About eleven on the Sunday he arrived at Coates Gardens. ‘Do you mind if I have something a bit stronger than coffee?’
‘Still in a state of shock? So am I.’
‘Well, mine’s only an indirect state of shock, James. I was so shocked yesterday that I had to have a great deal to drink for medical reasons. That’s why I need something stronger now. Hair of the dog.’
The Laird chuckled and reached for the malt whisky bottle. ‘Well,’ he said when they were sitting and the first gulp was irrigating Charles’ dehydrated head, ‘it seems that I was on the right track.’
‘About Martin?’
‘Yes.’
‘Hmm. Of course, I knew there was something wrong with him right from the start. Now I come to think of it, the first night I was here, I heard someone crying in the bathroom-I’m sure it was him. Obviously in the throes of a nervous breakdown. A schizoid condition, aggravated by overwork for his finals.’
‘All work and no play…’
‘Makes Jack a nutter, yes.’
‘“Much study had made him very lean…”’
‘“And pale and leaden-eyed.”’ Charles completed the quotation automatically without thinking. Martin’s case seemed more relevant than literary games. ‘What surprised me was that all his fantasies manifested themselves in a real way. Usually with that type all the action’s in their minds.’
‘Not, it seems, in this case, Charles.’
‘No.’ He paused for a moment, ruefully. ‘Poor kid. He was so mixed up. He seemed so much the obvious suspect that I never really considered him.’ He laughed. ‘I must get a less subjective view of criminals.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Look at me-on this case I miss out the obvious solution just because Martin’s someone I like and feel sympathy for. Instead I go off into wild suspicions of more or less everyone else I meet.’ The atmosphere between them was friendly enough for a confession. ‘Do you know, I even suspected you at one point.’
‘Really? Why?’
‘God knows. My mind wasn’t working very well. I suspected everybody. Still, even if we didn’t know about Martin’s bomb factory, I think I’d have to cross you off my list now. The average murderer doesn’t deliberately try to get himself blown up.’
‘No.’ They laughed.
Then Charles sighed. ‘I wish I’d got it all a bit more sorted out in my mind. I mean, it’s now clear that Martin planted the bomb, and presumably planned Willy’s death as well, but I still don’t see exactly why.’
‘He was unbalanced.’
‘Yes, but… I don’t know. I suppose I’ve got a tidy mind, but I’d like to find some sort of method in his madness, some logical sequence.
‘What about the Mary, Queen of Scots thing I suggested a few days ago?’
‘That would explain the Mariello stabbing, I suppose. Willy was playing Rizzio, so there might be some identification there, but what about the bomb?’
‘Darnley was blown up with gunpowder, Charles.’
‘Was he? Good God.’
‘Yes, I’m sure he was. At the instigation of Bothwell, as I recall.’
‘Bothwell? But that’s who Martin’s playing in Mary, Queen of Sots. And… yes… he talked to me once about how easy it was to identify with people from history.’
‘There you are then.’
‘Let’s work it out. He’s in this show about Mary, Queen of Scots and gets obsessively involved with her life…’
‘A life surrounded by intrigue and murder.’
‘Exactly. He identifies with Bothwell and-I say, it’s just struck me. I bet there’s a portrait of Bothwell in the Scottish National Portrait Gallery.’
The Laird nodded excitedly. ‘There is. It’s a miniature. And it’s the only extant picture of him.’
‘Yes.’ Charles pieced it together slowly. ‘Right. Martin identifies so completely that, in his confused mind, he becomes Bothwell and Sam Wasserman’s awful play becomes reality. And that reality suits his existing obsessions about violence.’
‘So Rizzio has to be stabbed. Willy Mariello doesn’t exist for Martin; he actually is David Rizzio. And Martin must have said something that made Willy afraid of him, which explains what Willy told me in the Truth Game. By a stroke of luck, the stabbing looks like an accident, and so Martin is free to plan his next murder, that of Darnley…’ His racing thoughts were suddenly brought up short. ‘But that’s strange. If he was living the reality of the play, why did he identify me with Darnley and not the bloke who’s actually playing the part?’
‘Perhaps he was just getting a bit confused,’ the Laird offered.
‘That’s a bit lame. I’m sure if the obsession’s as complicated as it seems to be, there must be some logic behind it, some sort of crazy justification for his action.’
‘You don’t think there’s anything missing in the historical Mary story?’
‘I don’t know. What happened to Bothwell in the end?’
‘I think he died in prison. Insane.’
Charles smiled grimly. ‘I’m afraid that part of the identification could be horribly apt too. No, there’s something we’re missing. Why does he turn on me as Darnley?’
‘Because he thinks you’re on his trail?’
‘Doesn’t really fit the historical obsession bit. Unless…’ The solution flashed into his mind. ‘Good God! Anna!’
‘What?’
‘Anna Duncan. She’s playing Mary. And Willy Mariello had an affair with her. Martin must have seen them together and killed him out of jealousy. And then me. He saw us together downstairs a couple of days ago.’
‘You and Anna?’
Charles felt himself blushing, but the picture was developing too quickly for him to be discreet. ‘Yes, we were having an affair, and after he saw us together, he started to identify me with Darnley. So I had to be blown up.’
‘Leaving Anna to him?’
‘I suppose so. But don’t you see, James, this may give us a lead on what he’s likely to do next.’
‘Why?’
‘Who’s the next person to be murdered in the Mary, Queen of Scots saga?’
The Laird pondered with infuriating slowness. ‘Well, I think actual murders are a bit thin on the ground after Darnley. There are plots and battles, but I don’t think any more major figures were actually murdered.’
‘None at all?’
‘No. Well, not until Mary herself had her head cut off. There are a lot of Scots who still regard that as a murder.’
Charles sprang to his feet with a feeling of nausea in his throat. ‘No! I must get to the Lawnmarket.’ All he could think of was the fact that among other weapons in the Nicholson Street flat the police had found a meat cleaver.
He was so relieved to see Anna open the door of the flat that it took a moment before he realised the situation’s inherent awkwardness. She looked at him and the Laird without emotion. ‘Good morning.’
Urgency overcame Charles’ embarrassment. ‘Have you seen Martin?’
‘Yes.’
‘What, here?’
‘Yes, he was here.’
‘When?’
‘He left about half an hour ago.’
‘And how long had he been here?’
A hard look came into the navy blue eyes. ‘Listen, if you’re playing another of your elaborate games-’
‘I’m not. This is serious. We’ve got to find Martin. He’s in a dangerous state.’
‘Certainly in a strange state. He was babbling on about the police being after him or something.’
‘That’s true.’
‘Why?’
‘They want him for the murder of Willy Mariello and the attempted murder of Charles Paris.’
Her mouth fell open and an expression of frozen horror came over her face. Charles realised it was the first spontaneous reaction he had ever seen from her.
‘Where is he now?’
‘I don’t know, Charles. He came here last night in an awful state and begged to stay. I thought he was mad, so I didn’t argue.’
‘Just as well. I think you were next on his list.’
‘What?’ She started to cry with shock, and looked human and ugly. But Charles did not have time to notice. ‘Have you any idea where he was going?’
‘No, but he was dressed up.’
‘Disguised?’
‘Yes. I thought he was joking when he suggested it, but he was so fierce and insistent that I let him have the stuff.’