Blair gave Hamish a lowering look but remained silent.
“While the forensic team search all their rooms again,” said Mr Daviot, “we had best have them in again, one after another. One of them’s a killer, and we are going to stay here until we find out.”
The members of Checkmate and Crystal found Mr Daviot’s questioning worse than Blair’s. Blair was so rude and angry, one could always react and hit back. But Mr Daviot went on and on persistently, question after question, seemingly tireless. The cool Crystal broke down and confessed that she had been worried Auntie meant to change her will, that her parents had said that when she returned from the north, she was to train for a job, and that she didn’t want to work. Jenny told him all about the forestry worker. Everyone told Mr Daviot an awful lot more than, they felt, they had ever told anyone about themselves in their lives before, while the tape recorder hummed and a policewoman from Strathbane sat in a corner and took shorthand notes, Mr Daviot not trusting what he called ‘these new-fangled machines’.
By breakfast time none of them had been to bed. Despite the fact that one of them was possibly a killer, they huddled together against the forces of law and order.
Priscilla prepared the breakfast for them all, as the police had just begun a lengthy questioning of Sean. She felt exhausted and wondered why she had gone to all the trouble to feed them when they only picked miserably at their food. Then her mother phoned, alarmed to learn the latest developments, and said she would be home immediately, but the receiver was snatched out of her hand by Colonel Halburton-Smythe. Priscilla repeated her story. Her father said again it was due to her folly that Checkmate had been allowed to come in the first place. He was not going to come back to be badgered by the press as he had been before when there had been that unfortunate shooting, which he was still convinced had been an accident, despite the fact that Hamish Macbeth had proved it to be murder and the murderer had confessed to the killing. Priscilla would just need to cope. There was no question of her mother’s returning. It was selfish of Priscilla to be so unfeeling.
Priscilla wearily put down the phone and went in search of Mr Johnson. “My father’s still not coming back,” she said, “not until this is all over. We’ll have to house this lot until the police give up their questioning. I suppose the next thing is that the servants will be giving notice.”
“Not them,” said Mr Johnson cynically. “This is meat and drink tae them. I’ve even had women phoning up from the village tae ask if I need any extra help. They’ve never had such a good gossip in years. We’ll need tae work shifts. You go tae bed first and I’ll call you in five hours’ time and then get a bit o’ sleep myself. Would ye look at that!” He pointed out of the window. Bus-loads of uniformed police were arriving.
They both walked to the window and looked out. Not only were there uniformed police but a team of frogmen. “We’re not looking for another body, are we?” he asked.
“Peta’s luggage and typewriter,” said Priscilla. “When I was in for questioning, Mr Daviot was furious that a thorough search had not been made for it. The frogmen will be here to search the lochs and tarns and rivers.”
“Aye, well, off you go and get some sleep.”
Priscilla went up to her room, but she lay awake for a long time, her mind racing. At first the whole hotel venture had been exciting, and the idea of repairing the family fortunes exhilarating. But now she wished she had her home back again, that the lounge could once more be the drawing room and the bar the morning room, and all the signs taken down. And they could do it. For the colonel had invested well and wisely this time, thanks to a good broker in the City. But she knew her father would make this set-back an excuse to keep the hotel going. Saved from the hard work by Mr Johnson and herself, he was left free to take all the credit, which he did. It was sad to discover that one’s father was a silly, selfish man. The wind of Sutherland was moaning outside, great clouds scudding quickly across a vast sky. The odd and unusual summer was over. It was a time for settling down, for comfortable fishing parties, and shooting parties. She had not even Hamish to turn to, Hamish who would go around collecting drips of little girls like Jenny, Jenny with her so-called sensitive feelings about madness. Priscilla’s weary mind called up the faces of the suspects. The only one who seemed at all odd was Mary French, with her mixture of arrogance and stupidity, a woman who had killed before. Perhaps Blair had been right all along, thought Priscilla just before she fell asleep.
♦
By evening, Mary French was back, and as the party had been united in their resentment against Peta, now they were united against Mary French and her long, vindictive tales of how she would sue the police and how she had phoned her third cousin, the Earl of Derwent, mark you, and he had been horrified at this evidence of police brutality. Matthew Cowper wondered why on earth he had thought even for a minute that she would make a suitable partner. He felt he would like to strangle her.
And the questioning went on. Mr Daviot would go off for a rest and the questioning would be taken over by Blair. Even John Taylor, who had been haughty and outraged at the beginning that they should dare to suspect him, had become quiet and subdued. Maria’s cheerful face had grown lines of worry and she had become fidgety and irritable. Crystal wandered around in a dressing-gown, not even having bothered to do her hair or face, and was sitting moodily drinking a great deal of champagne. Peter Trumpington and Jessica Fitt sat very close together, but not saying anything. Jenny felt so alone and frightened. She longed for an opportunity to speak to Hamish but he did not emerge from the library.
And then, to her surprise, Matthew Cowper came up to her and said, “Let’s get out of here.”
“We’re not allowed to leave,” said Jenny wearily.
“I thought instead of having dinner here, we could go down to that Italian place in the village,” said Matthew. “We can tell that super where we are.”
“Oh, all right,” said Jenny wearily, “only don’t murder me on the road.”
Matthew gave a surprised laugh but went to the library.
He returned a few moments later. “We’re fixed,” he said. “They say we can go. We can take my car.”
They went out in silence, conscious of the watching eyes of the policemen, who had returned from a futile search of the moors and were now standing beside their buses, joking and laughing.
“What are they so cheerful about?” asked Jenny as she got into the passenger seat of Matthew’s car.
“Overtime,” he said briefly.
He accelerated past the press, who were huddled outside the castle gates, and drove down to Lochdubh. How it had changed from an idyllic village, thought Jenny. Great waves were surging down the loch, which was lit with fitful gleams of sunlight. Boats bobbed crazily at anchor. Rose-petals from the cottage gardens were blowing down the waterfront and the wind held a chill edge.
The restaurant was full of locals. “I am looking forward to some Italian cooking,” said Matthew.
It was a small restaurant, formally a craft-shop, with chequered table-cloths and candles in wine bottles. It was quite full, but they found a table in a corner. The prices were very cheap, which meant that the locals had begun to patronize it. The restaurant was a mixture of British and Italian cooking.
Jenny and Matthew settled for spaghetti Bolognese and a bottle of Chianti.
“Do you think we’ll ever get home to London?” asked Jenny drearily. “I’ll need to phone the office and tell them I’ve got to be here for a few more days at least.”