‘They did. Look very good.’ He almost added ‘Unfortunately’, but realised that might be tactless. ‘So then they were put away while people had breakfast?’
‘Yes, I put them in a carrier bag, and I thought I left the real one in a box with my scissors and sellotape and glue and all that rubbish.’
‘And they stayed in your carrier bag in the sitting-room till you brought them down to the hail at about three o’clock?’
‘Yes.’
‘So there was lots of time for anyone in the house to play around with them during the day and mix them up?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘You weren’t there during the morning?’
‘No, I had to go out to buy some cardboard and stuff.’
‘Well, I should think that’s what happened. Someone was fooling about with them on the Tuesday morning and mixed them up.’ It was not what he really meant, but Pam looked reassured. What he did mean was that the knives had been on show for every member of the company, that the murderer had realised their potential and arranged the switch when the sitting-room was empty at some point during the Tuesday morning. Then he had had to wait and see what happened. Which might well have been nothing. The chances were that someone would notice the real knife before the stabbing could take place, and the murderer would have to find another method. But the impatience of the photographer at the photo-call had given no one time to inspect their weapons closely.
Though the murder method was now clear, the identity of its deviser remained obscure. From Pam’s account, virtually anyone who was in the house on the Tuesday morning could have switched the knives. And that meant virtually every member of the D.U.D.S. company. Which in turn meant checking everyone’s movements. Which sounded a long, boring process.
‘Did you know Willy Mariello well?’ Charles tried another tack.
Pam blushed. ‘No, hardly at all.’
‘But you must have seen him round the University.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘During term-time. If he was involved in the Dramatic Society.’
‘Oh, but he wasn’t. He was nothing to do with the University.’
‘Then where did he come from?’
‘He used to play with Puce.’
‘What?’
‘The rock band. He was lead guitar. Until they broke up earlier this year. Oh, come on, you’ve heard of Puce.’
Charles had to confess he hadn’t.
They walked back to Coates Gardens together. Pam seemed calmer; she had almost recaptured her customary bounce. A nice girl. No beauty, but good-natured. Needed a man who appreciated her.
She was telling him about her parents’ home in Somerset as they entered the hall. At that moment Anna Duncan came out of the Office. ‘Hello,’ said Charles. She grinned.
Pam paused in mid-sentence: He realised his rudeness. ‘I’m so sorry. I… what were you saying?’
‘Oh, it wasn’t important. I’d better get on with my wall.’ And she disappeared gracelessly downstairs.
‘Taking other women out when you’ve already stood me up,’ said Anna with mock reproach.
‘I hardly think we’d have had a very relaxed dinner with policemen taking statements between courses.’
‘No, I didn’t mean it.’
‘Rehearsing tonight?’
‘Finishing at half past eight.’
‘Shall we pretend the last two days haven’t happened, and pick up where we left off?’
‘That sounds a nice idea.’
‘Shall I see you here?’
‘No. If Mike gives us another of his rolling about on the floor workshops, I’ll need to go back to the flat and have a quick bath.’
‘Well, let’s meet at the restaurant. Do you know L’Etoile?’
‘In Grindlay Street?’
‘That’s the one. I’ll book a table for half past nine. O.K.?’
‘Fine. I must get back upstairs and pretend to be a banana.’
‘Another of Michael Vanderzee’s wonderful ideas?’
‘Yes. The perception through inanimate transference of pure emotion.’
‘Wow.’
Anna grinned again and left. Charles knocked on the office door. If Brian was back, perhaps it would be possible to arrange some rehearsal time at the Masonic Hall.
The Company Manager was wearing another executive suit, this time a beige three-piece. Charles explained his requirements and was not wholly reassured by Brian’s assurance that he’d sort it out and the movement of some coloured strips on the wall-chart. There are certain sorts of efficiency which do not inspire confidence.
The efficiency had obviously been at work on the ‘What the Press says about D.U.D.S.’ board. It was smothered with cuttings about the death of Willy Mariello. The one person to have made a definite profit from the killing was the disgruntled Glaswegian photographer. He seemed to have sold the pictures to every newspaper in the country. Charles felt a frisson of shock at seeing the scene again. ‘You’re not actually going to use those as publicity?’
‘No,’ said Brian regretfully, ‘wouldn’t be quite the thing. Not to display them. Mind you, it is an amazing spread. It’s really fixed the name of D.U.D.S. in people’s minds. Better than any publicity stunt you could devise. I remember last year Cambridge staged something about pretending Elizabeth Taylor was in Edinburgh. They got a girl to dress up as her and so on. Quite a lot of coverage. But nothing like this.’
The note of unashamed satisfaction in Brian’s voice made Charles look at him curiously. Insensitivity of that order would be wasted in the Civil Service; he should try for advertising or television. ‘I’m sure Willy would be glad to think that his life was lost in the cause of full houses for the D.U.D.S.’
‘Yes, it’s an ill wind.’ Brian was impervious to irony.
‘One thing… I was interested to hear that Willy Mariello wasn’t a member of the University.’
‘No.’
‘How did he come to be involved in this then?’
‘I don’t know. I suppose he was a friend of someone.’
‘Who? Do you know?’
‘No. I don’t know any of them very well. I wasn’t in D.U.D.S. I was Chairman of Ducker.’
‘Ducker?’
‘D.U.C.A. Derby University Conservative Association.’
‘Oh.’
‘They only brought me into this because of my administrative ability.’
The men’s dormitory was mercifully empty and Charles managed an undisturbed run of So Much Comic, So Much Blood. He was encouraged to find how much he remembered. The intonation of the poems came back naturally and he began to feel the rhythm of the whole show. A bit more work and it could be quite good.
So he felt confident as he sat opposite Anna in the French restaurant in Grindlay Street. Her appearance contributed to his mood. The ‘quick bath’ back at her flat had included a flattering amount of preparation. Just- pressed pale yellow shirt with a silly design of foxtrotting dancers on it, beautifully cut black velvet trousers. Eyelashes touched with mascara, lip-coloured lipstick, cropped hair flopping with controlled abandon. All very casual, but carefully done.
‘I’m looking forward to seeing the show. I’m sorry, as I said, I don’t know anything about Hood.’
‘Not many people do.’
‘Was he Scottish?’
‘No. His father came from Dundee, but Thomas himself only went there a couple of times. Wasn’t very struck with it either. Particularly the cooking. “I sicken with disgust at sight of a singed sheep’s head. I cannot bring myself
