Hamish MacBeth 07 (1998) - Death of a Prankster by M.C. Beaton

Author:M.C. Beaton
Format: epub, mobi

SIX

It is a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma.

—Sir Winston Churchill

Priscilla Halburton-Smythe had some difficulty getting into the grounds of Arrat House. The narrow road leading to it was crowded with reporters, photographers and television crews. Satellite dishes like giant mushrooms glinted palely in the grey light. Ignoring the questions shouted at her by reporters, she rolled down the window and explained to one of the policemen on guard that she was a friend of the family. This was not true, but Priscilla could hardly explain she had arrived for the sole purpose of helping PC Hamish Macbeth in his inquiries.

At last she was through the crowd of press and inside the gates. Enrico answered the door. Priscilla asked for the Misses Trent and gave her name. Enrico knew the name of every landowner from Arrat to the coast as well as any Highlander and so ushered her into the drawing room. They were all gathered together, all the suspects.

“You won’t remember me,” said Priscilla, advancing on Angela. “I came here as a child. I am Priscilla Halburton-Smythe. I came to offer my condolences. The death of your father is a terrible tragedy. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Decent of you to call,” said Angela, “but there’s nothing to do at the moment. We haven’t had the hearing at the procurator fiscal’s yet and we can’t even plan the funeral. Sit down. Enrico, fetch Miss Halburton-Smythe a drink or something.”

“Too early, and call me Priscilla.”

“I’d better introduce everyone,” said Angela. “I feel I should say, enter first murderer and this is the second murderer.” She gave a shrill laugh.

“Control yourself,” snapped her sister. “I am Betty Trent. The tall young man over by the window is Paul Sinclair and the girl with pink hair is Melissa Clarke. To your left is Jeffrey Trent, our uncle; and to your right, his wife Jan. Charles is over there, by the fire. Now, have you heard the latest news?”

Priscilla shook her head.

“That actress has been found murdered.”

“Titchy Gold!”

“The same.”

“How was she murdered?”

Betty’s composure suddenly broke and she stared in an anguished way at Priscilla, opening and shutting her mouth.

“Sit down, Betty,” said Jeffrey. “I’ll explain. Titchy Gold was found dead in bed. A cup beside the bed was found to have been wiped clean of prints. A bottle of my sleeping pills has gone missing. We are waiting for the pathologist’s report and can only pray it turns out to be natural causes. If it hadn’t been for someone wiping that cup clean, then we might have supposed she murdered my brother and then took her own life.”

“And I suppose the police suspect one of you,” said Priscilla. There was a shocked silence. But why are we so shocked? thought Melissa. We’ve known all along one of us did it.

“I think it was that Spaniard, Enrico,” said Angela at last.

“Why?” asked Priscilla. Melissa suddenly experienced a fierce stab of resentment against this cool and beautiful blonde who asked questions with the impersonal incisiveness of a policeman.

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