Death of a Prankster by MC Beaton Read Free Book Online Page B

between eleven and midnight?’
    She looked at him in genuine bewilderment. ‘The drawing room. I suppose. Oh, I went down to the kitchen and asked Enrico to bring up some sandwiches because Dad said he wanted some – brown bread and smoked salmon. Then I was a bit upset. I went up to my room and sat down for a little. You see, there had been all those jokes and rows and then that little actress accused Dad of having cut up her dresses and she was so mad she looked as if she could have killed him.’
    Hamish gave an exclamation. He ran to the door and shouted for Enrico and when the manservant arrived he told him to tell Miss Gold not to touch any of the clothes that had been damaged. Forensic would want to examine them.
    He returned to Angela, who had heard the exchange and looked pale.
    ‘It’s amazing what they can get fingerprints from these days,’ said Hamish. ‘Now, Miss Trent. Who, in your opinion, would want to kill your father?’
    She shook her head in a bewildered way and then her eyes hardened.
    ‘That cheap actress.’
    ‘Titchy Gold? Why?’
    ‘Because she’s going to marry Charles. She thinks Charles will inherit. That low, common sort of person would do anything.’
    ‘What were your relations with your father?’
    ‘A trifle strained,’ said Angela gruffly. ‘It was those jokes of his, you know. Sewed the bottoms of my pyjama legs together and punctured Betty’s hot-water bottle. He’d always played tricks on us, even when we were small.’
    He asked her several more questions about where the other guests had been during the crucial time and then asked to see Betty.
    Betty Trent looked small and crushed and mousy. Angela had found a dark blouse and skirt to wear, but Betty was wearing a pink wool twin set with a green tweed skirt. She said she had been in and out of the drawing room and could not remember exact times. She said she did not believe her father had been murdered. He had meant to play a trick and the heavy door of the wardrobe had slammed on him and driven the knife into him. She said she estimated that PC Macbeth was in his thirties and if a policeman was in his thirties and had not yet been promoted, it showed he was a village hick with no brains at all. Furthermore, she would not waste any more time with him, but would wait for his superiors.
    ‘Chust a minute,’ said Hamish. ‘Who do you think cut Miss Gold’s frocks?’
    ‘Probably Dad,’ said Betty crossly, ‘although I must admit it was a new departure in jokes.’
    Hamish was about to take her through the finding of the body more out of sheer bloody-mindedness than anything else, for Betty’s remarks had riled him, when the noise of a helicopter filled the air.
    The police from Strathbane had arrived.
     
    Detective Chief Inspector Blair was a heavy-set Glaswegian. Hamish had worked with him before. Blair knew Hamish had solved several cases in the past and had allowed Blair to take the credit. But every time he saw Hamish again, he convinced himself it had all really been luck on Hamish’s part. This lanky gormless Highlander could surely not compete with the sharper brains of a Lowland Scot. Blair was flanked by his pet detectives, Jimmy Anderson and Harry MacNab.
    ‘Came by the chopper,’ said Blair and settled himself into an easy chair in the library with a grunt. ‘So the auld fart his bin knifed.’
    ‘You knew him?’ asked Hamish.
    ‘Heard o’ him and his damp jokes. Forensic’s on the way. Right, laddie, let’s have whit you’ve got.’
    Hamish took out his notebook and Blair guffawed with laughter. ‘Have ye never heard o’ a tape recorder? How did ye get here? On a bike wi’ square stone wheels?’
    Hamish ignored him and began to read out the brief statements he had taken. Blair listened intently. When Hamish had finished, Blair slapped his knee and exclaimed, ‘Man, man, you’ve got your murderers!’
    ‘Who?’
    ‘Them Spaniards, o’ course. Always sticking knives into people. They