Death of a Prankster by MC Beaton

that Blair had a gloating look which he recognized of old. Blair obviously thought he knew the identity of the murderer.
    When everyone had finally filed out, leaving the police behind, Hamish turned to Blair. ‘You’ve found something,’ he said.
    ‘You’ve found something, sir ,’ corrected Blair nastily. ‘Aye, it’s in the bag. We’ll have her in here in a minute.’
    ‘Her?’
    ‘So-called Titchy Gold. We’ve been getting background fast. Take a look at this. Good thing the old man’s got a fax machine.’
    Hamish read it curiously. Titchy Gold had been born plain Martha Brown, mother Mrs Enid Brown, late father, Terence Brown, unemployed. Titchy, or Martha, had appeared in the juvenile court at the age of fourteen. She had stabbed her father to death. The reason she had stabbed him was because he had raped her. She had served a short sentence in a juvenile detention centre. She had never gone home again and refused to have anything to do with her mother. At eighteen, she had become the mistress of a television producer, changed her name by deed poll and started getting small parts, ending up with the plum part in the present crime series in which she appeared.
    Hamish raised his eyes. ‘There iss a lot of difference between stabbing a father who’s raped you and stabbing an old man you hardly know.’
    ‘When they start killing, they go on killing,’ said Blair, rubbing his fat hands. ‘She thought Charles Trent would inherit, didn’t she? Ye can sit in on the interview, Hamish,’ he added magnanimously.
    Hamish hesitated. He felt he ought to tell Blair about the gamekeeper, Jim Gaskell. Then he decided it would be better if he questioned Jim Gaskell himself first.
    ‘No, I’ll leave it to you,’ said Hamish. He could not bear to see the bullying and haranguing that would go on. But he privately thought Blair was in for a surprise. Titchy Gold was much harder and tougher than the detective knew.
    And so it turned out. Blair was sweating by the time Titchy had finished with him. She used the foulest language he had ever heard in his life. She reminded him that she was a celebrity and that the press were outside. She would let them know about his methods of interviewing and no doubt some television research team would be interested in questioning him . She did not deny a thing in the report. Her father had been a degenerate. She had carved a career for herself and no one was going to take that away from her. She ended by saying that he either charged her and produced immediate evidence for doing so, or let her go, or she would get a lawyer flown up from London to sort him out. Furthermore, she was packing her bags and leaving the next day.
    Hamish stood for a moment outside the library door, listening with relish to the noisy altercation from within, and then he went out in search of Jim Gaskell.
    The gamekeeper and his wife were both at home. Mary Gaskell was just putting the infant down to sleep.
    Hamish talked easily of this and that and then slid round to the question of practical jokes. ‘That was a bad business about the baby,’ he said. ‘Did you know he was leaving you something in his will?’
    ‘I neffer thocht it for a minute,’ said Jim.
    ‘But you obviously know now. You’re not surprised. Who told you?’
    ‘Enrico. The wee Spaniard came running right over tae tell me.’
    ‘But you didn’t know before. Mr Trent didn’t say anything?’
    ‘Of course he did. He was aye telling me and Enrico and the others that we’d come in for a bit, but only Enrico believed him.’
    ‘You must have been sore angry at him over that joke he played on you.’
    ‘I could hae killed him,’ said the gamekeeper simply, his large powerful hands resting on his knees. He was a giant of a man. ‘But I got my revenge.’
    ‘How?’
    ‘Blackmail,’ said the gamekeeper with a cheery grin. ‘I had Mary here write down tae Inverness tae the lawyers and doctors and psychiatrists and then I told