Over a cup of Earl Grey tea and chocolate-covered Bath Olivers, Charles explained. He told of his suspicions about the murder and the small progress of his investigations.
James Milne looked at him in silence for a moment. ‘What an amazing idea. And what do you want me to do? Crawl around the rooftops with firearms and beard villains in their dens? I don’t know whether that’s quite my style. I used sometimes to try to catch poachers on my mother’s estate at Glenloan, but I’m not exactly a private eye.’
‘Look, all I want you to do is to address your mind to the problem. I want to hear what you think. You’ve met most of the people involved. You know, two heads are better than one and all that. And I’m really getting nowhere on my own. My suspicions just go round and round in circles… I want you to be a kind of sounding board for my ideas.’
‘Hmm. I think a ouija board for contacting Willy Mariello might be more useful.’
‘You’re probably right. What do you say?’
‘Well, Charles, I’m certainly prepared to help you in any way you think might be useful. But I must say right from the start that I don’t share your certainty that a murder has been committed. From what I heard it sounded like a very unfortunate accident. What makes you so sure it’s murder?’
Again Charles had to fall back on his feeble cry of ‘Instinct’.
‘“Instinct is a great matter, I was a coward on instinct.” Hmm. Dear old Falstaff. Instinct. Do the police share your instinct?’
‘Not so far as I know.’
‘They don’t think it was murder?’
‘I don’t think so, though that won’t really be clear until they’ve finished their enquiries.’
‘No. Hmm. Good.’
‘Why good?’
‘Well, when our investigations reach their dramatic denouement, we can feel confident that Inspector Flatfoot of the Yard won’t pip us at the post.’
‘You mean you agree?’
‘Yes, I’ll be your sounding board. It could be fun.’
‘Good. Thank you.’
The Laird immediately regressed to his school-mastering days. ‘Right. Now have you made any notes on the case?’
‘No.’
‘Well, I’m sure you should.’ Charles watched amazed as his Dr Watson began to organise him. ‘Right, paper, fountain pen, sharp HB pencil. And a column, so. Headed ‘Suspects’. And another-’ Reason for Suspicion’. Now who have we got?’
‘We’ve just been through all that.’
‘No harm in doing it again. There is nothing so effective for stimulating the memory and provoking thought as writing things down.’
Charles felt he was right back in the First Form. (On his present investigative form, in the corner with a big ‘D’ on his hat.) But he humoured his new partner and they made out their list.
It did not take long. The ‘Reason for Suspicion’ column looked particularly unconvincing. ‘In a sense,’ said Charles, ‘we’re starting from the wrong end. We are putting down why we suspect someone, whereas we should be thinking, from that person’s point of view, why they should want to kill Willy.’
‘Would that make the list any fuller?’
Charles had to admit that it would not. ‘What we’ve got to do is to work out who was involved with Willy- emotionally, artistically, financially. So far it seems the only person from Derby he knew well is a guy called Sam Wasserman, who is currently touring Europe.’
‘You say he’s the only person you can connect Willy with?’
‘Except for his wife. But I can’t count her because she has nothing to do with the group. Unless she has an ally who’s at Derby.. A lover maybe or…’ Lack of conviction in what he was saying brought him to a halt. ‘Nope.’
‘And she’s the only person up here with whom he seems to have had dealings?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh, Charles, Charles.’ The Laird shook his head pityingly. ‘There’s someone you’ve overlooked.’
‘Is there?’
‘Yes. And you have all the information to work out who. I know you do.’ He watched for reaction and then repeated slowly, ‘I know you do.’
Charles suddenly realised who was meant. ‘Good Lord, yes. You. The house.’
‘Exactly. You see, there is a direct financial relationship between me and Willy Mariello. He bought my house. I think I should go down on our list of suspects.’
‘But that’s daft. If you were the murderer, you wouldn’t draw my attention to your connection with the victim.’
‘Ah, Charles, I may look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under’t. You mustn’t rule out any possibility. There, I’ve put my name down. Declaration of interests, like the Liberals keep asking M.P. s to make. Now what about you?’
‘Me?’
‘Your declaration of interest. Had you any motive to murder Willy Mariello?’
Charles laughed. ‘No.’
‘Good. Now we know where we stand.’ James Milne smiled. His reserve was gone and he looked set to enjoy the game of detection. ‘Now, what about the other forty-odd?’
‘What indeed? Presumably I must try to meet them all and find out if any of them knew Willy well. And also what he did over the weekend before he died.’
‘Yes. And how long have you got to complete this major investigation?’
‘My show finishes a week today.’
‘Hmm. I fear we may find time defeats us.’
‘Yes. I hope not.’
‘So do I. But perhaps, Charles, I hope it a little less than you.
‘Why?’
‘Because I don’t yet fully believe that we’re on to a case of murder. I’ll come along with you for the ride, but I’m not convinced of the existence of a destination.’
The Laird was going to dinner with friends, so Charles left him about seven. He was no nearer the solution of the murder, but at least he had an ally. And the cataloguing power of James Milne’s mind could be a useful complement to his own haphazard methods.
On the first-floor landing he paused. The revue piano had given up its usual stuck-in-the-groove repetition and was playing a whole tune. A girl was singing. He could not catch the lyrics, just hear the husky purity of her voice. Anna. He felt a strong desire to go into the room on some pretext just to see her. But no. She had said it was better they should keep their relationship a secret and she was right. He did not fancy the gossip and innuendo of forty students.
No. He still had the key to the flat. He’d go back there and wait for her to return and continue his rejuvenation. Later.
On the ground floor the only sign of human occupation was the presence of old socks, creeping like firedamp from the men’s dormitory. Charles was about to leave and find a pub for the evening when he heard a slight sound from the basement. He crept down the stairs towards the glow of the sitting-room.
Michael Vanderzee was slumped on the sofa with a glass in one hand and a half-full bottle of Glenmorangie malt whisky in the other. He perceived Charles’ approach blearily. ‘I didn’t know there was anyone in the house. Thought they’d all buggered off.’
‘I’ve just been having a drink with the Laird.’
‘Oh, that old poof,’ said Michael ungraciously.
Charles did not bother to challenge the gratuitous insult, though on reflection he thought it was misplaced. He had not thought before about James Milne’s sexual status, but, when he did, neuter seemed the most
