A plague, say I, on all rods and lines, and on young or old watery danglers!
And after all that you’ll talk of such stuff as no harm in the world about anglers!
And when all is done, all our worry and fuss, why, we’ve never had nothing worth dishing;
So you see, Mr Walton, no good comes at last of your famous book about fishing.
Charles watched the sun-gold surface of the burn change in seconds to dull brown and then become pockmarked with heavy drops of rain. He heard a rustle of P.V.C. behind him as Frances tried to rearrange her position at the foot of the tree to keep the maximum amount of water off her book. The rain was no less cheering than the sun.
As he knew from previous experience, if you do not like rain, there’s no point in going to the West Coast of Scotland. The whole area is wet. Wet underfoot like the surface of a great sponge. Everywhere the ground is intersected with tiny streams and it is never completely silent; there is always the subtle accompaniment of running water. The wetness is not the depressing damp of soggy socks and smelly raincoats; it is stimulating like the sharp kiss of mist on the cheek. And it is very relaxing.
Charles twitched his anorak hood over his head and thought how unrelaxed he still felt. Suffering from anoraksia nervosa, his mind suggested pertly, while he tried to tell it to calm down. But it kept throwing up irrelevant puns, thoughts and ideas. He knew the symptoms. It was always like this after the run of a show. A slow process of unwinding when the brain kept working overtime and took longer than the body to relax.
The body was doing well; it appreciated the holiday. Clachenmore was a beautiful place, though it hardly seemed worth putting on the map, it was so small. Apart from a tiny cottage given the unlikely title of ‘The Post Office’, there was just the hotel, a solid whitewashed square with a pair of antlers over the door. Every window offered gratuitously beautiful views-up to the rich curve of the heathery hills, sideways to the woods that surrounded the burn (free fishing for residents), down over the vivid green fields to the misty gleam of Loch Fyne.
So the situation was relaxing. And being with Frances was relaxing. Arriving at a strange hotel with an ex-wife has got the naughty excitement of a dirty weekend with a non-wife, but with more security. And Frances was being very good, not talking about defining their position and not saying were they actually going to get a divorce because it wasn’t easy for her being sort of half-married and half-unmarried and what chance did she have of meeting someone else well no one in particular but one did meet people, and all that. She seemed content to enjoy the current domestic idyll and not think about the future. A line from one of Hood’s letters came into his mind. ‘My domestic habits are very domestic indeed; like Charity I begin at home, and end there; so Faith and Hope must call upon me, if they wish to meet.’
But he did not feel relaxed. He did not mind lines of Hood flashing into his head; that was natural; it always happened after a show; but there were other thoughts that came unbidden and were less welcome. He closed his eyes and all he could see were the writhing coils of the fat grey earthworms he had dug for bait that morning. That was not good; it made him think of worms and epitaphs. What would Martin Warburton’s epitaph be? He opened his eyes.
The fish seemed to have stopped biting. Earlier in the day he had a good tug on his borrowed tackle and with excitement reeled in a brown trout all of five inches long. Since his most recent experience had been of coarse fishing, he had forgotten how vigorous even tiny trout were. But since then they had stopped biting. Perhaps it was the weather. Or he was fishing in the wrong place.
Even with the rain distorting its surface, the pool where he was did not look deep enough to contain anything very large. But there were supposed to be salmon there. So said Mr Pilch from Coventry who came up to Clachenmore every summer with the family and who liked to pontificate in the lounge after dinner. ‘Oh yes, you want to ask Tam the gamekeeper about that. Actually, he’s not only the game-keeper, he’s also the local poacher. Only been working on the estate for about five years, but he knows every pool of that burn. Good Lord, I’ve seen some monster salmon he’s caught. They put them in the hotel deep-freeze. Mind you…’ Here he had paused to attend to his pipe, an aluminium and plastic device that looked like an important but inexplicable electronic component. He had unscrewed something and squeezed a spongeful of nicotine into the coal-bucket. ‘Mind you, what you mustn’t do is ask how Tam catches the fish. Oh no, I believe there are rules in fishing circles. But, you know, he goes through the water in these waders stalking them, and he can tell the pools they’re in-don’t know how he does it, mind-and he’s got these snares and things, and his ripper. It’s a sort of cord with a lot of treble hooks on. Well, he whips them out of the water on to the bank and then gets the Priest out-you know why it’s called the Priest? It gives the fish their last rites. Vicious little device it is, short stick with a weighted end. Anyway, down this comes on the fish’s head and that’s another for the deep freeze. Highly illegal, but highly delicious, eh?’
However the salmon were playing hard to get. So were the trout. So, come to that, were any fresh water shrimps that might be around. Obviously the recommended bunch of worms on a large hook ledgered to the bottom was an insufficient inducement. Charles turned to Frances, and put on his schoolboy party-piece voice. ‘A recitation-The Angler’s Farewell by Thomas Hood.
“Not a trout there be in the place,
Not a Grayling or Rud worth the mention,
And although at my hook
With attention I look
I can ne’er see my hook with a Tench on!”’
Frances clapped and he bowed smugly. ‘Ithangyoulthangyou, and for my next trick, I was thinking of going for a walk to work off some of Mrs Parker’s enormous breakfast in anticipation of her no doubt enormous lunch. Do you want to come?’
‘I’m nearly at the end of this book actually and I’m quite cosy.’ She looked cosy, tarpaulined in P.V.C. mac and sou’wester, crouched like a garden gnome at the foot of the tree.
‘O.K. What are you reading?’
‘Your Mary, Queen of Scots.’
‘Oh Lord. That’s not my book. I should have given it back. Borrowed it from someone in Edinburgh. Ha, that reminds me of Anatole France.’
‘Hm?’
‘“Never lend books, for no one ever returns them; the only books I have in my library are those that other people have lent me.” A quote.’
‘I didn’t know you were given to gratuitous quotation.’
‘The bloke who lent me the book would have appreciated it.’
Some Victorian spirit of Nile-source-searching prompted him to go upstream towards the spring that fed the little burn. Any hopes of finding the source before lunch were soon dashed by the stream’s unwillingness to get any narrower and the steepness of the gradient down which it came. Centuries of roaring water had driven a deep cleft into the rock. Tumbled boulders enclosed dark brown pools, fed from above by broad creamy torrents or silver threads of water.
The banks were muddy and the rocks he had to climb over shone treacherously. More than once he had to reach out and grasp at tussocks of grass to stop himself from slipping.
At last he came to a part of the burn that seemed quieter than the rest. There was still the rush of water, but it was muffled by trees arching and joining overhead, which spread a green light on the scene. Here were three symmetrical round pools, neatly stepped like soup plates up a waiter’s arm.
He identified the place from Mr Pilch’s descriptions in the lounge after dinner. ‘Some of the pools up there are incredibly deep, just worn down into the solid rock by constant water pressure. Makes you wonder whether we take sufficient notice of the potential of hydro-jet drilling, eh? Mind you, it takes a few centuries. Still, some of those pools are supposed to be twenty feet deep. Tam claims to have caught salmon up there, though I can’t for the life of me imagine how they get that high. Maybe by doing those remarkable leaps you see on the tourist posters, eh?’
But Charles did not want to think about Pilch. The enclosing trees and the muffled rush of water made the place like a fairy cave. It was magical and, in a strange way, calming. Puffed by the climb, he squatted on his heels at the foot of a tree, and started to face the thoughts which regrettably showed no signs of going away.
He knew why he was restless. It was because the explanations he had formed for recent events in Edinburgh were incomplete. Now Martin Warburton was dead, that situation looked permanent. The frustration was like getting within four answers of a completed crossword and knowing from the clues that he had no hope of filling the gaps. He could put down any combination of letters that sounded reasonable, but he would not have the satisfaction of knowing he was right. And with this particular crossword, there would not be a correct solution published in the following morning’s paper.
It was partly his own fault for wanting a clear-cut answer rather than the frayed ends of reality. A basic misconception, like his idea that the police were way behind on the case.
But he could not get away from the fact that the tie-up of Martin’s motivations which he and the Laird had worked out was unsatisfactory. There were too many loose ends, stray facts that he had found out and still required explanations. Though the main outline was right, there were details of Martin’s obsessive behaviour that were not clear.
He worked backwards. Martin’s suicide demonstrated that, at least in his own mind, the boy was guilty of something. The discovery of the Nicholson Street bomb factory made it reasonable to suppose that one of the causes of his guilt was the device planted in Charles’ holdall.
But what evidence was there that he was also responsible for killing Willy? Certainly in retrospect it looked likely. Martin had actually wielded the murder weapon and Rizzio was an obvious first victim in his macabre game of historical reconstruction. But if the murder was carefully planned, the actual execution was a bit random. Assuming Martin had switched the real knife for the treated one, he still had no guarantee that he would be given that one for the photo call. Willy might have been killed by another unsuspecting actor, but would that have given Martin the requisite thrill? Charles felt ignorant of how accurate a psychopath’s reconstruction of events has to be for him to commit a murder; it is not a well-documented subject.
But at least he had faced the fact that he wanted to tie up the loose ends. Just for his own satisfaction. After lunch he would be organised like James Milne, sit down with a sheet of paper and make a note of all the outstanding questions of the case. Feeling happier for the decision, he set off down the hill to the hotel.
‘Three days ago, you know, I wouldn’t have believed it possible to eat one of Mrs Parker’s lunches within gastronomic memory of Mrs Parker’s breakfast, and certainly not with the prospect of Mrs Parker’s dinner looming deliciously like an enemy missile on the horizon.’
Frances laughed as she watched him put away his plateful of cod and chips without signs of strain. ‘It’s the famous Scottish air. Sharpens the appetite.’
He took a long swallow from his second lunch time pint of Guinness. ‘Did you finish the book?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Then you can tell me. I want some details about the Earl of Bothwell.’
‘All right.’ She sat expectant, her schoolmistress mind confident of its recently acquired knowledge.
‘Well, we know Bothwell killed Darnley by blowing him up at Holyrood. What I want to-’
‘We don’t know any such thing. Holyrood’s still standing. The house where Darnley was staying, the one that was blown up, was in the Kirk o’Field. And anyway, Darnley wasn’t blown up; he was strangled.’
‘Really.’ Charles took it in slowly. ‘Then what about the murder of David Rizzio? Bothwell didn’t do it on his own, I know. Who was with him on the-’
‘Bothwell wasn’t involved in the murder of David Rizzio. Really, Charles, I thought you had a university education.’
‘A long time ago. And I read English.’
‘All the same. My fourth formers could do better. Rizzio was savagely murdered by Lord Darnley, Patrick Lord Ruthven (who rose from his sick bed), Andrew Ker of Fawdonside, George Douglas, um…’ Her new store-house of information ran out.
‘Really?’ said Charles, even more slowly. ‘Really.’ Martin had read History at Derby. If he were in the grip of psychopathic identification with an historical character, surely he would at least get the facts of his obsession correct. Charles began to regret the glibness with which he had assumed that Willy’s death and the bomb were automatically connected.
‘Hello. Everything all right?’ Mr Parker, who owned the hotel and was owned by Mrs Parker, appeared at their table with the glass of whisky that was a permanent extension of his hand.
Charles and Frances smiled. ‘Yes, thank you,’ he said, tapping a stomach that surely could not take many more of these enormous meals without becoming gross. ‘Excellent.’
‘Good, good.’
‘Can I top that up for you, Mr Parker?’
‘Well… if you’re having one.’
‘Why not? I’ll have a malt.’
‘Mrs Paris?’
‘No, I’ll-’
‘Go on.’
‘All right.’
It started to rain again heavily. Long clean streaks of water dashed against the window panes. It was cosy over the whisky.
Charles proposed a toast. ‘To Stella Galpin-Lord, without whom we wouldn’t be here.’
‘Stella Galpin-Lord,’ said Mr Parker, and chuckled. ‘Yes, Stella Galpin-Lord.’
‘You know her well?’
‘She’s been here four or five times. Stella the Snatcher we nickname her.’
‘Snatcher?’
‘Oh, I’m sorry. Perhaps she’s a friend of…’
‘No,’ said Charles in a mischievous way to encourage indiscretion.
‘Well, we call her the Snatcher, short for cradle-snatcher. Let’s say that when she comes here it tends to be with a young man.’
‘The same young man?’
‘No. That’s the amusing thing. Always books as Mr and Mrs Galpin-Lord, but, dear oh dear, she must think we’re daft or something. I mean, I can’t believe they’re all called Galpin-Lord.’
‘It is a fairly unusual name.
Mr Parker chuckled. ‘It’s not our business to pry. I mean, I don’t care about people’s morals and that, but I must confess Mrs Parker and I do have a bit of a giggle about the Mr and Mrs Galpin-Lords.’ He realised that this sounded like a lapse of professional etiquette. ‘Not of course that we make a habit of laughing at our guests.’
‘No, of course not,’ Charles reassured smoothly. ‘But you say it’s always younger men?’
‘Yes, actors all of them, I think. Mutton with a taste for lamb, eh? Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.’
‘Hmm. And thanks to her latest actor getting a job, here we are.’
‘Yes.’
‘All the more reason to toast her in gratitude. Stella Galpin-Lord.’
Mr Pilch edged over from the table where Mrs Pilch and the little Pilches were finishing their apricot crumble. ‘Oh, er, Mr Paris. Tam the gamekeeper’s going to take me up the burn to see if we can bag a salmon. With the right sort of fly, of course.’ He winked roguishly at this. ‘I wondered if you fancied coming…?’
But Charles felt rather full of alcohol for a fishing trip. And besides, he wanted to start writing things down on bits of paper. ‘No thanks. I think I’ll have a rest this afternoon.’
‘Perhaps there’ll be another chance.’ Mr Pilch edged away.
‘Sure to be, Mr Paris,’ whispered Mr Parker confidentially. ‘I’ll ask Tam to take you another day. See what you can get. Actually, when our Mrs Galpin-Lord was here last summer, she went off with Tam and they got a fifteen-pounder. Not bad.’
‘And did the current Mr Galpin-Lord go with them?’
‘Oh no.’ Mr Parker laughed wickedly. ‘I daresay he was sleeping it off. Eh?’
The rest of the afternoon seemed to lead automatically to making love, which, except for the Clachenmore Hotel’s snagging brushed nylon sheets, was very nice. ‘You know, murmured Frances sleepily, ‘we do go very well together.’
He gave a distracted grunt of agreement.
‘Do you think we could ever try again?’
Another grunt, while not completely ruling out the idea, was not quite affirmative.
‘Otherwise we really ought to get divorced or something. Our position’s so vague.’ But she did not really sound too worried, just sleepy.
‘I’ll think about it,’ he lied. He did not want to think about the circle of going back to Frances again and things being O.K. for a bit and then getting niggly and then him being unfaithful again and her being forgiving again and and and… He must think about it at some stage, but right now there were more important things on his mind.
The lunch time alcohol had sharpened rather than blunted his perception and he was thinking with extraordinary clarity. The whole edifice of logic he had created had been reduced to rubble and a new structure had to be put up, using the same bricks, and some others which had previously been discarded as unsuitable.
Thinking of the two crimes as separate made a new approach possible. Blurred and apparently irrelevant facts came into sharp focus. Red herrings changed their hue and turned into lively silver fish that had to be caught.
It came back again to what Willy was doing over the few days before he died. The melodrama with Anna and subsequent events had pushed that line of enquiry out of his mind, but now it became all-important and the unexplained details that he had discovered were once more significant pieces in his jigsaw.
He slipped quietly out of the brushed nylon sheets without disturbing the sleeping Frances, then dressed and padded downstairs to the telephone in the hotel lobby.
First he got on to directory enquiries. Then he took a deep breath, picked up the phone again and dialled the operator. London could not be dialled direct, which made his forthcoming imposture more risky, but he could not think of another way. By the time he got through, the Glachenmore operator, the London operator, Wanewright the Merchant Bankers’ receptionist and Lestor Wanewright’s secretary had all heard the assumed Glaswegian tones of Detective-Sergeant McWhirter. If it ever came to an enquiry by the real police, there was a surfeit of witnesses to condemn Charles Paris for impersonating a police officer.
Fortunately Lestor Wanewright did not show any sign of suspicion. When the Detective-Sergeant explained that, in the aftermath of the deaths in Edinburgh, he was having to check certain people’s alibis as a matter of routine, the young merchant banker readily confirmed Anna’s statement. They had been sharing his flat in the Lawnmarket from Sunday 4th August when they had arrived back from Nice until Tuesday 13th August when he’d had to go back to work again. Yes, they had slept together over that period. Charles Paris felt a slight pang at the thought of Anna, but Detective-Sergeant McWhirter just thanked Mr Wanewright for his co-operation.
Charles stayed by the phone after the call, thinking. He had two independent witnesses to the fact that Willy Mariello had slept with a woman at his home during the three or four days before his death. Jean Mariello had spoken of blonde hairs on the pillow and she had no reason for making that up. And, according to Michael Vanderzee, Willy had called goodbye to someone upstairs when dragged off to rehearsal on the Monday before he died.
True, Willy’s sex life was free-ranging and the woman might have been anyone. But Charles could only think of one candidate with, if not blonde, at least blonded hair, and a taste for younger men.
It was nothing definite, but he still felt guilty about Martin’s death. If there was anything that invited investigation, he owed it to the boy’s memory to investigate it.
With sudden clarity, Charles remembered the first time he had seen Willy Mariello, on the afternoon of his death. He saw again the tall figure striding ungraciously into the Masonic Hall. Followed a few moments later by Stella Galpin-Lord, who was sniffing. Had she been crying? The memory seemed to be dragged up from years ago, not just a fortnight. But it was very distinct. He remembered the woman’s face contorted with fury in the Hate Game.
That decided him. He picked up the phone again and asked for an Edinburgh number.
At first there seemed to be a crossed line, a well-spoken middle-aged woman’s voice cutting across James Milne’s, but it cleared and the two men could hear each other distinctly. ‘James, I’ve been thinking again about some aspects of the case.’
‘Really. So have I.’
‘It doesn’t all fit, does it?’
‘I think most of it does.’ The Laird’s voice sounded reluctant. He and Charles had worked out a solution that was intellectually satisfying and he did not want their results challenged. It was the schoolmaster in him, the academic hearing that his theory has just been superseded by a publication from another university.
‘You may be right, James. But for my own peace of mind, there are one or two people I’d just like to check a few details with. So I’m coming back to Edinburgh.’
‘Ah. And you’re asking me to put my Dr Watson hat back on?’
‘If you don’t mind.’
‘Delighted. You’ll stay here, of course?’
‘Thank you.’
‘When are you arriving?’
‘Don’t know exactly. It’ll be tomorrow some time. As you know, I’m out here at Clachenmore and getting back involves a taxi to Dunoon, ferry across the Clyde to Gourock, bus to Glasgow and God knows what else. So don’t expect me till late afternoon.’
‘Fine. And you’ll tell me all then?’
‘Exactly. Cheerio.’
Then something odd happened. Charles heard the phone put down the other end twice. There were two separate clicks.
Two separate clicks-what the hell could that mean? He was about to dismiss it as a vagary of the Scottish telephone system when a thought struck him. There were two extensions of the same telephone at Coates Gardens, one in the Laird’s flat and one in the hall. Perhaps what he had taken to be a crossed line at the beginning of the call had been someone answering the downstairs telephone. And the first click was that person putting their receiver down. In other words, someone could have heard all of the conversation.
Only one woman likely to be in Coates Gardens had a middle-aged voice.
The journey to Edinburgh developed another complication when he tried to order a taxi. The only firm for miles was in Tighnabruiach and there was a funeral there the following morning which was going to appropriate every car; they could not get one to the Clachenmore Hotel until half past two in the afternoon.
There was nothing to be done about it. It just meant another morning’s fishing and another of Mrs Parker’s gargantuan lunches. There were worse fates.
The next morning was very, very wet. Rain fell as if God had upturned a bottomless bucket. Frances decided that she would not venture out; she curled up on the sofa in the Lounge with Watership Down.
‘What do you think about fishing?’ Charles asked, hoping Mr Parker’s reply would excuse him from going out.
‘Yes, not bad weather for it.’
Damn. Charles started to pull on his anorak. ‘Actually,’ Mr Parker continued, ‘Tam was asking if I thought you’d like to go after some salmon.’
That sounded a lot more attractive than pulling worms out of damp clods in the hope of another five-inch trout. ‘Really? Is he about?’
‘Was earlier. There was a phone call for him. I’ll see.’
Tam was found and was more than willing to conduct a guided tour of the salmon pools (no doubt in anticipation of a substantial tip). His only reservation, which Mr Parker interpreted to Charles, was that he did not approve of women being involved in fishing, and did Mrs Paris want to come? Charles set his mind at rest on that point, and then took stock of his guide.
The gamekeeper was a man of indeterminate age and impenetrable accent. His face was sucked inwards and shrivelled like perished rubber. He wore a flat cap and a once-brown overcoat with large pockets on the outside (and no doubt even larger ones on the inside).
Tam’s mouth opened and uttered strange Scottish sounds which might have been asking if Charles was ready to go straight away.
‘Yes,’ he hazarded. ‘Will I need a rod?’
Tam laughed derisively. Legal fishing methods were obviously a myth created for the tourists.
They set off, following the burn up the hill. Conversation was limited. Tam would occasionally comment on things they passed (a dead sheep, for example) and all Charles’ acting skill would be required to choose the right ‘Yes’, ‘Really?’, ‘Too true’, ‘Did they indeed?’ or omnipurpose grunt. He did not have the confidence to initiate subjects himself, reacting was safer. Mr Pilch’s words came back to him. ‘They’re a proud lot, the locals. Oh yes, you have to be careful what you say. And they have this great loyalty to their masters. In many ways, it’s still an almost feudal society. Very poor though, I’m afraid. Not a lot of jobs available round here. It’ll change of course when the oil comes-if it comes, which heaven forbid. You know there are plans to put up platforms just outside Loch Fyne? I hope they don’t ruin the West Coast. Eh?’
None of that offered very promising conversational topics. What’s it like being proud? Or living in a feudal society? Are you really very poor? What is your feeling about the proposed development of natural oil resources off the West Coast of Scotland? Somehow none of these seemed quite the right question to ask Tam, and fortunately the gamekeeper did not appear to find the silence irksome.
At last he indicated that they had reached their destination. It was the linked series of pools where Charles had been the day before. Again the trees overhead changed the note of the running stream and the heavy dripping of rain was muffled.
‘Do the salmon really get up this far?’
Tam managed to communicate that they certainly did. He had got a twenty-pounder out a good half mile farther up into the hills.
‘Whereabouts do they go? Do we just look for them swimming about in the pools?’
Apparently not. In these conditions they lay still just under the bank. The skill was to spot them and whip them out of the water quickly. Tam would demonstrate.
They edged slowly down the slippery rocks to the waters edge. As they drew closer, the noise of the water increased. Swollen by rain, the cataracts pounded down on the rocks below. It was easy to see how the deep cleft had been worn down into the rock over the years.
Silently and efficiently, Tam lay down on the rocks at the waterside and peered into the bubbling green depths.
‘Anything?’ Charles hissed and was reprimanded by a finger on Tam’s lips. The gamekeeper slid crabwise along the rocks, still looking down. Then he froze for a moment and got up.
‘Big one,’ he whispered. Either Charles was getting used to the accent or it was clearer close to.
‘Where?’
‘Directly under that rock. Have a look. But be quiet and don’t move suddenly.’
Charles eased himself down to a kneeling position and, with his hands gripping the slimy edge of the pool, moved his head slowly out over the water.
At that moment his left hand slipped. It saved his life. As his body lurched sideways, he saw the flash of the brass head of Tam’s Priest as it came down. The blow aimed to the skull landed with agonising force on Charles’ shoulder.
The shock of the attack stunned him even more than its violence. For a moment he lay there, the rocks hard under his back, his hair soaked with spray from the pounding water just below. Then he saw Tam advancing towards him with the Priest again upraised.
The gamekeeper must have thought he had knocked his victim out; he was unprepared for the kick in the stomach that Charles managed from his prone position. Tam staggered back clutching himself, reeled for a moment at the water’s edge, then fell safely on to the rocks.
Charles had one aim, which was to get the hell out of the place. Winding his assailant had given him the opportunity. He scrambled manically over the slimy rocks, grabbing at tussocks and branches to heave himself up the gradient. His right arm screeched with pain like a gear lever in a broken gearbox. But he was getting away.
He turned for a moment. Tam was standing now, but Charles had the start. Then he saw something whip out and uncoil from the gamekeeper’s hand. As the treble hooks bit into his leg and he felt the inexorable pull down towards the boiling cauldron below, Charles knew it was the ripper.