And became uncomfortably relevant in the light of Willy Mariello’s death.
About half past four Martin Warburton suddenly appeared in the men’s dormitory. He seemed in a hurry and had dropped in to collect something from his suitcase. Charles was lying on his camp-bed checking through So Much Comic…
‘Oh, Martin, I’ve read your play.’
‘Ah.’ He seemed embarrassed.
‘I’d like to talk about it.’
‘Ah.’
‘Now? If you’re walking down to this reception, we could chat on the way.’
‘I’m not going to the reception.’ Martin hesitated. He was improvising. ‘I’m going to meet someone down at… er… Dean Village.’
‘Oh. O.K. Well, some other time.’
‘Yes.’
Charles started off with some of the Mary cast to walk to the Royal Mile Centre. Just as they were about to cross Princes Street to go up the Mound, he realised that he had not brought any of his hand-outs. Even a playbill offering one of the DUDS of the Fringe was better than no publicity. Brian Cassells would not have thought to take any. With some annoyance, because it was a warm afternoon, he started back along Princes Street.
He was waiting for the lights to cross Charlotte Street when he saw Martin over the other side striding purposefully along Lothian Road. In the opposite direction from Dean Village.
Charles was not aware of making the decision, but it seemed natural to cross over Princes Street and follow. He was some fifty yards behind his quarry and there were enough meandering tourists about to make the pursuit look casual. He kept his eyes fixed on the blue denim back ahead.
Martin turned left along Castle Terrace which skirts the great Castle rock, then crossed over Spittal Street and climbed up towards Lauriston Place. Maybe going to the Masonic Hall. The scene of the crime. There were no rehearsals that afternoon. Everyone was going down to the reception. Or perhaps Martin was aiming for the Mariello’s house in Meadow Lane. Charles felt a spurt of excitement.
There were less people about in this part of the old town, so he dawdled. He did not want to be noticed if Martin stopped suddenly.
But the boy did not stop. The blue denim back continued its progress. Past the Masonic Hall, no hesitation. Past the Meadow Lane turning. On past the Infirmary, looking neither left nor right. Charles began to feel it was a long walk.
And it continued. On past the University Union with its cloth banner advertising Russell Hunter in Knox. On to Nicholson Square and then suddenly right, along the broad pavement of Nicholson Street. Martin still kept up his even, preoccupied pace, with Charles alternately lingering and hurrying along behind.
The whole thing seemed pointless. Charles could not really think what he was doing, playing this elaborate game of cops and robbers when he should be snatching much-needed publicity at the reception. Perhaps Martin was just going out for a walk. Something innocuous. Something Martin had disappeared. The fact jerked Charles out of his reverie. One moment the denim back had been moving smoothly along, the next it was gone. In the middle of a parade of shops. No chance of having turned up a side street.
Cautiously Charles moved forward to where he had last seen Martin. All the shops were Sunday shut. Their fronts were separated by doors which served the flats above. Gently Charles pushed the one nearest to where he had last seen Martin.
It was a heavy door, but it gave. The stone hall was dark and suddenly cool. A pram. A bicycle. Stone stairs, a metal rail. And attached to the top of the door a heavy chain that was part of some antiquated system to open it from the flats above.
Just an ordinary hall of an ordinary tenement block. Silence. He could not start barging into private flats at high tea time on an Edinburgh Sunday afternoon. Anyway, what was he looking for? He went out into the street again.
The names on the old-fashioned bell-pushes told him nothing. McHarg, Stewart, Grant, Wilson. He waited for about five minutes, apparently intrigued by a display of dusty Pyrex in an adjacent shop. Martin did not reemerge. It was after half past five. Charles set off for the Royal Mile Centre.
At the entrance he was asked to identify himself.
‘Charles Paris.’
‘Not your name. Who are you with?’
‘Oh, Derby University Dramatic Society.’
The result was that he entered the upstairs assembly room with a red card badge bearing the legend ‘D.U.D.S.’. It did not seem very positive advertising.
Entering the room was difficult; it was so full that he had to ease one shoulder in as a wedge and wriggle the rest of his body in after it. Some people had glasses of drink. Infallible instinct tracked its source and he slid and sidled over to a long table.
The drink was a pink wine-cup of minimal alcoholic content. Charles looked out across the throng. A swarm of cultural locusts was buzzing loudly and milling round the red badges which bore the names of newspapers, radio or television companies.
Everyone had a badge. Radio Clyde bounced on the forceful breasts of a young reporter. Bradford clung to chain mail worn to publicise their play The Quest. B.B.C. flopped on well-cut mohair. Nottingham sagged on a dirty T-shirt.
And everyone forced literature on everyone else. Charles had only to stand there to become a litter-bin for hand-outs and programmes. He kicked himself for wasting time following Martin and not getting his own publicity.
A glance at the cultural treats the literature offered revealed that there was not much he would want to see, but it was at least varied. There was Problem 32 by Framework Theatre- ‘ten young designers creating an hour’s theatre in their own terms’. The World Premiere of ScotsWha Hae, a new Scots comedy from the group that brought you The De’il’s Awa’ and Cambusdonald Royal. Paris Pandemonium Projects offered Chaos, Un Collage de Comedie. Under the intriguing title Charlotte Bronte and her Scotsmen, Accolade were presenting ‘psychological deduction of her relations with men in her last years (reduced prices for students and Old Age Pensioners)’. Or there was Birkenhead Dada with We Call for the Decease of Salvador Dali‘Shocks, poems and perversions; indefensible personal attacks; new levels of tastelessness.’
In other words the Fringe was much as usual. But with decreasing conviction. Charles remembered the heady days of the late fifties and early sixties when Edinburgh was the only outlet for experimental drama in Britain. The recent spread of little theatres in London and other major cities had eroded that unique position. And the Edinburgh Fringe seemed less important. Less truly experimental. Too many of the university groups were doing end-of-term productions of classics rather than looking for new ideas.
‘Not a lot, is there, Charles?’
He looked up and recognised one of the Guardian critics. ‘Just thinking the same. How long are you up?’
‘A week. A week of sifting dirty sand looking for diamonds. Which probably don’t exist.’
‘Sounds fun.’
‘But what are you doing up here?’
‘My one-man show on Thomas Hood. So Much Comic, So Much Blood.’
‘Oh, I’d like to see that. Did it at York, didn’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Hmm. I missed it there. Haven’t seen much publicity.’
‘No, it’s been a bit thin on the ground. Last-minute booking.’
‘Ah. Well, give me the details.’ The critic wrote them down on the back of a Theatre Wagon of Virginia, U.S.A. handout that looked depressingly disposable. ‘Right, I’ll be along.’
‘And spread the word among your colleagues. Or rivals.’
‘Will do, Charles.’ The critic edged off into the throng.
It might be worth something. But he should have brought the handouts. His own printed sheet stood more chance of survival than jottings on the back of someone else’s.
The crush got worse rather than better. Over on the far side of the room Anna’s cropped head was instantly
