coming down with some sort of virus. He always got tetchy just before a bout of the flu.
‘Anyway, I’m out of the case,’ said Hamish. ‘Blair has ordered me back. I don’t see much hope of solving it long-range.’
‘I know Angela Trent very slightly,’ said Priscilla. ‘Daddy took me to Arrat House on a visit when I was a child. I could always go over there to offer my sympathies and tell you what’s going on.’
Hamish brightened. ‘I wouldn’t mind a fresh eye on the case,’ he said eagerly. ‘Also, you could keep an eye on Melissa. She’s a nice little thing and I worry about her.’
‘Oh, really? The one with the pink hair?’
‘Yes. It’s an odd thing, but the pink hair suits her. She’s got nice eyes.’
‘And Miss Pink Punk wouldn’t hurt a fly?’ demanded Priscilla sarcastically.
‘In my opinion, no,’ said Hamish, his mind too deep in the case to notice the sarcasm.
Priscilla got up and put on her coat with brisk nervous movements. ‘I’m off, Hamish. I’ll think about going over to Arrat House, but there’s a lot to do at the hotel.’
Hamish looked at her in hurt surprise. ‘But I thought ye said ye were going!’
‘Well, we’ll see.’ Priscilla went out and banged the kitchen door behind her with unnecessary force.
A sort of torpor seemed to have descended over Arrat House the next day. The hard frost of the night before had given way to a thin weeping drizzle driven in on an Atlantic gale. Blair was restless and tired. He had been commuting between Strathbane and Arrat, leaving late at night and arriving early the next morning. Soon he would need to take final statements and let them all go. He could charge Jan Trent and Enrico with interfering with the evidence, but
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