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.’