‘Had brandy.’
‘Well, we’ll have to think of something else.’
They did.
Simon Brett
So Much Blood
CHAPTER FOUR
And the faulty scent is picked out by the hound;
And the fact turns up like a worm from the ground;
And the matter gets wind to waft it about;
And a hint goes abroad and the murder is out.
He was alone in the bed when he awoke. There was a note on the pillow. GONE TO REHEARSAL. IF I DON’T SEE YOU DURING THE DAY, SEE YOU TONIGHT? He smiled and rolled out of bed to make some leisurely coffee.
He drank it at the window, looking down on shoppers and tourists, foreshortened by the distance, scurrying like crabs across the dark cobbles of the Lawnmarket. He thought of Anna’s brown body with its bikini streaks of white, and felt good. The cynicism which normally attended his sex life was not there. An exceptional girl. Willy Mariello’s death became less important.
Rehearsal for an opening in four days’ time, on the other hand, was important. He finished the coffee and set out for Coates Gardens.
Martin Warburton was sprawled over a camp-bed in the men’s dormitory, reading. Reading So Much Comic…, Charles noticed with annoyance. The boy looked up as he entered. His expression was calmer than usual and he was even polite. ‘Sorry. I shouldn’t be reading this. But it was on your bed. I started it and got interested.’
Given such a compliment, however unintentional, Charles could not really complain. ‘There’s more to Hood than many people think.’
‘I don’t know. Is there? I mean he’s clever, there’s a lot of apparent feeling, but when you get down to it, there’s not much there. No certainty. All those puns. It’s because he doesn’t want to define things exactly. Doesn’t want anything to define him. There’s nothing you can identify with.’
It was a surprisingly perceptive judgement. ‘You think that’s important, identifying?’
‘It must be. You can only respond to art if you identify with the artist. That’s how I worked. I’d read into everything someone had written, until I felt the person there at the centre. And then I’d identify. I’d become that person and know how to react to their work.’
‘You’re reading English, I assume.’
‘No, History.’
‘Ah.’
‘Just taken my degree.’
‘O.K.?’
‘Yes, got a First.’
‘Congratulations.’
‘Not that it means anything.’ Martin’s mood suddenly gave way to gloom. ‘Nothing much does mean anything. I criticise Hood for not believing in things and there’s me…’ He looked up sharply. ‘Have you read my play?’
‘No, I’m sorry. I will get round to it, but-’
‘Wouldn’t bother. It’s rubbish. Nothing in the middle.’
‘I’m sure it’s going to be very interesting.’ Charles tried not to sound patronising, but was still greeted by a despairing snort. Martin rose suddenly. ‘I must go. I’m late. Got to rehearse Mary. The composer’s body not yet decomposed and we rehearse.’
‘You’re punning yourself, like Hood,’ said Charles, trying to lighten the conversation.
‘Oh yes. I’m a punster. A jolly funny punster.’ Martin let out one of his abrupt laughs. ‘A jolly punster and a murderer. I killed him, you know.’
‘No. You were the instrument that killed him.’
This struck Martin as uproariously funny. ‘An instrument. Do you want to get into a great discussion about Free Will? Am I guilty? Or is the knife guilty perhaps? Where did the will come from? The knife has no will. I have no will.’
‘Martin, calm down. You mustn’t think you killed him.’
‘Why not? The police think I did.’
‘They don’t.’
‘They asked so many questions.’
‘It’s the police’s job to ask questions.’
‘Oh yes, I know.’
‘Why? Have you been in trouble with them before?’
‘Only a motoring offence, sah!’ Martin dropped suddenly into an Irish accent.
‘What was it?’
‘Planting a car bomb, sah!’ He burst into laughter. Charles, feeling foolish for setting up the feed-line so perfectly, joined him. Martin’s laughter went on too long.
But Charles took advantage of the slight relaxation of tension. ‘Listen, the police can’t think you did it. No one in their right mind would commit murder in front of a large audience.’
‘No,’ said Martin slyly, ‘no one in their right mind would.’ This again sent him into a paroxysm of laughter. Which stopped as suddenly as it had begun. He looked at Charles in a puzzled way, as if he did not recognise him. Then, in a gentle voice, ‘What’s the time?’
‘Twenty-five to eleven.’
‘I should be at rehearsal.’ He rose calmly. ‘Do try to read my play if you can.’
‘I will.’
‘See you.’ He slouched out of the room.
Charles lay for a moment thinking. Martin seemed to be on the edge of a nervous breakdown. The end of finals is a stressful time for most students. Charles suddenly recalled the state he had been in after Schools in 1949. Three years gone and then the apocalyptic strain of assessment. How good am I? What will I do in the real world? Or, most simply, who am I?
He tried to imagine the effect of a shock like Willy’s death on someone in that state. A harsh cruel fact smashing into a mind that could hardly distinguish reality from fantasy. Inside his sick brain Martin might think he was a murderer, but Charles felt sure he was not. Martin Warburton needed help. Medical help possibly, but certainly he needed the help of knowing that he was only an unwitting agent for the person who planned the murder of Willy Mariello. The facts had to come out.
And the show had to go on. He turned to the script. On sober reflection, though the day before’s run-through had been promising, there was a lot that needed improvement. Particularly the Pathetic Ballads. They should have been the easiest part of the programme with their well-spaced jokes and obvious humour. But it was hard to find the balance between poetry and facetiousness. He concentrated and began to recite Tim Turpin.
Tim Turpin he was gravel blind,
And ne’er had seen the skies:
For Nature, when his head was made,
Forgot to dot his eyes.
So like a Christmas pedagogue ‘Um. I’m so sorry.’ Brian Cassells was peering apologetically round the
