“No,” said Hamish slowly. “Look, I haff to make a call.”
“And if the night news editor comes up, how do I explain why I am letting you use the phone?”
“Tell him it is because I know who murdered Bartlett and Vera Forbes-Grant, and I can take you with me to be in at the kill.”
“You’re sure?”
Hamish rubbed the damp palms of his hands against his trousers.
“Very sure. I need one more bit of proof, and it’s a long shot.”
“Go ahead and phone, and if the news editor says OK, I’ll book us both on a flight.”
Hamish phoned Tommel Castle and told Jenkins to fetch Mr Chalmers.
The superintendent came on the line. “You were right about the roach powder,” he said. “But we’re no further with solving the case.”
“This is who did it,” said Hamish.
Chalmers listened in growing amazement. “But that’s guesswork!” he exclaimed. “Proof, laddie. Where’s the proof? It’s only in books that the criminal breaks down and confesses.”
“I want the name of every journalist who was there just after the first murder and who did not stay on,” said Hamish. “I’m at the offices of the Daily Chronicle at the reporters’ desk. I’ll wait for your call.”
“You think one of them was an accomplice?”
“An unwitting one,” said Hamish. “I’m making a wild guess that our criminal handed one of them a package to either keep until called for, or to take to a certain address.”
“But no journalist would be naive enough to do that?”
“Oh yes, they would, if it meant getting a bit of background and the person seemed innocent enough.”
“I’ve a funny feeling you’re out on a limb there, Macbeth. But stay where you are until I call. It might take all night, and if it’s a London journalist you’re after, then I’ll need to ask the Yard for help.”
Rory came back looking excited. “By God, Hamish,” he cried, “if you can pull this one off, I’ll be able to get drunk for a fortnight. What do we do now?”
“We wait,” said Hamish.
“And pray.”
∨ Death of a Cad ∧
14
Methought I heard a voice cry, “Sleep no more! Macbeth does murder sleep.”
—shakespeare.
Summer lay dying outside Tommel Castle. A chill wind blew across the moors and rattled the windows and sent puffs of smoke from the fire belching out into the drawing room.
They were all gathered for afternoon tea, even Freddy Forbes-Grant, who had been released from prison. He had stoutly maintained he had confessed to the murder only because he thought his wife had committed it. There was not enough hard evidence to hold him. Blair swore the gloves had not been in Freddy’s room when it was first searched, and Anderson and MacNab backed him up. Freddy’s moustache drooped, and he looked thoroughly miserable. Mary Halburton-Smythe poured tea with a steady hand and tried not to think it would have been more decent of Freddy to have mourned in his room instead of crawling about downstairs like the skeleton at the feast.
Priscilla felt the nightmare would never end. Henry had apologized. He had said his jealousy had got the better of him and he should have realized Hamish had only a brotherly interest in her. Colonel Halburton-Smythe had taken him aside and explained everything. So much for the adult talk with her father, thought Priscilla bitterly. She was once more wearing her engagement ring. How Hamish would despise her! She felt trapped, and yet did not feel she could summon up enough courage to deal with Henry until the shadow of murder had lifted. It would be easier to cope with him in London where everything was lighter and more fickle.
The guests had been told they could leave for their respective homes on the following day, provided they did not travel anywhere else or leave the country.
“Cake?” said Mrs Halburton-Smythe brightly, holding out a plate of sliced seed cake to Pruney.
Pruney turned pale and shook her head. Everyone was drinking tea with cautious little sips, eyeing the others warily.
There came the clump of official boots and voices from the hall.
“Not again,” groaned Lady Helmsdale. “I’ve made so many statements, I’ve given fingerprints, I’ve watched coppers searching my undies – I feel like shooting the lot of them.”
The door opened, and Chalmers came in. Behind him came Blair, Anderson, and MacNab, who took up positions round the room. Then came Hamish Macbeth, followed by what looked like a shorter, squatter version of himself – Rory Grant.
Priscilla wondered if Hamish was ill. A thin sheen of sweat filmed his face, and his eyes were hard and fixed.
“Go ahead, Macbeth,” said Chalmers quietly.
Hamish knows the identity of the murderer, thought Priscilla hysterically. “He hasn’t once looked at the teapot.”
“It’s been a difficult case,” said Hamish quietly. “So many of you had reason to want Bartlett dead. But only one of you had the nerve, the lack of morals, and the sheer cunning to kill not only Bartlett but Mrs Forbes-Grant as well. And one of you had exceptional luck. These crimes were the work of a gifted amateur.”
He fumbled in a pocket of his tweed sports jacket and brought out a notebook and glanced down at one of the pages.
Priscilla looked around the room. Every face was tense and strained. Who did it?
“I was not absolutely sure of the identity of the killer until last night,” said Hamish.
Diana’s voice rang out, high and sharp. “You don’t know at all! You haven’t a clue. You’re watching us to see if anyone looks guilty. You’ve been watching too many films, just like that stupid maid.”
“No,” said Hamish. “I know who did it. It was you…Henry Withering.”
There was a stunned silence.
Then Henry said in an amused voice, “This is better than the theatre. Do go on. Why on earth should I kill Bartlett?”
“Because Captain Peter Bartlett wrote Duchess Darling. Not you.”
“Rubbish,” said Henry calmly. “It’s had reviews in all the papers. It’s a box-office smash. He would have said something.”
“You probably changed the title. Captain Bartlett said he only read the racing papers. He knew you had a success. He’d heard that. He did not know it was his play until the night of the party I attended. Miss Smythe quoted a line from the play. Captain Bartlett looked highly amused. You were very angry and told Miss Smythe to shut up. This is how I think it happened:
“Captain Bartlett’s aunt, Mrs Frobisher, said the captain had a magpie mind. He was always adopting other people’s enthusiasms and hobbies. He even started collecting china after he had been to Sir Humphrey Throgmorton’s.”
“What!” exclaimed Sir Humphrey, evidently more shocked by this revelation than by the identity of the murderer.
“He was living with you, Henry Withering, for a short while. You wrote plays. He decided to write one. You made out you had ‘written down’ when you wrote Duchess Darling. You said you had produced something silly and trite because that was what the West End theatres wanted. I saw the play in London. I didn’t think much about it until afterwards. Whoever wrote that play believed in every silly line. If I looked at it another way round and thought of the personality of Captain Bartlett, then it all made sense.”
“You’re talking rot,” said Henry. No-one shrank from him, not even Priscilla. It was obvious that everyone in the room thought Hamish was talking rubbish as well.
“Captain Bartlett left the play behind when he quit your flat and you found it After a time, dawned on you that this might just be what th public wanted. You must have enjoyed trickin them. Anyway, I think Captain Bartlett, who wa a notorious gambler and sponger, confronted yoi with it after the party. I think he would have exposed you at the party in front of everyone – anc thereby saved his life – if he had wanted to take the credit. I suggest he told you you could keep the fame so long as you passed all the money over to him. There was something about you, all the same, that made even the bold captain worried. He told me he was sure someone was out to get him. So, as insurance, he told Vera Forbes-Grant. Miss Smythe overheard Vera saying ‘You can’t have. I don’t believe it. Not you of all people.’ ”