‘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.’