Even the bright extremes of joy
Bring on conclusions of disgust,
Like the sweet blossoms of the May,
Whose fragrance ends in must.
When the long night ended and light returned, Edinburgh had lost its charm. The bubbling spirits with which Charles had arrived had been ebbing for days and the previous evening’s events had finally flushed them away. Unsustained by hope and excitement, he felt tired and miserable. And above all, he felt stupid. He saw himself from the outside-a middle-aged man infatuated with a young girl, thinking she could halt the processes of time. He was a figure of fun from a Restoration comedy, the elderly dupe, no doubt dubbed with some unsubtle name like Sir Paltry Effort. The more he thought about the fantasies he’d had of himself and Anna, the way his mind had raced on, the more depressed he felt. Overnight his new lease of life had been replaced by an eviction order.
At about nine he rang Frances. He convinced himself he rang so early to catch her before she went out to the eleven o’clock concert of Mahler songs at Leith Town Hall; not because in his abject state he needed her understanding.
They fixed to meet for dinner, as if it were a casual arrangement. But she knew something had happened and he rang off curtly to stem the flow of sympathy down the phone. He was not ready for that yet.
Then there was Gerald to sort out. Charles did not want to lose a friend over some bloody woman at his age. He went to the North British and summoned the solicitor from a late breakfast.
Gerald came into the hotel foyer wiping his mouth and blushing vigorously. ‘Charles, hello,’ he said with manufactured bonhomie.
‘Hello. I came to thank you for last night.’
‘Oh… um. It was… er… nothing. I hope I got you the information you wanted.’
‘Yes. It proved I was on the wrong track.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’
‘Mind you, that was a relief in a way.’
‘Ah.’ Gerald looked at him in silence, uncertainly, as if he half-expected to be punched on the nose. ‘Look, old man, about the.. er… other business…’
‘Forgotten it already.’
‘Oh good. But, you know, it’s the sort of thing that… er.. well, it was just a joke, but it’s the sort of thing… I mean, the girl did seem to be virtually offering herself…’
‘I know.’
‘Yes. But it’s sort of… not the sort of thing to make jokes about. I mean, say you were at home… with us. Kate’s got a… you know… a rather limited sense of humour in some ways.
‘It’ll never be mentioned.’
‘Oh good.’ Relief flooded into Gerald and he seemed to swell to fill his expensive suit. ‘Care for a cup of coffee?’
When they were seated with their cups, the solicitor started asking about the case.
‘I don’t know,’ Charles replied despondently. ‘I was working on the theory that Anna had done it.’
‘Good God. I thought you just wanted information out of her.’
‘Otherwise you wouldn’t have been so anxious to lure her back to your bed?’
‘Charles! You said you wouldn’t mention it.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘So who’s the next suspect? Who are you going to turn the heat on now?’
‘God knows. I can’t think beyond Anna. All my other lines of enquiry are confused. Anyway, my last performance is tomorrow. Now all I want to do is get the hell out of Edinburgh.’
‘But what about the case?’
‘I don’t even know if there is a case. Suppose Willy Mariello died by an accident? That’s what everyone else thinks. Why shouldn’t they be right?’
‘But Charles, your instinct-’
‘Bugger my instinct. Look, even if it wasn’t an accident, who cares? No one’s mourned Willy much. One slob less, what does it matter if he was murdered? It’s certainly not my business.’
‘You mustn’t take that attitude.’
‘Why not?’ he snapped. ‘I’m an actor, not a detective. If I were a detective, I’d have been sacked years ago for incompetence. There are some things one can do and some one can’t. It’s just a question of recognising that fact before you make a fool of yourself. And I now know that I have as much aptitude for detective work as a eunuch has for rape.’
‘So you don’t think you’ll pursue the case?’
‘No.’
‘Hmm. I’m getting a plane back shortly.’
‘Yes. Well, thanks for your help.’
‘It was nothing.’
‘See you in London, Gerald.’
‘And if you change your mind, and do go on investigating, let me know how you get on.
‘Sure. Cheerio.’ Charles slouched out of the hotel.
Apparently he did a reasonable performance of So Much Comic, So Much Blood to an audience of one hundred and twenty at lunch time. He did not really notice it. All he was thinking was how soon he could get out of Edinburgh.
That involved tying up professional loose ends. Which meant a call on Brian Cassells at Coates Gardens. Charles hoped that the Mary cast were rehearsing at the Masonic Hall; he did not want to meet Anna Duncan. Ever again.
His hope proved justified. The house was unusually quiet. The Company Manager was in his office, as usual pressing Letraset on to sheets of paper. ‘Thought we might need a bit of puff for Who Now? Opens on Monday in your lunch time slot. Got to keep ahead in the publicity game or no one knows a show’s on.’
‘No, they don’t,’ said Charles pointedly, thinking of the publicity his show had got.
But irony was wasted on Brian. ‘I’ve changed “A Disturbing New Play” to “A Macabre and Bloody Exposition of Violence by Martin Warburton”. Pity I have to hint; I’d like to add “… who stabbed Willy Mariello”. That’d really bring the audience in. Still, the police are probably still investigating, so we may get some more publicity.’
Charles searched the Company Manager’s face for a trace of humour after this pronouncement, but it was not there. ‘ “Stabbed to death” rather implies a positive act, like murder, Brian. Doesn’t fit in with an accident.’
It was a half-hearted attempt to see if the average member of D.U.D.S. harboured any suspicions about Willy’s death. Brian obviously did not. ‘Oh, that’s just semantics. You mustn’t get too hung up on meaning, you’ve got to think of the impact of words.’
‘Hmm. Are you going into advertising?’
‘I might think of it if I don’t get this Civil Service job I’m up for.’
‘You’d be very good at it.’
‘Thank you.’ Again totally unaware that a remark could be taken two ways.
‘Actually I wanted to talk about money.’ They arranged that Brian would send a cheque to London when the miserable fifty per cent of the miserable box office was worked out. Charles was not expecting much; in fact he could work out exactly how much by simple arithmetic; but he preferred not to. That always left the possibility of a pleasant surprise.
But he knew the payment would not begin to cover his expenses. It hurt to think how much lavish meals for Anna figured on those expenses. The classic fall-guy, the duped sugar-daddy-he felt a wave of self-distaste.
Have to make some more money somehow. Maybe the B.B.C. P.A. s’ strike would soon be over and the telly series would happen. It was the first time he had thought outside Edinburgh since he arrived. A line echoed in his mind. ‘There is a world elsewhere.’ Was it Shakespeare? He could not recall. But it was melancholy and calming.
He hoped to leave Coates Gardens without meeting James Milne, but failed. So he was left with the unattractive prospect of Sherlock Holmes telling Dr Watson that he had given up investigation.
‘Anything new?’ the Laird hissed eagerly as they met in the hall. He swivelled his white head left and right in an elaborate precaution against eavesdroppers. Charles was getting sick of enthusiastic amateur sleuths-Gerald with his inept slang, James Milne with his melodramatic whispering.
‘No, not a lot.’ He tried unsuccessfully to make it sound as if that exhausted the subject.
‘You haven’t been following Martin again?’
‘No, I’ve… er… no.’ He had not mentioned any suspicions of Anna to his confidant and it seemed pointless to start just as the Dr Watson role was becoming redundant.
‘But you must have been following some line of investigation the last couple of days.’
‘Yes, I have, but I… don’t really want to talk about it.’
‘Something personal?’
‘Yes, I found it involved someone I knew well and…’ He hoped that might edge the conversation in another direction. The Laird’s old-fashioned values would surely respect a chap’s discretion about his private affairs. I mean, dash it all, when there’s a lady in the case…
But James Milne’s curiosity was stronger than his gentlemanly outlook. ‘And where are those suspicions leading you?’ he asked with some excitement.
‘Nowhere. Well, I mean they’ve led anywhere they’re going to lead. And produced nothing. I just want to forget about the case now.’
The Laird looked at him quizzically. ‘But you were so keen on it before. I mean, it was your idea that there was anything to investigate. And now you’ve managed to persuade me there’s something in it. You can’t just drop it.’
‘I can. I have.’
‘But don’t you think we ought to do some more investigation of Martin’s movements and behaviour?’
‘Sorry. I’ve lost interest.’
‘Oh. And you’re leaving tomorrow?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ah. Well, I’d better return your Hood.’ James Milne ignored Charles’ remonstrance that it didn’t matter, found the volume immediately and handed it over.
‘Enjoy it?’ Charles saw a way out of the awkwardness into the impersonal area of literary criticism.
‘Yes,’ came the morose reply.
‘Amazing feeling for words.’
‘Yes.’
‘There’s a lot of discussion as to whether it’s a purely comic gift. I mean, in some cases a pun does reinforce a serious statement. You know, like that line from A Friendly Address to Mrs Fry. “But I don’t like your Newgatory teaching.”’
‘Yes.’ The Laird responded in a predictably brighter tone.
Charles pressed home his advantage. ‘And some of the wholly serious poems aren’t bad. Did you try The Plea of the Midsummer Fairies?’
‘Yes. Sub-Keats, I thought.’
‘Right. But The Song of the Shirt’s O.K. if hackneyed, and The Bridge of Sighs is quite moving. And did you read The Dream of Eugene Aram?’
‘No,’ said the Laird, ‘I’ve never heard of it,’ and relapsed into gloom. Charles felt churlish for his proposed defection. He needed to soften the blow of his departure. ‘Look, let’s meet for a farewell drink in the morning. At the pub by the Masonic Hall. See you there about eleven. Before my last lunch time. O.K.?’
The Laird nodded, but he looked downcast and Charles felt that he had let the man down.
Dinner with Frances was refreshing in that, unlike Gerald Venables and James Milne, she did not encourage him to continue with his detective work. In fact, when he gave her a selective resume of his investigations, she positively discouraged him. Murder, in her view, was an extremely unpleasant business, and when inadvertently it did occur, it belonged by right to the police and not to untrained amateurs. It could be very dangerous. Although they were separated, Frances retained a maternal protective instinct for her husband. This regularly manifested itself in warm socks and sensible Marks and Spencer shirts for birthdays and Christmas.
They ate in Henderson’s Salad Bar, a bit of a comedown from the places where he had squired Anna, but excellent food and better value. Charles began to relax. As he did, the exhaustion that had been stalking him all day caught up. He nearly nodded asleep into his lentil stew. Frances reached out and held his hand. ‘You’re dead.’
‘Mmm.’
‘Been overdoing it.’
‘I suppose so.
‘Early night.’
‘Good idea.’
‘I’m pretty exhausted too. Those two girls have been leading me such a dance. Still, thank God they get a train back tomorrow. It can’t come soon enough. I think I might stay in Scotland for a bit.’
‘Don’t you have to chaperone them home?’
‘No. Put the two little horrors on the London train and from that moment they’re on their own.’
Charles smiled weakly at the incipient relief in her voice. ‘And then you’ll have a few days’ holiday?’
‘Yes. Bliss. Before term starts.’ She hesitated. ‘I don’t suppose
…’
‘What?’
‘I don’t suppose you’d fancy a few days’ holiday. If we could book up somewhere…’
It was strange to see her blushing. Blushing for propositioning her own husband. He felt the familiar ridge of the kitchen-knife scar across her thumb. His eyelids were heavy with sleep as he replied. ‘I’ve heard worse ideas.’
There was quite a party at the pub before Charles’ performance on the Saturday. A lot of the D.U.D.S. who had never said hello to him decided they had an obligation to say goodbye, and any money that the show might have made was anticipated in large rounds of drinks for people he did not know.
But Charles didn’t mind. A night’s sleep had done wonders. Alcohol and company meant that he only felt the occasional twinge from thoughts of Anna or Willy’s death. Recovery from both obsessions would take time, but it was possible.
Frances was there, celebrating the departure of a King’s Cross train from Waverley Station. And, by a stroke of incredible luck, they had arranged a holiday. Stella Galpin-Lord, who was in the party, justified the expense of the vodka and Campari she ordered by fixing them up in a hotel at Clachenmore on Loch Fyne. In fact she had been booked in for a week herself, but had just heard that the acting friend who was meant to join her had got a part in a film and had to cancel. The need for a consoling drink after this disappointment explained her presence in the pub. But her loss was Charles’ and Frances’ gain. A phone call clinched the change of booking. Charles was so excited about the speed with which it happened that he did not have time to question the wisdom of going on holiday with his ex-wife.
He felt affectionate towards all of the Derby crowd and, now that his departure was imminent, even indulged himself in a slight regret that it was over. Sam Wasserman was talking earnestly (and no doubt allegorically) to Pam Northcliffe. She had her back to Charles, but he could imagine the glaze of boredom slowly covering her eyes. Frances was gamely trying to conduct a conversation with the lighting man Plug (who’d got to do the sodding cue sheets for Who Now? but who’d heard there was a free drink going). Martin Warburton was gesticulating wildly as he expounded one of his theories to Stella Galpin-Lord. They all seemed animated and cheerful except for James Milne who sat slightly apart with a half of ‘heavy’.
Since the Laird was the first person he’d invited to the get-together, Charles felt he should not neglect him and sat down at the same table with his pint.
‘Are you really giving the investigation up, Charles?’
He found it difficult to meet the older man’s eyes. ‘Yes.’
‘I’m sure we ought not to. I mean, if something else happens, we’ll feel terrible.’
‘What else can happen?’
‘Another crime.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. It’s just…’ The Laird leant closer and whispered. ‘I am convinced there’s something odd about Martin’s behaviour. We ought to find out more. We can’t just leave it.’
This was unsettling. Deep down Charles agreed. But he had managed to push that agreement so far down that it hardly troubled him. He would have to make some concession to his conscience. ‘What, you mean investigate the flat in Nicholson Street?’
‘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!’