‘No, I’ve… er… no.’ He had not mentioned any suspicions of Anna to his confidant and it seemed pointless to start just as the Dr Watson role was becoming redundant.
‘But you must have been following some line of investigation the last couple of days.’
‘Yes, I have, but I… don’t really want to talk about it.’
‘Something personal?’
‘Yes, I found it involved someone I knew well and…’ He hoped that might edge the conversation in another direction. The Laird’s old-fashioned values would surely respect a chap’s discretion about his private affairs. I mean, dash it all, when there’s a lady in the case…
But James Milne’s curiosity was stronger than his gentlemanly outlook. ‘And where are those suspicions leading you?’ he asked with some excitement.
‘Nowhere. Well, I mean they’ve led anywhere they’re going to lead. And produced nothing. I just want to forget about the case now.’
The Laird looked at him quizzically. ‘But you were so keen on it before. I mean, it was your idea that there was anything to investigate. And now you’ve managed to persuade me there’s something in it. You can’t just drop it.’
‘I can. I have.’
‘But don’t you think we ought to do some more investigation of Martin’s movements and behaviour?’
‘Sorry. I’ve lost interest.’
‘Oh. And you’re leaving tomorrow?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ah. Well, I’d better return your Hood.’ James Milne ignored Charles’ remonstrance that it didn’t matter, found the volume immediately and handed it over.
‘Enjoy it?’ Charles saw a way out of the awkwardness into the impersonal area of literary criticism.
‘Yes,’ came the morose reply.
‘Amazing feeling for words.’
‘Yes.’
‘There’s a lot of discussion as to whether it’s a purely comic gift. I mean, in some cases a pun does reinforce a serious statement. You know, like that line from A Friendly Address to Mrs Fry. “But I don’t like your Newgatory teaching.”’
‘Yes.’ The Laird responded in a predictably brighter tone.
Charles pressed home his advantage. ‘And some of the wholly serious poems aren’t bad. Did you try The Plea of the Midsummer Fairies?’
‘Yes. Sub-Keats, I thought.’
‘Right. But The Song of the Shirt’s O.K. if hackneyed, and The Bridge of Sighs is quite moving. And did you read The Dream of Eugene Aram?’
‘No,’ said the Laird, ‘I’ve never heard of it,’ and relapsed into gloom. Charles felt churlish for his proposed defection. He needed to soften the blow of his departure. ‘Look, let’s meet for a farewell drink in the morning. At the pub by the Masonic Hall. See you there about eleven. Before my last lunch time. O.K.?’
The Laird nodded, but he looked downcast and Charles felt that he had let the man down.
Dinner with Frances was refreshing in that, unlike Gerald Venables and James Milne, she did not encourage him to continue with his detective work. In fact, when he gave her a selective resume of his investigations, she positively discouraged him. Murder, in her view, was an extremely unpleasant business, and when inadvertently it did occur, it belonged by right to the police and not to untrained amateurs. It could be very dangerous. Although they were separated, Frances retained a maternal protective instinct for her husband. This regularly manifested itself in warm socks and sensible Marks and Spencer shirts for birthdays and Christmas.
They ate in Henderson’s Salad Bar, a bit of a comedown from the places where he had squired Anna, but excellent food and better value. Charles began to relax. As he did, the exhaustion that had been stalking him all day caught up. He nearly nodded asleep into his lentil stew. Frances reached out and held his hand. ‘You’re dead.’
‘Mmm.’
‘Been overdoing it.’
‘I suppose so.
‘Early night.’
‘Good idea.’
‘I’m pretty exhausted too. Those two girls have been leading me such a dance. Still, thank God they get a train back tomorrow. It can’t come soon enough. I think I might stay in Scotland for a bit.’
‘Don’t you have to chaperone them home?’
‘No. Put the two little horrors on the London train and from that moment they’re on their own.’
Charles smiled weakly at the incipient relief in her voice. ‘And then you’ll have a few days’ holiday?’
‘Yes. Bliss. Before term starts.’ She hesitated. ‘I don’t suppose
…’
‘What?’
‘I don’t suppose you’d fancy a few days’ holiday. If we could book up somewhere…’
It was strange to see her blushing. Blushing for propositioning her own husband. He felt the familiar ridge of the kitchen-knife scar across her thumb. His eyelids were heavy with sleep as he replied. ‘I’ve heard worse ideas.’
There was quite a party at the pub before Charles’ performance on the Saturday. A lot of the D.U.D.S. who had never said hello to him decided they had an obligation to say goodbye, and any money that the show might have made was anticipated in large rounds of drinks for people he did not know.
But Charles didn’t mind. A night’s sleep had done wonders. Alcohol and company meant that he only felt the occasional twinge from thoughts of Anna or Willy’s death. Recovery from both obsessions would take time, but it was possible.
Frances was there, celebrating the departure of a King’s Cross train from Waverley Station. And, by a stroke of incredible luck, they had arranged a holiday. Stella Galpin-Lord, who was in the party, justified the expense of the vodka and Campari she ordered by fixing them up in a hotel at Clachenmore on Loch Fyne. In fact she had been booked in for a week herself, but had just heard that the acting friend who was meant to join her had got a part in a film and had to cancel. The need for a consoling drink after this disappointment explained her presence in the pub. But her loss was Charles’ and Frances’ gain. A phone call clinched the change of booking. Charles was so excited about the speed with which it happened that he did not have time to question the wisdom of going on holiday with his ex-wife.
He felt affectionate towards all of the Derby crowd and, now that his departure was imminent, even indulged himself in a slight regret that it was over. Sam Wasserman was talking earnestly (and no doubt allegorically) to Pam Northcliffe. She had her back to Charles, but he could imagine the glaze of boredom slowly covering her eyes. Frances was gamely trying to conduct a conversation with the lighting man Plug (who’d got to do the sodding cue sheets for Who Now? but who’d heard there was a free drink going). Martin Warburton was gesticulating wildly as he expounded one of his theories to Stella Galpin-Lord. They all seemed animated and cheerful except for James Milne who sat slightly apart with a half of ‘heavy’.
Since the Laird was the first person he’d invited to the get-together, Charles felt he should not neglect him and sat down at the same table with his pint.
‘Are you really giving the investigation up, Charles?’
He found it difficult to meet the older man’s eyes. ‘Yes.’
‘I’m sure we ought not to. I mean, if something else happens, we’ll feel terrible.’
‘What else can happen?’
‘Another crime.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. It’s just…’ The Laird leant closer and whispered. ‘I am convinced there’s something odd about Martin’s behaviour. We ought to find out more. We can’t just leave it.’
This was unsettling. Deep down Charles agreed. But he had managed to push that agreement so far down that it hardly troubled him. He would have to make some concession to his conscience. ‘What, you mean investigate the flat in Nicholson Street?’
