Charles was patched up in time for lunch. Frances sat opposite him, looking anxious, but respecting his promise to explain everything in detail when it was over. There was an atmosphere of shock in the dining-room. Even Mr Pilch was subdued and did not get far pontificating to his children on Stone Age relics in Argyll.
At two thirty the taxi had arrived and, against doctor’s orders and Frances’ advice, Charles had started the journey to Edinburgh. Which was why he was sitting in the train, thanking God and asking God if He could see fit to spare a little more protection for the confrontation to come.
Stella Galpin-Lord had recommended Clachenmore. She knew Tam. By the attempt on Charles’ life, she had nailed her colours to the mast, but it was a mast that only Charles Paris could see, and she thought Charles Paris was dead. His best weapon was going to be surprise.
She did look surprised to see him when he found her at the Masonic Hall. She had just given her nightly pep-talk to the cast of A Midsummer Night’s Dream (which now only had three more revisualised performances to run; then in the third week of the Festival Mary, Queen of Sots took over). After Clachenmore Charles found it strange to think in terms of dates again. He reminded himself that it was now Thursday 29th August.
‘Stella. I’d like to talk.’
‘Certainly. I must say, this is a surprise. I thought we’d seen the last of you when you went to Clachenmore.’
‘Yes,’ he said grimly.
‘Didn’t you like it there?’
‘There were… things I didn’t like.’
They went to the pub near the Hall where they had last met. She had another of her vodka and Camparis; he had a large Bell’s. The pain from his patched-up wounds made concentration difficult, but he did not intend to talk for long. Stella raised her glass. ‘Well, this is an unexpected pleasure.’
‘I want to talk about Willy Mariello.’
The brusque statement took her completely off her guard. She blushed under her make-up, and lowered the glass as if she were afraid she might drop it. ‘Willy Mariello?’ she echoed stupidly. ‘But he’s dead.’
‘Yes. As you well know, he’s dead.’ She mouthed at him, unable to form words. ‘And, Stella, I think his death may have something to do with what he was doing in the few days before he died.’
‘It was an accident,’ she croaked. ‘It couldn’t have been anything to do with-’
‘Couldn’t it? Let’s just suppose for a moment it could. I have become very interested in what Willy was doing over those few days. So far all I can find out is that he did a bit of rehearsing, a bit of decorating in his house… and he slept with a woman other than his wife.’
The blush spread to the stringy parts of her neck the make-up had missed. ‘So… what are you saying?’
‘That you were that woman.’
‘What if I was? Who do you think you are-the bloody Edinburgh Watch Committee? If two people are attracted to each other and want to sleep together, what bloody business is it of yours?’
‘None at all. So when did this little affair start?’
‘We met in a pub on the Saturday night. It was obvious he was attracted to me.’ Charles wondered. He had a more likely vision of Willy, furious at Anna’s rejection of him, on the lookout for anything, so long as it was female. ‘And I went back to his house that night.’
‘I see.’
Stella saw some meaning that Charles had not intended in his remark. ‘I suppose you’re going to say something about our age difference.’
‘No, I’m not.’ His own recent behaviour would make such comment hypocritical. Anyway, it was irrelevant. ‘And the affair continued for a few more nights?’
‘Yes.’
‘Until the Tuesday morning when he told you to get lost.’ Her eyes flashed under their lash-stretched lids. ‘He did not! It was my idea. I thought it unsuitable that it should continue. I believe in love on impulse; I don’t think one should be tied.’
A suitable philosophy if no one’s ever tried to tie you and you have to make all the running, Charles thought. But he did not say it. ‘I see. Well, thank you for telling me that. I’m sure it’s something the police don’t know.’
She gaped and her real age showed. ‘What do you mean? Surely the police think Willy’s death was an accident…? Or, if it wasn’t, that that boy Martin-’
‘If it wasn’t, I feel we should tell them everything we know about the few days before he died.’
‘I don’t think it’s relevant.’
‘You don’t. I do. Perhaps there are other things we ought to know about the period. I mean, what was Willy doing?’
‘Willy-he was, as you said, rehearsing and decorating. The place was full of plaster dust and paint and all kinds of rubbish. Look, Mr Paris, I’d like to know why the hell you’re asking me all these questions.’
‘Because, Miss Galpin-Lord, I believe that, after a quarrel with Willy Mariello, in which he probably made disparaging remarks about your looks and general appeal, you arranged for him to be killed.’
Her face crumbled until it looked of pensionable age. ‘What? Murder?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what proof do you have of this?’
‘The proof comes from the fact that when you realised I was on to you you arranged to have me murdered too. Only unfortunately Tam the gamekeeper failed in his attempt, which is why you see me here now.’
‘Tam?’ Her voice was very weak.
‘From Clachenmore. Now, come on, you set me up to go there because you knew Tam was to hand if necessary. Don’t pretend you don’t know him.’
‘I know who you mean, but I don’t know him well.’
‘Well enough to know how poor he is and what he’d be prepared to do for money.’
‘But how am I supposed to have arranged this?’
‘Simple. You rang him at the hotel. I know he had a call this morning.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. I hardly know the man.’ Now she was almost shouting.
‘You’ve known him ever since he started working at Clachenmore.’
‘I’ve only seen him there a couple of times.’
‘Then maybe you knew him before. In his previous job. It was somewhere in the same area.’
‘I didn’t know him then. Not at all. I’ve never even been to Glenloan House.’
‘Where?’
‘Glenloan House.’
There was only one other person Charles had ever heard use that name, someone who once owned a house in Meadow Lane.
He moved quickly and efficiently, as if the actions he had to make were long premeditated and rehearsed.
A street lamp outside the house in Meadow Lane showed it to be dark and empty. Fortunately, there was nobody about to see him enter. He moved towards the front door, thinking to break one of the glass panels and reach round to the catch, when a sudden memory stopped him. The window catch Jean Mariello had complained about had been forgotten in the rush of her leaving, and the sash slid up easily.
Inside he was glad of the light from the street lamp, which gave a pale glow to the white room.
Relevant memories came back. Again he saw Willy sitting opposite him in the Truth Game, long brown hair greyed with plaster dust. He remembered Stella’s repetition of the fact that he had been decorating; Jean Mariello’s words about her husband- ‘He’d suddenly get sick of his surroundings and want to change it all’- ‘Saw himself as the great landowner in his ancestral home in front of his blazing fire. The man of property.’
It was on the left. When he looked along the wall, he could see the light catch on the slight prominence of plaster where the fireplace had been filled in. There was a central heating radiator fixed to the wall across it.
The radiator swivelled on its brackets to lie nearly flat on the floor. Behind it the plaster was more uneven, as if done in haste. Even in the pale light available, it was clear that the paint over this area was newer than in the rest of the room.