Thus Pleasure oft eludes our grasp
Just when we think to grip her;
And hunting after Happiness,
We only hunt a slipper.
Two things were clear. One, a confrontation with Anna was now unavoidable. And two, he could not face that confrontation himself. He still treasured a hope that everything would be all right, that there was an innocent explanation for the disturbing chain of events that his logic was joining up. And, if his suspicions proved unfounded, he did not want to let them blight his budding relationship with the girl. There was too much at risk. She was the first woman to touch his emotions for years.
He considered the possibilities of disguise, but rejected them. As an actor, he was capable of convincing physical transformations, and he had used disguise before to gain information. But then he had not been trying to hide his identity from people he knew; here he would be trying to fool a girl he had been sleeping with. No disguise would work at close quarters under those circumstances. Even the varied wardrobe of Edinburgh’s many old clothes shops and the wizardry of film make-up with foam rubber padding, latex masks and coloured contact lenses would not stand close scrutiny.
He regretted that he could not use the excitement of dressing up to take his mind off the depressing tracks it was moving along. And, like most actors, he found it easier to perform difficult tasks in character than as himself. He visualised appearing to Anna in a total disguise, confirming her innocence by a few well-placed questions, then unmasking and making a joke of it.
But it was just a fantasy. He was being influenced by Martin Warburton and the strong attraction of channelling unpleasant parts of himself into another identity. The fact remained that dressing up would not work.
He contemplated interrogation by telephone. A disembodied voice could be convincingly disguised. But that introduced the problem of an identity. Who would Anna be likely to give information to in a telephone conversation? There were only two answers-someone she knew or a policeman. The first was out and Charles did not feel inclined to risk the second. On a previous occasion he had had it pointed out to him that impersonation of a policeman is a serious offence. And if Anna did have something criminal to hide, the last person she would tell about it was an investigating officer of the law. What was needed was an interrogator who had some other justifiable reason for meeting her and who could introduce relevant questions into the conversation with some pretence at casual enquiry.
Which meant an accomplice. It was Wednesday. Gerald Venables should be back from his weekend in Cannes. Charles rang his Grosvenor Street office from a call-box in the Royal Mile.
Gerald was back. ‘How’s the sleuth-work going, Charles?’
‘I don’t know really. I might be on to something.’
‘Anything I can do?’ There was immediate excitement in the voice. Gerald, who spent his entire life dealing with the peccadilloes of contract-breaking in his show-business legal firm, was fascinated by what he called ‘real’ crime. He had a Boy’s Own Paper enthusiasm for anything shady. ‘Wills to check out, blood samples to analyse, stool pigeons to third degree, hit-men to rub out? You name it, I’ll do my best.’
Charles wished he could share this detective fiction relish for the case; it all seemed depressingly real to him. ‘There is something you can do for me. I’m afraid it involves coming up to Edinburgh.’
‘That’s all right. One of my clients is in the Actors’ Company Tartuffe. There’s a film contract on the way for him. I could arrange to have to come up and discuss it.’
‘Is it urgent?’
‘No. But he’s not to know that.’
‘You mean he’s going to be footing your bill?’ Charles had to remonstrate on behalf of a fellow actor.
‘Don’t worry. You should see the money they’re paying him for the movie. And he can set me against tax. Really I’m doing him a service.’
‘Hmm.’ There was never any point in arguing with Gerald on money, it was a subject he had made his own. ‘Look, how soon do you think you can get up?’
‘If Polly can fix me a flight, I’ll be up this evening.’ It was typical of Gerald that he would not insult his client’s money by contemplating rail travel.
But it was good from Charles’ point of view. ‘Good. If you can make it, there’s a revue I’d like you to see at eleven o’clock. Oh, and could you bring one of your little cassette recorders?’
‘Conversation you want to tape?’
‘That’s it.’
‘Secretly?’
‘Exactly. Do you think you’ll be able to make it tonight?’
‘Do my best. Can I ring you back?’
‘No, I’m in a call-box.’
‘Ring me again in an hour and I’ll tell you what gives.’
Charles had decided that he could not face another night with Anna until his suspicions had been exorcised. Then, he kept telling himself, then we can bounce back together again and it’ll be even better. Maybe he’d stay in Edinburgh longer than his week. Maybe even away from Edinburgh they could…
But not till this was sorted out.
He left the call-box and went down Cockburn Street to the Accommodation Bureau. He picked up his bag from Coates Gardens and by five o’clock was installed with Mrs Butt in the Aberdour Guest House in Dublin Street, booked for two nights.
He rang Gerald’s office from Mrs Butt’s pay-phone. Polly’s efficiency had worked wonders and her boss was already in a taxi on the way to Heathrow. He would reach the Princes Street terminal in a coach from Edinburgh (Turnhouse) Airport at about ten.
The next move involved seeing Anna. After a couple of bracing whiskies in a Rose Street pub, he went back to Coates Gardens, where, as he anticipated, another cabbage dinner was drawing to its blancmangy end. He signalled to Anna, who left the table discreetly and met him in the empty hall.
The lie slipped out easily. ‘Look, I’m sorry. Can’t come tonight. An old friend called Alastair Newton came to see the show at lunch time. He’s invited me to dinner at his place. It’s some way outside Edinburgh, so he suggested I stay the night there and he’ll give me a lift in in the morning. It’s a bugger, but I can’t really get out of it.’
Anna looked disappointed, which did not make the deception any easier. Then she grinned. ‘I could do with some sleep, anyway.’
He grinned too. She was beautiful and the navy blue eyes looked so open and honest, he wished the script of the last few days could be rewritten and all the promptings of suspicion cut out. He felt confident that it would be all right. Probably they would even be able to laugh about it afterwards.
‘But tomorrow…’ he hazarded, ‘be O.K. if I come round after the revue as per usual?’
‘As per usual. Of course.’ There was a lot of warmth in her voice. But she was still discreet and did not want them to be seen together. ‘Better get back.’
As she turned to go, he took her hand and leant forward to kiss her. Their lips came together.
A creak on the stairs from the basement made Charles recoil guiltily. Anna as usual kept her cool and glanced towards the person who was staring at them. She looked back at Charles. ‘See you then, then.’ With unruffled poise she went back to the dining-room. Martin Warburton stood aside to let her pass, looked at Charles, gave one of his abrupt laughs and hurried out of the front door, slamming it behind him.
It didn’t matter. Anna was the one who wanted to keep the affair quiet, and somebody was bound to twig sooner or later.
Charles remembered that he had left his toothbrush in the first-floor bathroom. On the landing he met James Milne hurrying angrily downstairs. ‘Oh hello, Charles. I’ve spoken to them before about slamming that door. Not only is it bad for the actual door, it also disturbs the neighbours and I get complaints. Did you see who it was?’
‘It was Martin Warburton.’
‘Ah.’ The Laird’s tone changed from angry to confidential. ‘Actually I wanted to talk to you about Martin Warburton. Come upstairs and have a drink.’
‘Have to be quick. I’ve got to go out to dinner.’ It was important to maintain the lie.
‘Won’t take long.’
More malt in the leather-bound library. The Laird stood by his marble mantlepiece to give drama to his pronouncement. ‘Further to our discussion about Martin’s disguise, I followed him this morning.’
‘From here?’
‘Yes, all the way to Nicholson Street as you described. I waited and he came out with the beard and what have you, and then I followed him again. Guess where he went this time?’
‘Not a clue.’ Charles found it difficult to get excited about Martin’s bizarre doings. He had decided that they were irrelevant to the investigation.
‘The Palace of Holyroodhouse,’ said James Milne dramatically. ‘Now why should he go to the National Portrait Gallery and Holyrood in disguise?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe he’s embarrassed about being a tourist.’
This flippant answer was not well received by the Laird who thought that Martin was definitely the murderer. Charles wished he could share that simple faith; it would be a relief from the forbidding tangle of thoughts that filled his head. But he did not feel inclined to tell his confidant what he knew. It would be better to play along with this Martin theory.
James Milne elaborated. ‘I think there’s some strange tie-up in his mind. It’s all connected with the Mary, Queen of Scots story, I’m sure. Rizzio was only the first of a sequence of murders of people close to that particular lady.’
‘I’m a bit hazy about the details of her life. I just remember that she was very tall and when they executed her they lifted the head up and her wig came off.’
‘What unusual details you pick on, Charles. I’m sure one of your psychologists would have something to say about the selective processes of your mind. But let me tell you, there’s quite a lot more significant stuff in the unfortunate queen’s story. I know it fairly well-as a schoolboy I spent one long wet holiday at Glenloan reading everything available on the subject. As you probably know, Mary was the daughter of James V of Scotland and Mary of Guise-’
Charles was in no mood for a schoolmaster’s lecture. Worry made him less tolerant than usual. ‘James, I’m sorry. I do have to go.
‘Well, let me lend you a book on the subject. I won’t give you one of my heavy schoolboy tomes. But there’s Antonia Fraser’s biography. Popular, but none the worse for that.’ His mental catalogue took him straight to the right volume on the shelf.
Charles was eager to leave now. He reached out for the book with muttered thanks, but James Milne kept hold of it and said with a twinkle, ‘If I might quote from the Great Unknown, Sir Walter Scott, “Please return this book; I find that though many of my friends are poor arithmeticians, they are nearly all good bookkeepers.” Not a bad joke, considering the source.’
Charles smiled politely and managed to leave. He was in no mood for swapping literary references. He found a pub in Dundas Street where he was unlikely to meet any of the D.U.D.S. and whiled away the time till Gerald’s arrival with the co-operation of Bell’s Whisky, Ltd.
The solicitor arrived at the terminal immaculate in a Prince of Wales check three-piece suit. He carried an overnight bag that looked like a giant pigskin wallet and obviously contained the neatly pressed shirt and pyjamas of a travel advertisement. ‘Hello, buddy. Wise me up on the gen.’
Charles cringed at the number of thrillers Gerald must have read, and suggested that they talk in a pub.
‘Why not in the hotel bar? Then I can check in and dump the bag.’
‘Which hotel?’
‘The North British.’ It had to be. Typical of Gerald. Polly had managed to fix it, and somehow the client would manage to pay for it.
Posh hotels were not Charles’ usual style, but whisky’s whisky anywhere. They sat in a dark corner and Gerald leant towards him conspiratorially. ‘O.K. Spill the beans,’ he whispered unsuitably.
‘Listen, is your firm engaged in any big film productions at the moment?’
‘We always are. Setting up a colossal Hudson movie out in Spain. Starts filming in September if we get the contracts sorted out.’
‘Have you got a stake in it?’
‘The firm has.’ The answer was discreet. Gerald never admitted his dabbling in film production, though it was common knowledge that he doubled his already considerable income by judicious investment.
‘So it wouldn’t be too difficult for you to pose as a film producer?’
‘It would hardly be a pose,’ he replied smugly, and then realised that this was tantamount to an admission of financial interest in films. ‘That is, I’m sure I could manage.’
‘Right. What I want you to do is to go to a revue called Brown Derby at the Masonic Hall in Lauriston Place. It starts at eleven. Now there’s a girl in that show called Anna Duncan. She’s a good actress, but even if you don’t think so, I want you to go round after the performance, introduce yourself as a film producer, say you’d like to talk to her about various ideas and would it be possible to meet for lunch tomorrow.’ His treachery tasted foul on his tongue, but it was necessary. He had to know.
Gerald’s eyes were sparkling with excitement. ‘And tomorrow?’
‘You take her out for lunch. I’ll fill you in on what to ask her.’
‘O.K. And that’s the conversation you want recorded?’
Charles nodded. ‘If it can be done.’
‘No sweat.’ The colloquialism again seemed to run counter to the Prince of Wales check. ‘Do you think I should use a pseudonym?’
‘Don’t see why you shouldn’t use your own name. If you don’t mind.’
‘No, of course not.’ He was a little crestfallen at losing this dramatic element, but brightened again immediately. ‘Is this girl Anna Duncan your Number One Suspect?’
Charles could not bring himself to answer that question, even in his own mind. ‘I wouldn’t say that. Just need some information from her, that’s all. But it’s difficult for me to get it myself.’
‘Aren’t you going to give me all the details of the case so far?’
‘Tomorrow. There’s no time now. You’ve got to get to the revue.’
They made a rendezvous for the next morning and Charles went back to the Aberdour Guest House. A half-bottle of Bell’s did not go far enough and he spent a long miserable night with patches of sleep.
Daylight did not speed time up much, and Gerald’s arrival at Dublin Street at half-past ten added another delay to the programme. Anna had a tight rehearsal schedule for Mary and would not have much of a break for lunch. The assignation had therefore become a dinner date, which extended the agony of waiting by eight hours. Apart from that, all had gone well the previous evening.
Charles then gave Gerald an edited version of the events surrounding Willy Mariello’s death and indicated the information he required, with some hints as to what he considered the most effective way of doing it. He hoped that he was judging Anna’s character right, and that she would respond in the way he anticipated. But all the time he felt increasingly despicable for the elaborate deception.
At one fifteen he did a performance of So Much Comic, So Much Blood without thinking about it. The audience had swelled to nearly eighty and seemed appreciative, but he hardly noticed. He even had a discussion with some dreary Welsh academic about whether Hood’s work contained High Moral Seriousness, but only the reflexes of his mind were working. The rest of it was churning with guilt and anxiety.
In the afternoon he tried to pull himself together and entertain thoughts of the other possibilities of the case. What he should really do was to retrace Martin Warburton’s visit to Holyrood and see if it prompted any ideas. But even as he thought of it, he knew he could not be bothered. All his thoughts centred on Anna.
As he meandered through the city, he met Frances sitting on a bench in Princes Street Gardens. She had managed to lose Candy and Jane on a sightseeing coach tour of Edinburgh, and was appreciating the break. Charles knew she could tell he was upset, but he refused to unburden himself to her. He knew she would be understanding and reassuring. That was her most infuriating quality, the way she understood him. It was an option he did not want to take. Guilt about Frances joined the mess of unpalatable thoughts in his head.
He hardly listened to what she said. Most of it was about Candy and Jane, the shows they had seen, how exhausting she was finding it, how she’d need a proper holiday after this, how she even thought of staying up in Scotland for a few days to recuperate after the girls had gone. Charles sat, half-hearing and restless. Suddenly he created an appointment and rose. They made vague plans to meet for dinner in the next couple of days when he was clearer about his movements, and he slouched off, not daring to look back at the pain in her eyes.
It was still a long time till the pubs. He approached a cinema, but when he got there changed his mind and continued his aimless perambulation.
At last five o’clock arrived. The whisky did not work. It was as if he had a heavy cold and was numb to its powers. Half past seven came and he thought painfully of Gerald and Anna meeting in the Cosmo Ristorante in North Castle Street. He felt powerless, as if he was watching an accident from too far away to prevent it.
It was nearly ten o’clock when Mrs Butt grudgingly admitted Gerald Venables to the Aberdour Guest House. He was flushed with excitement or wine and carrying a briefcase which contained his cassette recorder. ‘Got a specially long tape. I don’t know what the quality will be like. I could only put the case on the table and hope for the best.’
Charles was not in the mood for talking. ‘Let’s hear it.’
Gerald produced the recorder with all the pride of a schoolboy showing his Cycling Proficiency Certificate. He switched the machine on and wound the tape back. Then, as it started, he fiddled with the dials to get the optimum sound.
The quality was not bad. Gerald’s own voice was distant because the microphone had been pointing away from him, but he filled in where his original questions were inaudible. There was a lot of interference from dishes being delivered and cutlery clattering, but most of Anna’s answers were perfectly clear. Charles got a strange frisson from hearing her voice. It was not attraction exactly, and it was not guilt, but a mixture of emotions he had never encountered before.
The tape started with an amusing dialogue between Gerald and the waiter, who felt certain that Signor would prefer to put his case on the floor. This was followed by the detailed business of ordering. Gerald did not stint himself, and, encouraged by example, nor did Anna. The client in the Actors’ Company was certainly going to pay for advice on his film contract.
After these preliminaries, Gerald started explaining why he was in Edinburgh. As a film producer, he was setting up a new movie, meeting some of the other backers, enjoying the Festival… and possibly even doing a bit of casting.
Anna’s reaction to this was non-committal and Charles began to feel redoubled guilt. If she were innocent what he and Gerald were doing was unforgivable. No aspiring actress should have her hopes manipulated in such a way.
Gerald’s distant voice then started to outline the plot of the film he was setting up, according to their plan. He dropped a few suitably substantial names and spoke airily of the locations in Spain and Finland. In fact, it was not all untrue; it was based closely on the film that he really was setting up. The only bit that was complete fabrication was that one part remained uncast. The part of a young girl, whose lover (a considerable film star was playing the part), a terrible lout, treats her cruelly and is stabbed to death halfway through the film. ‘Of course,’ purred the distant voice, ‘that’s going to be really difficult, that’s the bit that’ll call for real acting. The girl’s got to express this complex emotion when he’s killed. She knows he’s a slob, but… tricky. I think they should go for Diana Rigg or someone of that stature, but the director’s got this crazy idea about finding an unknown. He must’ve read too many film magazines.’
The first course was delivered. Gerald expertly checked the wine and the sound of Niagara Falls showed that Anna’s glass had been adjacent to the microphone. Nothing much happened for a while except for eating and pleasantries. The waiting was purgatory for Charles. Then Gerald’s voice resumed its tactics. ‘I’m sorry. All this talk of people being stabbed. I read in the papers about that terrible accident in your group. I shouldn’t talk about it.’
‘It’s all right.’ Anna’s voice came through, very clear and controlled. But was the control genuine, or was there just a fraction too much, a hint of acting?
Gerald continued apologising. ‘No, I’m sorry. Shouldn’t have mentioned it. It’s just that that kind of thing’s such a shock. You must have all felt that. But think how much more terrible it must be if the person who dies is a lover or someone close. It doesn’t bear thinking of.’
‘No. It’s terrible.’ Charles tried to prise apart the layers of intonation to understand what she meant. Was she rising to the bait? He was torn between the desire to vindicate her and the intellectual satisfaction of having his psychological approach proved right.
Gerald’s voice went on, more subdued than ever. ‘That’s the trouble. Every tragedy leaves someone behind. I suppose this… Mariello, was that his name?… I suppose he had a girl somewhere.. oh, it’s ghastly…’
‘Yes, he had a girl…’ There was no question about the way she said the line. She played it subtly, wasting none of her talent for drama. But its meaning was undeniably clear. Charles Paris understood that meaning and understanding hurt like physical pain.
Gerald’s recorded reactions were unnecessary, but the tape ploughed relentlessly on. ‘You mean… you?’
‘Yes. Willy and I were lovers.’ The voice was very soft, genuinely moving. There was a long intake of breath and a sob. ‘Were… lovers.’
‘I’m so sorry. I had no idea. I wouldn’t have raised the matter if I’d had an inkling…’ Gerald’s lying protestations continued and Anna’s tearful assurances that she had got over it mingled with them. She was playing the scene for all it was worth.
Her unfinished antipasta was taken away and she calmed down sufficiently for the gentle questioning to begin again. ‘That must have been absolutely terrible for you. To be there and… oh, I’m sorry. And it wasn’t that you had been lovers? I mean, you still were right at the end?’
There was a long pause which Charles interpreted as Anna being thrown by the question and not knowing which way to jump. Eventually, the voice came back, quiet, but well projected. ‘Yes, right at the end.’
‘Good God.’ The shock sounded genuine. Gerald had played his part well too. ‘You’ve been thrown into almost exactly the same situation as the girl in this film. It’s amazing.’ Charles no longer felt guilty about the deceit. Guilt was being forced out of his mind by swelling anger as he listened to Gerald laying the next snare. ‘Bereavement is an awful thing. It’s so difficult to explain to anyone what you really feel, the true nature of your emotions.
‘And of course it’s even more complex for the girl in this film. Her lover is, as I said, not very loving. A real bastard, in fact, keeps doing crazy things, cruel things, criminal things. I think the character’s overdrawn. No woman would stay with a man like that.’
‘I don’t know…’ Again just a simple remark infused with all the art her considerable talent could muster.
‘But surely…’
‘What, all that not speaking ill of the dead business? Why should I worry? He’s dead, and when he was alive, it was not his goodness I loved him for. I knew his faults. He could be cruel, oh yes, and evil.’ She was warming to her performance. ‘He’d do crazy things. Wicked things, and he’d say he’d done them for me.’
Gerald had only to grunt interest; she needed no prompting. ‘I mean, take an example. Recently, he nearly killed someone for me. Yes.’ She let the drama of it sink in. ‘There was a girl in our group who would have been in the revue. She had the part I’m playing. And one day I must have said to Willy that I envied her. I don’t mean I was jealous; she was a sweet girl, I liked her-but I must have said what a super part she had or something. And do you know what Willy did?’
‘No,’ said Gerald, on cue.
‘He pushed her down some stone steps.’
‘Good God.’
‘Yes. It was so cruel. No, I’m sorry, you were wrong when you said I didn’t know what it was like to love a bastard. I do, to my cost.’
Charles rose suddenly and switched off the machine.
‘She really was very moving,’ said Gerald. ‘Very. And you reckon this is all significant information? Cherchez la femme, that’s what they always say in detective stories. Frailty, thy name is woman. Is it Raymond Chandler who calls them frails?’
‘Is there much more?’ Charles snapped.
‘A couple of courses. She did perk up a bit after that.’
‘After she’d finished her audition.’
‘Yes, I suppose you could say that.’
‘I’ll spool through and see if there’s anything relevant.’
‘No, I’ll do it, Charles,’ said Gerald hastily. ‘Incredibly pretty girl, I must say. Sort of navy blue eyes. Do you know her well?’
‘I thought I did.’
‘Oh.’ Understanding dawned. ‘Oh.’ Gerald busied himself spooling on and playing snatches of the tape. It was mostly general talk about films and the theatre. At one point Charles’ ears pricked up.
‘… had a lot of experience acting?’ asked Gerald’s voice.
‘Yes. Only at university level, of course.’
‘But you want to go into the professional theatre?’
‘Oh yes. I’ve had one or two offers.’
‘What sort of thing?’
‘Well, I’ve been asked to play Hedda Gabler at the Haymarket, Leicester…’
‘The cow!’ Charles shouted inadequately. With the unquestionable logic of the last piece of a jigsaw puzzle, his own role in the proceedings dropped into place. He was just a prop in the oldest theatrical scene of all-the casting couch.
Gerald spooled on and started playing another extract. ‘Well, as you know, from last night,’ said Anna’s voice, ‘the show comes down about twelve fifteen and-’ He stopped the tape abruptly.
‘What was that?’ asked Charles.
‘Nothing.’
‘Switch the damned thing on!’ Gerald was powerless against this outburst of fury and sheepishly pressed the button. Anna’s voice continued, ‘We could meet after that if you like.’
‘I’m at the North British down on Princes Street. If you meet me in the foyer, say twelve thirty…’ Gerald grinned weakly at the sound of his own voice.
‘O.K. See you then.’ Anna’s tone was poisonously familiar.
Charles switched off the recorder and turned to his friend. ‘Ah,’ said Gerald, ‘now don’t get the wrong impression. What I thought was, if you were planning a confrontation with her, you d want to know where she was, and I thought that’d be handy. I mean, for heaven’s sake, you didn’t think that I’d…? I mean, I’m a married man. Kate and I have a perfect relationship and…’
He was still mumbling apologetically as Charles stormed out of the room.
At first he just walked furiously without noticing where he was going, but eventually calmed down enough to think of what his next step should be. It was midnight and now a confrontation with Anna was unavoidable. All the delicate feelings which had held him back before had been driven out by anger.
He knew her movements well by now. At twelve fifteen the show came down; he could meet her then at the Masonic Hall. Or he could go back to her flat to wait. But a perverse masochism made him reject both possibilities. At twenty past twelve he took up his position outside the North British Hotel. He leant against the corner of the building, at the top of the steps down to Waverley Station, and prayed she would not come. That at least would spare him the final twist of the knife in his wound. The idea of her deceiving him with Gerald was the most intolerable of all the foul thoughts he was suffering. He would wait till a quarter to one and then go up to the flat.
At twelve thirty she came. He heard the clack of heels and saw the familiar figure walking purposefully along Princes Street towards him. She was wearing the pale yellow shirt with fox-trotting dancers on it and the velvet trousers she had worn when he first took her out to dinner. That made it worse.
As she came close, he shrugged his back off the wall and stepped forward to face her. The pain was too intense for him to find words. He just stood there, rocking on his heels.
Anna did a slight take on seeing him, but when she spoke, her voice was even. ‘Charles. Hello. I thought we’d arranged to meet up at the flat.’
He managed to grunt out, ‘Yes’.
‘It’s just as well I’ve seen you actually, because I won’t be there till later. I’ve got to meet someone in the North British.’
He almost felt respect for the directness of her explanation until the lie followed. ‘It’s an aunt of mine who’s up in Edinburgh very briefly.’
‘You’re visiting your aunt at twelve thirty a.m.?’
‘Yes. I’ve been rehearsing all day, so there hasn’t been another opportunity. I’ll get back to the flat as soon as I can.’ She smiled. It was the same smile, the one he had warmed to all week. He realised suddenly that Anna was a perfectly tuned machine. She had all the charm and skills of a human being and knew how to use them like a human being, but inside, controlling everything, was the cold computer of selfishness. Sex, emotions, other people were nothing but programmes to be fed in to produce correct results quickly. Charles knew that he could never again believe anything she said. She was not governed by ordinary principles of truth, but by the morality of advantage.
‘You’re lying,’ he said sharply. ‘You’re going to the North British to see Gerald Venables. You’re going to see him because you think he’s a big film producer and can help your career. In the same way that you slept with me because I direct plays, and with Willy Mariello because he was a pop star and might have useful contacts.’ He wished the accusations carried some dignity rather than sounding clumsy.
A spark of anger came into the navy blue eyes when she started to speak, but it was quickly smothered. Her voice kept its level tone. ‘I see. You set Gerald Venables up?’
‘Yes.’
‘And he isn’t really a film producer? The part he was talking about doesn’t exist?’
‘He is a sort of occasional film producer. But no, the part doesn’t exist.’
She flared. He had hit her where it hurt most, in the career. ‘That was a dirty trick.’
For a moment he almost felt a twinge of guilt until he reminded himself of the situation. Anna carried such conviction in her acting. She went on. ‘I suppose I should have realised that it was unwise to mix with old men. They only get clinging and jealous.’
That stung him. ‘Good God! Do you think I set all this up as some elaborate charade to test your affection for me?’ He almost shouted the words. A tweedy middle-aged couple who were passing turned curiously.
‘I can’t think of any other reason why you should do it.’
That sounded genuine, but then everything she said sounded genuine. Charles was not going to be stopped now. It was a time for truths. And accusations.
‘I set Gerald up to get certain information from you.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like the fact that you and Willy Mariello were lovers.’
‘So what? At least he was my age. You see, you are jealous. Jealous of someone who’s dead. Anyway, Willy and I were finished. It happened while we were in Derby. We thought it would continue while we were up here, but it didn’t.’
‘You told Gerald it did, right up to Willy’s death.’
‘Oh, you’ve been spying carefully. That wasn’t true. I just said that to sound more like the girl in the film.’
That again sounded plausible. The set-up may have been too heavy, and Anna may just have given any information that seemed likely to help her to the part. But Charles was not checked. ‘Did Willy want the affair to end?’
‘No. He got clinging too. Kept trying to win back my affections. But I’d outgrown him.’
‘How did he try to win back your affections?’
‘Silly things.’
‘Like pushing Lesley Petter down the steps by the Castle?’ That did shake her. There was a long pause before she replied. ‘Yes. I suppose that was an attempt to get me back.’
‘Did you suggest it?’
‘No, I did not!’ she snapped. ‘I may have mentioned that I was understudying her, that the parts she was playing were good ones, but no…’
Charles could imagine her ‘mentioning’ with all the innocence of Lady Macbeth. ‘Listen, Anna, you’re in serious trouble.’
‘What on earth do you mean?’
‘Murder is a serious business.’
‘What? Are you accusing me of murder?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re off your head. Whom am I supposed to have murdered?’
‘Willy.’
‘Good God.’ Now she really did look lost, stunned by the accusation. ‘It never occurred to me that he was murdered. And how in heaven’s name am I supposed to have done it? And why, for God’s sake?’
‘Why first. You incited Willy to nobble Lesley.’
‘That’s not true. It was his idea.’
‘Quite! He did it, thinking that you’d be grateful and bounce back into his arms. It gave him a hold over you and you were forced to go back to him.’
‘I didn’t.’
‘But then he became, as you say, clinging. He was a nuisance, he proved to be without influence in show business circles, but he was not easy to shake off because of your shared guilt over Lesley. So you killed him.’
She was staring at him now in frank amazement. ‘And how am I supposed to have done the murder?’
He recapitulated all the business of the knives lying unattended at Coates Gardens before the killing. ‘It was a long chance. The switch was likely to be discovered before the photo-call. But it might work. And it did.’
Anna gave a slight smile. ‘But surely, if, as you say, Willy and I were back together, I would have been sleeping at his place and gone straight to the Hall for rehearsal. I wouldn’t have gone to Coates Gardens at all during the relevant period.’
That was a blow to Charles’ logic. But she had lied so much that she might be lying over that as well. ‘You could have crept out in the night.’
‘Oh yes, informed by some psychic source that the knives were lying there?’
‘Yes,’ he asserted, conviction wavering.
‘Well, you’re wrong. I wasn’t sleeping with Willy. But I do have an alibi for the period. I spent that night in the Lawnmarket flat with someone else.’
‘Who?’
‘Its owner. A bloke called Lestor Wanewright. He was the reason I broke off with Willy. I met him out in Nice while I was on holiday. He has a villa there. We came back here together and he stayed until he had to return to London on business. That was on the morning of Willy’s death. Lestor went straight to Waverley Station and I went straight to the Masonic Hall for rehearsal.’
‘Why should I believe that?’
‘You can check it. Lestor works for his father in London. Wanewright’s, the merchant bank.’
‘But you took up with me only two days later.’
She shrugged. ‘Aren’t you flattered?’
‘No. You only wanted me for what I could do for you.’
‘Yes. I quite liked you too.’
‘Oh yes.’ There was no danger of his believing anything she said now. Except about Lestor Wanewright. That rang true. If she just wanted an alibi, she had got it with Charles’ own assumption that she had been with Willy (a flaw he had overlooked in his argument). The fact that she gave a checkable alibi with Lestor Wanewright meant it was true.
‘Goodbye. Charles. I don’t think we’ll see a lot of each other now.
‘No.’
She walked off, still brisk and purposeful. Lovely, but not human. Charles leant back against the North British Hotel wall and let the warring emotions inside him fight it out for themselves.
One thing he was sure of. Anna Duncan was a dishonest bitch and a whore. But she was not a murderer.