complemented each other.
The alarm woke them at nine. Charles reached his hand round to the small of her back and kissed the elastic skin of her breasts. Anna smiled. ‘Got to get up.’
‘Saturday.’
‘No weekend for us. The revue opens on Monday. We’ve got a tech. run at ten.’
‘Yes, the show must go on.’ She got up. Charles squatted ruefully on the bed with his elbows on his knees. Anna paused in the bathroom doorway and grinned. ‘You look like a dog that’s had its bone taken away.’
‘Yes, I fancied a nice bit of marrow-bone jelly. Isn’t that what Prolongs Active Life?’
‘You needn’t worry.’ She closed the bathroom door. Charles smiled, gratified. He spoke up over the sound of running water. ‘Hey, look, I’ve got a lot of rehearsal to do, too. Can I use the flat? It’s so difficult to find anywhere quiet at Coates Gardens.’
A gurgle from the bathroom gave him permission. ‘What are the technical lot like, Anna? All the sound and lighting people?’ Another gurgle said they were fine, there was a good course in the Department of Drama. ‘I hope so. I’m only getting a few hours’ rehearsal in the hall-Sunday and Monday morning is all I’m allowed.’
The bathroom door slid open and Anna appeared, naked, her hair spiked with damp. ‘Not fair, is it, you poor old thing?’ she said as she crossed to her clothes on the chair.
He grabbed at her ankle as she passed and she flopped on to the bed. ‘Got to go and rehearse, Charles.’
‘Rehearse and become a big star.’
‘Yes.’
‘Even stars have five minutes.’
The rehearsal went well too. Given somewhere to work on his own, Charles concentrated and put more subtlety into his readings. He was very organised. Once straight through, then a laborious line-by-line analysis of what had gone wrong. Another run-improvements in individual items but too uniform a pace overall. More detailed work, and finally a run that he would not have been ashamed to show to an audience. ‘There are many pleasures to be had at the Edinburgh Festival, and the greatest of these is Charles Paris’ So Much Comic, So Much Blood.’ Silly, however old and cynical he got, there were times when his mind raced and fantasies of success made him deliciously nervy and excited.
After rehearsal he found the pubs were shut and that made him feel virtuous. A brisk walk was called for. He popped into a little cafe aptly called the Poppin and bought a couple of floury ham rolls. Then started a leisurely stroll up to the Castle.
The Esplanade was flanked with tiers of seats ready for the Military Tattoo. The head of a statue and the point of an obelisk came up through the disciplined rows to be capped incongruously by green tarpaulin covers. But the Castle itself still looked impressive as Charles mounted the gentle incline to its heraldic gateway. ‘Nemo me impune lacessit.’ The motto’s translation came to his mind in the accent of a Glasgow thug- ‘No one provokes me and gets away with it.’
It was like a pilgrimage. Every time he came up to Edinburgh, he had to look round the Castle. Climb up to Mons Meg, maybe look inside St Margaret’s Chapel. Then on the level below he would lean against the ramparts and gaze down over the city, whose greys merged to distant greens which were lost in the gleam of the Firth of Forth.
It was a clear, sparkling day. He had a beautiful girl and he felt confident about his show. And yet…
And yet there was a nagging unease in his mind. Willy Mariello’s murder. Each time he tried to dismiss it, he saw the fear in those brown eyes. And he knew that the pleasures of Edinburgh could only allay his unrest temporarily. Peace would not come until he knew the full facts.
The facts he had found out did not take him far. There were still some forty suspects who had had equal opportunity to switch the knives. Of those two had had greater opportunities than the others to stage-manage the murder-Martin Warburton and Pam Northcliffe. Martin had struck the fatal blow and he was an unstable character with strange obsessions about violence. But it seemed too obvious, and Charles felt an understanding, even an affinity with the boy’s tormented mind. He could not think of him as a murderer.
The same applied to Pam. However, it was she who had actually issued the murder weapon and there were other strange features of her behaviour. He had a strong suspicion that she was responsible for the torn poster. The pieces that he had found had burst out of a paper bag full of crepe paper scraps which Pam had been using to make props. He had not challenged her with it, but he was fairly certain. So she had something to hide.
But not murder. Why not? Because I, Charles Paris, like the girl. The same goes for Martin. It is a hopelessly subjective, emotional judgement. I have an old-fashioned, middle-class view that murderers are, by definition, nasty people. Whereas, in fact, they are just nice, ordinary people who get into situations they can’t cope with and take what seems to them the only way out.
Again he desperately wanted someone to talk to about his suspicions. Someone detached and objective. Not Anna. She was involved with the other students and he did not want the murder to intrude on their growing relationship. But there was always Gerald.
Gerald Venables was a show business solicitor with a childlike relish for the cloak and dagger aspect of detection. Charles had enlisted his help earlier in the year to sort out the Marius Steen affair and, when that mystery was solved, Gerald had insisted that he should be included in any future venture of criminal investigation. This looked like his opportunity.
‘Hello, Gerald.’
‘Who’s that? Charles?’
‘Yes. I think I may be on to another case.’
‘Really.’ Excitement sprang into Gerald’s voice. ‘Where?’
‘Edinburgh, I’m afraid. It’d cost you a lot in fares.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ve got lots of Scottish clients. I can put it on one of their bills. What’s the crime?’
‘Murder.’
‘Fantastic. Will it keep?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Keep for a few days. I’m going to Cannes for a long weekend to stay with a client.’
‘Work?’
‘Well, it’ll be on his bill, but I don’t intend to do anything.’
‘When are you back?’
‘Probably Wednesday.’
‘Some weekend.’
‘Pity to rush it.’
‘Hmm.’ Wednesday seemed a long way off. Charles wanted someone there to talk to at that moment.
Gerald continued. ‘And then at the end of next week-Saturday-I’m taking the family out to our villa in Corsica for a month.’
‘Just the month?’
‘Yes. I have to get back to work then,’ said Gerald piously, not catching Charles’ sarcasm.
‘So you might be free for a couple of days next week?’
‘Might. The case won’t be solved by then, will it?’
‘No, I shouldn’t think so.’ Depression swooped and Charles feared he was speaking the truth. ‘I’ll give you a buzz when you get back if there’s anything left to investigate. O.K. Fine. Have a good weekend.’ It was not worth saying how pointless it would be for Gerald to come up for two days. Oh, well, another good idea gone west.
‘Oh, it’s you, Charles.’ James Milne was standing at the foot of the stairs in the hail. ‘I wondered who was using the phone. That one’s just an extension to mine upstairs. It’s meant to be disconnected soon and I’d put it in the cupboard so that it shouldn’t be used.’
‘I’m sorry. It was just here on the floor when I came in.’
‘Don’t worry. One of the Derby lot found it, no doubt. How’s Thomas Hood?’
‘Fine. Positively going well.’
‘Good, good.’ The Laird stood with one foot on the stair, posed like an old-fashioned print. His stocky figure was dressed in a biscuit-coloured tweed suit with a Norfolk jacket. ‘Can I offer you a cup of tea?’
A slow grin spread over Charles’ face. ‘Dr Watson,’ he said.
‘I beg your pardon.’
