‘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.