‘Something like that, Charles.’
‘How about Holyrood?’ With sudden inspiration. ‘We’ll go this afternoon.’ The Laird looked relieved that something was being done and Charles felt it was a satisfactory solution. It gave the illusion of interest on his part and was a pleasant way of spending an afternoon. A visit to Edinburgh’s famous palace would be a fitting farewell to the city.
‘Drink?’ The word was spoken sharply close behind Charles. He turned to see Martin Warburton holding a couple of empty glasses. ‘I’m getting a round.’
Charles looked at his watch. ‘Better not have any more. I’ll want a pee in the middle of the show.’
James Milne also refused politely, but Martin did not turn away immediately. He stood still for a moment and said, almost to himself, ‘Holyrood.’
‘Yes,’ said Charles. ‘We’re going down there this afternoon.’ And then, as an explanatory probe, ‘Have you ever been there?’
‘Oh no,’ Martin replied slowly. ‘No, I haven’t.’
The last performance of So Much Comic, So Much Blood went very well; it justified the Glasgow Herald’s enthusiasm. It was possibly helped by the alcoholic relaxation of its presenter, and certainly by the vigorous reactions of an alcoholic contingent in the audience. Charles was left with the melancholy emptiness that follows a good show, and an urgent awareness that the pubs closed at two thirty.
A few more drinks and he parted with the D.U.D.S. in a haze of goodwill. Frances went off to scour Edinburgh for gumboots which she assured Charles would be essential for the West Coast of Scotland. James Milne waited for him outside the Masonic Hall while he slipped in to have another pee and pick up his belongings.
The stage crew were already in, setting up the scenery for a lighting rehearsal of Who Now? Martin Warburton, as writer, was deep in conference with Plug, the electrician. Charles picked up the holdall that he had left onstage. ‘Did all the slides go in, Plug?’
‘Sure.’
‘Cheerio then.’
‘Bye.’ Charles swung the holdall cheerfully on to his shoulder.
‘Goodbye, Charles Paris,’ said Martin Warburton.
The guide at the Palace of Holyroodhouse was a jovial gentleman with a green cap, green jacket and tartan trews. The effort of showing a mixed bag of international tourists round the old building ten times a day (or even more during the Festival) had not blunted his good humour, though it did give a staged quality to some of his jokes.
Charles let it all wash pleasantly over him. He even felt confident that the alcohol would not wear off until the pubs opened again at five. After the stresses of recent days he owed himself a real Saturday night blinder.
Meanwhile information about Scotland’s history and art poured out from the guide. Charles II rebuilt the palace… George IV wanted to be painted wearing a kilt… you can tell the carving’s by Grinling Gibbons because of his signature of five peas in a pod… the present Queen holds garden parties in the gardens here… the harpsichord by Johann Rucker of Antwerp is still in working order.. the portraits of fictitious kings of Scotland are by Jacob de Wet.. and so on and so on.
Occasionally Charles would be shaken from his reverie by a hiss from the Laird. ‘Do you think that might be significant?’
‘What?’
‘Sixteenth-century tapestry of the Battle of the Centaurs.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, it’s violent, isn’t it? And Martin’s very obsessed with violence.’
Charles would feign interest for a moment and then mentally doze off again. With the confidence of alcohol, he knew that so far as he was concerned the Mariello case was over. The relief of that decision gave him the freedom to look at the case objectively. He saw the long trail of his mistaken suspicions dragging on like a Whitehall farce, with him as the overacting protagonist, always opening the wrong door after the crooks had fled, after the pretty girl had put her clothes back on again, or after the vicar’s trousers had been irrevocably lost.
And, without the pressure of having to think about it, a new logic crept into the case. First, the greatest likelihood was that Willy Mariello had died accidentally. And if he had not, then the only person with whom he was directly connected was James Milne, through the house sale. Perhaps there had been some motive there; perhaps even (taking a cue from Michael Vanderzee’s insinuation) there had been a homosexual liaison between Willy and the Laird. Perhaps, perhaps. Motivations and suspicions took on the expendable and detached fascination of a crossword. Perhaps one day someone would make the effort to find out the facts. Preferably a policeman. Certainly it would not be Charles Paris. Detective work, he reflected, was a slow and unrewarding business, like reading Dickens for the dirty bits. Not for him. He followed the guide through a film of alcohol.
The oldest parts of Holyroodhouse, in the James IV Tower, are kept till last in the guided tour. These are the apartments of Mary, Queen of Scots and her second husband, Lord Darnley, and it is impossible to enter them without a sense of excitement.
Darnley’s bedroom is downstairs and there is a little staircase that leads up to the Queen’s room. Next door is the supper room where David Rizzio, her Italian secretary, musician and companion, was murdered by Darnley, Patrick Lord Ruthven and other disaffected noblemen. On his body there were found between fifty and sixty dagger-wounds.
‘And there,’ said the guide dramatically, ‘is the very spot where it happened.’ Then, with a quick switch into the practised joke, ‘There’s no use looking for bloodstains. There’s only a brass plaque there and it’s a different floor. But everything else is just as it was.’
‘Everything?’ Charles queried facetiously. ‘Is it the same clock?’
‘What clock?’ asked the guide, confused for the first time on the tour.
‘Well, the clock…’ Charles turned slowly round the room. There was no clock. ‘Then what’s the ticking?’
He looked slowly down at his holdall, lowered it to the floor and, with great care, unzipped it. The other tourists watched with frozen fascination.
There was no question. He had seen enough newspaper pictures from Northern Ireland to recognise the untidy arrangement of a clock face and wires.
So had the rest of the party. In the panic and screams that followed as they all rushed for the narrow spiral staircase, he could hear the Laird’s voice, high with fear. ‘A bomb! He could have killed us all! A bomb!’
CHAPTER TWELVE
The dog leapt up, but gave no yell,
The wire was pulled, but woke no bell,
The ghastly knocker rose and fell,
But caused no riot;
The ways of death, we all know well,
Are very quiet.
Bombs in public places are police matters, and cannot be well investigated by half-hearted amateurs. Charles found it a great relief when the blue uniforms moved in. He felt he could have gone on snooping in the dark for ever; the police had the advantage that investigation was their business. And they got on with it very efficiently.
An Army bomb disposal expert saved Queen Mary’s historic apartments from destruction. As Charles sat waiting to be interviewed at the Edinburgh City Police Headquarters in Fettes Avenue, he wondered what would have happened if the device had gone off. The wholesale destruction of twenty-odd tourists and a guide might have put Rizzio’s murder in the shade. And it would have needed a hell of a big brass plaque.
