When the long night ended and light returned, Edinburgh had lost its charm. The bubbling spirits with which Charles had arrived had been ebbing for days and the previous evening’s events had finally flushed them away. Unsustained by hope and excitement, he felt tired and miserable. And above all, he felt stupid. He saw himself from the outside-a middle-aged man infatuated with a young girl, thinking she could halt the processes of time. He was a figure of fun from a Restoration comedy, the elderly dupe, no doubt dubbed with some unsubtle name like Sir Paltry Effort. The more he thought about the fantasies he’d had of himself and Anna, the way his mind had raced on, the more depressed he felt. Overnight his new lease of life had been replaced by an eviction order.
At about nine he rang Frances. He convinced himself he rang so early to catch her before she went out to the eleven o’clock concert of Mahler songs at Leith Town Hall; not because in his abject state he needed her understanding.
They fixed to meet for dinner, as if it were a casual arrangement. But she knew something had happened and he rang off curtly to stem the flow of sympathy down the phone. He was not ready for that yet.
Then there was Gerald to sort out. Charles did not want to lose a friend over some bloody woman at his age. He went to the North British and summoned the solicitor from a late breakfast.
Gerald came into the hotel foyer wiping his mouth and blushing vigorously. ‘Charles, hello,’ he said with manufactured bonhomie.
‘Hello. I came to thank you for last night.’
‘Oh… um. It was… er… nothing. I hope I got you the information you wanted.’
‘Yes. It proved I was on the wrong track.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’
‘Mind you, that was a relief in a way.’
‘Ah.’ Gerald looked at him in silence, uncertainly, as if he half-expected to be punched on the nose. ‘Look, old man, about the.. er… other business…’
‘Forgotten it already.’
‘Oh good. But, you know, it’s the sort of thing that… er.. well, it was just a joke, but it’s the sort of thing… I mean, the girl did seem to be virtually offering herself…’
‘I know.’
‘Yes. But it’s sort of… not the sort of thing to make jokes about. I mean, say you were at home… with us. Kate’s got a… you know… a rather limited sense of humour in some ways.
‘It’ll never be mentioned.’
‘Oh good.’ Relief flooded into Gerald and he seemed to swell to fill his expensive suit. ‘Care for a cup of coffee?’
When they were seated with their cups, the solicitor started asking about the case.
‘I don’t know,’ Charles replied despondently. ‘I was working on the theory that Anna had done it.’
‘Good God. I thought you just wanted information out of her.’
‘Otherwise you wouldn’t have been so anxious to lure her back to your bed?’
‘Charles! You said you wouldn’t mention it.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘So who’s the next suspect? Who are you going to turn the heat on now?’
‘God knows. I can’t think beyond Anna. All my other lines of enquiry are confused. Anyway, my last performance is tomorrow. Now all I want to do is get the hell out of Edinburgh.’
‘But what about the case?’
‘I don’t even know if there is a case. Suppose Willy Mariello died by an accident? That’s what everyone else thinks. Why shouldn’t they be right?’
‘But Charles, your instinct-’
‘Bugger my instinct. Look, even if it wasn’t an accident, who cares? No one’s mourned Willy much. One slob less, what does it matter if he was murdered? It’s certainly not my business.’
‘You mustn’t take that attitude.’
‘Why not?’ he snapped. ‘I’m an actor, not a detective. If I were a detective, I’d have been sacked years ago for incompetence. There are some things one can do and some one can’t. It’s just a question of recognising that fact before you make a fool of yourself. And I now know that I have as much aptitude for detective work as a eunuch has for rape.’
‘So you don’t think you’ll pursue the case?’
‘No.’
‘Hmm. I’m getting a plane back shortly.’
‘Yes. Well, thanks for your help.’
‘It was nothing.’
‘See you in London, Gerald.’
‘And if you change your mind, and do go on investigating, let me know how you get on.
‘Sure. Cheerio.’ Charles slouched out of the hotel.
Apparently he did a reasonable performance of So Much Comic, So Much Blood to an audience of one hundred and twenty at lunch time. He did not really notice it. All he was thinking was how soon he could get out of Edinburgh.
That involved tying up professional loose ends. Which meant a call on Brian Cassells at Coates Gardens. Charles hoped that the Mary cast were rehearsing at the Masonic Hall; he did not want to meet Anna Duncan. Ever again.
His hope proved justified. The house was unusually quiet. The Company Manager was in his office, as usual pressing Letraset on to sheets of paper. ‘Thought we might need a bit of puff for Who Now? Opens on Monday in your lunch time slot. Got to keep ahead in the publicity game or no one knows a show’s on.’
‘No, they don’t,’ said Charles pointedly, thinking of the publicity his show had got.
But irony was wasted on Brian. ‘I’ve changed “A Disturbing New Play” to “A Macabre and Bloody Exposition of Violence by Martin Warburton”. Pity I have to hint; I’d like to add “… who stabbed Willy Mariello”. That’d really bring the audience in. Still, the police are probably still investigating, so we may get some more publicity.’
Charles searched the Company Manager’s face for a trace of humour after this pronouncement, but it was not there. ‘ “Stabbed to death” rather implies a positive act, like murder, Brian. Doesn’t fit in with an accident.’
It was a half-hearted attempt to see if the average member of D.U.D.S. harboured any suspicions about Willy’s death. Brian obviously did not. ‘Oh, that’s just semantics. You mustn’t get too hung up on meaning, you’ve got to think of the impact of words.’
‘Hmm. Are you going into advertising?’
‘I might think of it if I don’t get this Civil Service job I’m up for.’
‘You’d be very good at it.’
‘Thank you.’ Again totally unaware that a remark could be taken two ways.
‘Actually I wanted to talk about money.’ They arranged that Brian would send a cheque to London when the miserable fifty per cent of the miserable box office was worked out. Charles was not expecting much; in fact he could work out exactly how much by simple arithmetic; but he preferred not to. That always left the possibility of a pleasant surprise.
But he knew the payment would not begin to cover his expenses. It hurt to think how much lavish meals for Anna figured on those expenses. The classic fall-guy, the duped sugar-daddy-he felt a wave of self-distaste.
Have to make some more money somehow. Maybe the B.B.C. P.A. s’ strike would soon be over and the telly series would happen. It was the first time he had thought outside Edinburgh since he arrived. A line echoed in his mind. ‘There is a world elsewhere.’ Was it Shakespeare? He could not recall. But it was melancholy and calming.
He hoped to leave Coates Gardens without meeting James Milne, but failed. So he was left with the unattractive prospect of Sherlock Holmes telling Dr Watson that he had given up investigation.
‘Anything new?’ the Laird hissed eagerly as they met in the hall. He swivelled his white head left and right in an elaborate precaution against eavesdroppers. Charles was getting sick of enthusiastic amateur sleuths-Gerald with his inept slang, James Milne with his melodramatic whispering.
‘No, not a lot.’ He tried unsuccessfully to make it sound as if that exhausted the subject.
‘You haven’t been following Martin again?’
