‘A life surrounded by intrigue and murder.’
‘Exactly. He identifies with Bothwell and-I say, it’s just struck me. I bet there’s a portrait of Bothwell in the Scottish National Portrait Gallery.’
The Laird nodded excitedly. ‘There is. It’s a miniature. And it’s the only extant picture of him.’
‘Yes.’ Charles pieced it together slowly. ‘Right. Martin identifies so completely that, in his confused mind, he becomes Bothwell and Sam Wasserman’s awful play becomes reality. And that reality suits his existing obsessions about violence.’
‘So Rizzio has to be stabbed. Willy Mariello doesn’t exist for Martin; he actually is David Rizzio. And Martin must have said something that made Willy afraid of him, which explains what Willy told me in the Truth Game. By a stroke of luck, the stabbing looks like an accident, and so Martin is free to plan his next murder, that of Darnley…’ His racing thoughts were suddenly brought up short. ‘But that’s strange. If he was living the reality of the play, why did he identify me with Darnley and not the bloke who’s actually playing the part?’
‘Perhaps he was just getting a bit confused,’ the Laird offered.
‘That’s a bit lame. I’m sure if the obsession’s as complicated as it seems to be, there must be some logic behind it, some sort of crazy justification for his action.’
‘You don’t think there’s anything missing in the historical Mary story?’
‘I don’t know. What happened to Bothwell in the end?’
‘I think he died in prison. Insane.’
Charles smiled grimly. ‘I’m afraid that part of the identification could be horribly apt too. No, there’s something we’re missing. Why does he turn on me as Darnley?’
‘Because he thinks you’re on his trail?’
‘Doesn’t really fit the historical obsession bit. Unless…’ The solution flashed into his mind. ‘Good God! Anna!’
‘What?’
‘Anna Duncan. She’s playing Mary. And Willy Mariello had an affair with her. Martin must have seen them together and killed him out of jealousy. And then me. He saw us together downstairs a couple of days ago.’
‘You and Anna?’
Charles felt himself blushing, but the picture was developing too quickly for him to be discreet. ‘Yes, we were having an affair, and after he saw us together, he started to identify me with Darnley. So I had to be blown up.’
‘Leaving Anna to him?’
‘I suppose so. But don’t you see, James, this may give us a lead on what he’s likely to do next.’
‘Why?’
‘Who’s the next person to be murdered in the Mary, Queen of Scots saga?’
The Laird pondered with infuriating slowness. ‘Well, I think actual murders are a bit thin on the ground after Darnley. There are plots and battles, but I don’t think any more major figures were actually murdered.’
‘None at all?’
‘No. Well, not until Mary herself had her head cut off. There are a lot of Scots who still regard that as a murder.’
Charles sprang to his feet with a feeling of nausea in his throat. ‘No! I must get to the Lawnmarket.’ All he could think of was the fact that among other weapons in the Nicholson Street flat the police had found a meat cleaver.
He was so relieved to see Anna open the door of the flat that it took a moment before he realised the situation’s inherent awkwardness. She looked at him and the Laird without emotion. ‘Good morning.’
Urgency overcame Charles’ embarrassment. ‘Have you seen Martin?’
‘Yes.’
‘What, here?’
‘Yes, he was here.’
‘When?’
‘He left about half an hour ago.’
‘And how long had he been here?’
A hard look came into the navy blue eyes. ‘Listen, if you’re playing another of your elaborate games-’
‘I’m not. This is serious. We’ve got to find Martin. He’s in a dangerous state.’
‘Certainly in a strange state. He was babbling on about the police being after him or something.’
‘That’s true.’
‘Why?’
‘They want him for the murder of Willy Mariello and the attempted murder of Charles Paris.’
Her mouth fell open and an expression of frozen horror came over her face. Charles realised it was the first spontaneous reaction he had ever seen from her.
‘Where is he now?’
‘I don’t know, Charles. He came here last night in an awful state and begged to stay. I thought he was mad, so I didn’t argue.’
‘Just as well. I think you were next on his list.’
‘What?’ She started to cry with shock, and looked human and ugly. But Charles did not have time to notice. ‘Have you any idea where he was going?’
‘No, but he was dressed up.’
‘Disguised?’
‘Yes. I thought he was joking when he suggested it, but he was so fierce and insistent that I let him have the stuff.’
‘What stuff?’
‘A smock and a handbag of mine. And a curly dark wig I’ve got. And my sunglasses.’
‘He was wearing all that when he left?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thank you.’ He turned to rush away.
‘Charles?’ she whispered.
‘Yes.’
‘Do you think he really might have murdered me?’
‘Yes, Anna. I do.’
As he ran down the steps from Lady Stair’s Close towards Waverley Station, he knew it was a long chance, but he could not think of anywhere else to go. If Martin wanted to get out of Edinburgh, that was the quickest way. Charles had a feeling that there was a London train at two o’clock. In twenty minutes.
The cold sweaty feeling of his hangover mixed with the hot sweaty feeling of running. Ambling tourists turned bewildered faces towards the middle-aged man pelting down the road in the calm of a Sunday afternoon. James Milne was a long way behind him, doing the ungainly penguin run of a man with things in his pockets.
Charles sped down the taxi-ramp into Waverley Station and halted in the sudden cool shade, gasping to get his breath. Then he moved slowly towards Platform 1/19 where the London train would leave. It had not yet arrived.
He stalked along the railings that ran the length of the platform and peered through at the passengers, who stood waiting with their luggage. They all looked extremely ordinary. He walked on. The women were very womanly.
He stopped and looked at one back view again. The clothes were right. Red smock, blue jeans, curly hair, handbag dangling casually from one hand. It must be.
But he hesitated. There was something so feminine about the stance. And no trace of anxiety.
But it must be. Martin’s chameleon-like ability to take on another personality would enable him to stand differently, to think himself so much into the part that he was a woman. Any actor could do it to a degree and a psychopath could do it completely.
Charles moved with organised stealth. He bought a platform ticket and walked through the barrier. Then he advanced slowly towards the ‘woman’. People peered along the line and started to gather up their luggage. The train was coming. He quickened his pace.
