dormitory. The Laird’s flat was locked and silent. In fact Charles was relieved; his mind was too full for serious rehearsal.
Still, as a gesture of good faith, he tucked his script and Hood’s Collected Poems under his arm before he set off into the city. It was a warm afternoon and only five o’clock. There were lots of places to sit and study in Edinburgh-Princes Street Gardens, the Castle, or it might even be worth a stroll down to Arthur’s Seat. He weighed the possibilities, but was not surprised when he went straight into the nearest pub and ordered a large whisky.
He sat hunched at the bar and realised that he could not put off thinking any longer. And the one thought which he had been holding back for nearly two days resolved itself clearly in his mind.
Whatever the police thought, Willy Mariello had been murdered.
Charles could not forget the expression in those brown eyes during the Truth Game, when Willy had spoken of finding out something about someone that he would rather not know. There had been pain in that look, but also there had been fear, even horror. Whatever it was that he had found out it was nasty. Nasty enough for someone to commit murder to keep it quiet.
Charles had tried to express this suspicion to the detective who took his statement, but he knew the man did not take it seriously. Somehow the words had not come out right. ‘It was a moment of such concentration… I could see such fear in his eyes… It made me feel a sense of danger…’ The further he got into it, the more tenuous the idea seemed and the more Charles knew he sounded like an effete actor emoting. In spite of polite assurances about complete investigations, that was obviously what the detective took him for. By the time he got to Charles, he had probably had a bellyful of the ‘vague feelings’ and ‘premonitions’ of self-dramatising students.
And, objectively, it did sound pretty nonsensical. Charles, whose normal thought processes involved reducing everything he did to the absurd and seeing if there was anything left, was surprised that the conviction remained so strong. But it did. It was an instinct he could not deny.
Facing the fact that Willy had been murdered led automatically to the question of what should be done about it. Charles had done his duty as a citizen by voicing his suspicions, and it was quite possible that the police were already way ahead of him, working on investigations of their own. He was no longer involved.
But involvement does not cease like that. It was easy enough for James Milne to say he wanted to forget about it; he had not sat opposite Willy in the Truth Game, he had not been present at the killing.
Charles knew he had to get to the bottom of it. He recalled an earlier occasion when he had come up against crime, in the case of Marius Steen. Then he had been forced into involvement by circumstance; this time he was making a positive decision. He was not driven by any crusading fervour for the cause of justice, but he knew he would not feel at peace until he had found out all the facts.
And the only facts he had were that Willy Mariello had found out something unpleasant about one of the people involved with the Derby University Dramatic Society in Edinburgh. And that he had subsequently been killed by a dagger in the hand of Martin Warburton.
No more facts. Now on to feelings. Charles had a strong feeling that the one person who did not kill Willy was Martin Warburton. Unless he were a lunatic or playing some incredibly devious game of his own, no one would commit a premeditated murder in front of thirty people, under stage lights, with a photographer on hand. And unless Charles’ suspicions about the motive were wrong, the murder was premeditated.
The elimination of Martin still left about forty suspects. Any of the students themselves or of the hangers-on who surrounded the D.U.D.S. could have switched one of the treated knives for a real one, and so stood a reasonable, though not infallible, chance of killing Willy Mariello.
Charles ordered another large whisky. A little mild investigation was called for.
Things could not have worked out better when he returned to Coates Gardens. Pam Northcliffe was in the dining-room alone mixing porridge to roughcast Pyramus and Thisbe’s wall. The cooks of the day were clattering about in the kitchen preparing a dinner whose main ingredient smelled like cabbage.
Pam looked up, red-eyed and guilty when he entered. ‘Hello.’
‘Hi. Feeling better?’
‘Yes.’ Spoken with determination.
‘I was going down to the pub for a drink and looking for someone to join me. Do you fancy it?’
‘What? Me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I…’ She wiped a porridgy hand on the back of her jeans, adding another streak to the existing collage. ‘All right.’
A half of lager for Pam and, since he was now thirsty, a pint of ‘heavy’ for Charles. ‘How are the props? Coming together?’
‘I think so. I’m spending over my budget on them.’
‘D.U.D.S. will find the money.’
‘I hope so.’ She spoke with great care, as if the accumulated tension inside her might break out at the slightest provocation.
Charles knew that discussion of Willy’s death might be exactly that sort of provocation. But it was what he had to investigate. He approached obliquely. ‘Everyone settling down a bit now.’
‘Yes, I suppose so. All too busy to think about it.’
‘That’s a blessing.’
‘Yes.’ Silence. Charles tried to think how he could get her back on to the subject without causing too much pain. But fortunately he did not have to. She seemed anxious to talk it out of her system without prompting. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever get over it. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen someone dead.’
‘It is nasty. But you do forget.’
‘I mean, you see it on films, and on the box and it all… well, it doesn’t seem important. But when you actually see…’ Her lower lip started to quiver.
‘Don’t talk about it.’
As Charles hoped, she ignored his advice. ‘And the trouble is.. apart from just the shock and things, I feel responsible. I mean, I was in charge of the props, so I must have got the knives mixed up.’
‘Do you really think you did?’
‘Oh Lord, I just don’t know now. I would have said definitely not. I remember counting them before I put them in my carrier bag. The police asked me all this and, you know, at the end I couldn’t remember what I’d done. You think so much about something, after a time you just don’t know what’s true any more…’
‘I know what you mean.
‘And it’s so stupid, because I shouldn’t have done the knives like that anyway. Michael Vanderzee told me what he wanted, and I thought the best thing would be to get real knives with hollow handles and unscrew them and take the blades out. And Michael said that was daft and expensive and I should have improvised and…’ Her voice wavered with the remembered rebuke. ‘It’s the first time I’ve done props. And I got it all wrong. If I hadn’t done the knives that way, Willy would still be alive.’
Charles did not feel so certain of that. He felt sure that if the knives had not been to hand, the murderer would have found some other method. But it was not the moment to voice such suspicions. ‘Pam, you really mustn’t blame yourself. Even if you did mix the knives up. And it’s quite possible that you didn’t. Somebody else may have been playing about with them and made the mistake. I mean, presumably they were just lying round the house, so anyone could get at them?’ He left the question hanging disingenuously in the air.
‘Yes. I suppose so.’
‘Toy knives have a fascination for people. Anyone might have started fooling around with them. How long were they there?’
‘I was up late finishing them on Monday night. And I left them out on the table till the next morning.’
‘Why? So that the paint could dry?’
‘Yes, but it didn’t actually. I got some awful oily lacquer that stayed sticky for ages.’
‘Was the real knife with the others?’
‘Yes, it was. You see, it was daft, but I was sort of rather proud of the ones I’d made because they did look so realistic. So I left them all out on the table.’
‘So that people would see them when they came down to breakfast?’
‘Yes.’ She looked sheepish. ‘I haven’t made lots of things and I thought they looked good.’
