He was on the phone to Rory in London and taking down notes on the background of the members of Checkmate. He decided to stay where he was and not answer the door. He did not want to see Priscilla, did not want any more intimate midnight chats until he had got his feelings under control again. He ignored the banging at the kitchen door. Rory was saying, “Yes, Mary French was found not guilty of the death of her mother, and yes, John Taylor was the prosecuting counsel. What else? Oh, there were some nasty rumours floating around that Sir Bernard Grant had been dealing in arms, but nothing really came of that. Peter Trumpington’s been in the gossip columns, but nothing sinister. John Taylor once punched a policeman outside the Old Bailey for not showing him ‘due respect’ when all the bobby had been trying to do was to stop him parking on a double-yellow line. But nothing odd about that. He’s a great old character. Mary French hit the newspapers again when she made a speech to the pupils advocating the return of caning. But you don’t think she did it.”
“I didnae say that.” Hamish heard the Range Rover drive off and felt suddenly bleak. “What about Peta Gore herself?”
“Married to millionaire Bobby Gore, who died in ‘82 and left her a fortune. A few society snippets, that’s all.”
“And Maria?”
“Nothing on her background. Only a little piece on the society page of the Express saying that it was through Checkmate run by Maria Worth that Lord Bullsden met his bride.”
Hamish sighed. “Nothing there to bite on. But how Blair thinks he can charge Mary French wi’ the murder when he hasn’t a shred of proof, I don’t know.”
♦
Deborah yawned and put down the detective story she had been reading and switched out her bedside light. Tomorrow she would start making plans to go home. But the minute the light was out, she felt awake and restless. She had made such a fool of herself. That editor in the office, Sally Blye, kept saying things like, “Oh, why don’t you grow up, Deborah? I swear to God you think you’re still at school.” School had been super. One knew where one was at school. But none of her old school chums had remained the same. One minute, it seemed, they were regular jolly girls in school uniform, and the next, they were mature sirens in lipstick and the latest fashions. She wished the wind would stop howling. It was increasing in force, great buffets of it striking the tower room where she slept.
She was so preoccupied with her thoughts that she did not see the door of her bedroom open gently, did not see the dark figure creeping in. She was suddenly thinking how sunny and hopeful it had all been at the beginning of the week, how her marriage to Sir Bernard had seemed inevitable, and then, how at the smell of Peta’s fortune, he had rushed off after her and of how cruel and rude he had subsequently become.
She was sleeping in a double bed. “Damn,” she said and flung herself restlessly to the other side of the bed just as something heavy swept down with vicious force and struck the pillow where her head had been only a moment before. She could feel the wind of it. She rolled on to the floor and under the bed, screaming loudly as she went, huge, great rending screams. She heard footsteps hurrying out.
She crouched mere, knees drawn up to her chin, screaming ‘Help me, help me’ over and over again.
Priscilla ran to the turret steps. She pressed the light switch at the bottom of the stairs but the light did not come on. In a blind panic, she ran straight up to Deborah’s room and clawed at the switch by the door. “Thank God,” she muttered as the room was flooded with bright electric light.
She knelt down beside the bed and shouted over the noise of Deborah’s screaming, “It’s all right. It’s me…Priscilla. It’s all right!”
Deborah slowly crawled out, babbling, “Someone tried to kill me.”
Priscilla helped her to her feet and put an arm about her shoulders.
“It must have been a nightmare,” she said soothingly. “It must – ”
She broke off and stared at the bed. Deborah stared too and then began to scream again.
Feathers were floating in the draughty air of the tower room. And lying on the bed was a meat cleaver which had struck the pillow with such force that it had split it in half.
∨ Death of a Glutton ∧
7
Sweet is revenge – especially to women.
—Lord Byron
Hamish answered the phone and listened in alarm as he heard of the attack on Deborah. “And I know why it happened,” added Priscilla.
“Why?”
“I’ll tell you when you get here, Hamish, but if you had not decided to play the Lone Ranger and had answered the door when I called this evening, we wouldn’t be in this fix.”
When Hamish arrived at Tommel Castle, it was to find them all gathered in the lounge, along with the hotel servants and Mr Johnson, the manager, who greeted him with words to the effect that Sean had been locked in his room.
Hamish then listened to what had nearly happened to Deborah and phoned Strathbane and reported an attempted murder.
He went back to the lounge and his eyes fell on Priscilla. “Before I see Sean, Priscilla,” he said, “you’d best explain how it is you know why this attempt on Miss Freemantle’s life took place.”
Priscilla explained about the ‘saw you’ game, adding that as Deborah had tried it out on her, she had no doubt tried it out on everyone else.
“Is that right?” Hamish asked Deborah. “Were you playing a game?”
“You didn’t think Mary had done it,” said Deborah tearfully, “and so I thought I would help a bit. I mean, if someone else was guilty and I startled them, he or she might betray themselves…or so I thought.”
“I won’t waste time at the moment with lecturing you on playing a spiteful and dangerous game,” said Hamish. “I know you’ve had a terrible shock. Dr Brodie will be here shortly to look after you and give you a sedative, but right now you are going to have to pull yourself together and tell me what reactions you got. Now, first, Sean, the cook.”
“It must have been him,” said Deborah through white lips.
“Why?”
“I said to him, ‘I saw you do it’, and he raised his meat cleaver and said he would shut my mouth for me and I ran away.”
“And that wasn’t enough to persuade you to drop it?” marvelled Hamish. “Did you approach Maria Worth?”
“Yes, I said something like I knew there was something she should be telling the police and she looked awfully guilty.”
“Did you look guilty?” Hamish asked Maria.
“I suppose I did,” said Maria. “There certainly is something I forgot to tell the police. Before Peta was discovered dead, I went to her room to make sure she really had gone. Everything appeared to have been packed up except her sponge-bag, which was hanging from one of the taps in the bathroom. I took it and put it in my room and then forgot about it. I really did, until Deborah’s question reminded me. I’ll get it for you now.”
She went out. “Next?” asked Hamish.
“Matthew Cowper, he looked terribly guilty,” said Deborah.
Matthew had his story ready. “I’d gone down one night, looking for a drink,” he said. “With all the fuss, they’d forgotten to put the grille down over the bar. I took a bottle of Scotch. I’d forgotten to tell Johnson or to replace it until Deborah played her silly trick on me and I thought that must be what she meant.”
“So you took the whole bottle of Scotch up to your room and drank the lot?”
“No, of course not. I’m not a drunk. There was plenty left in the morning.”
“And yet that didn’t remind you to tell Johnson or the barman you had taken the bottle? Pay him now. If this wasn’t a murder inquiry, I would seriously think of charging you with theft.”