So Much Blood (24 page)

‘I see. And that's what made you suspicious?'

Charles had not the hypocrisy to say yes; he let the silence stand. James Milne did not seem to mind. On the contrary, he looked serene, almost pleased at the literary resolution of his case.

There was a long silence, during which he refilled their glasses. Then he sat back in his chair and took a long swallow. ‘The question now is, Charles, what happens next?'

‘Yes.'

‘I suppose you feel bound to go to the police?' There was a hint of pleading in his tone, but Charles ignored it.

‘Yes, James, I'm afraid I do. Not because I hate you or anything like that. As I said to you once, I have a stereotyped view of murderers as wicked people I dislike. You don't fit that. I like you and I'm sorry to have to do this.

‘I'm not even particularly shocked by some of your crimes. I don't know about the boy, what the rights and wrongs were, but that sounds like a moment of passion, a sudden burst of insanity that could happen to any of us given the right sort of provocation. I don't even mind that much about Willy Mariello. He was a slob whom nobody seems to have mourned. And, as for your attacks on me, they were a logical consequence of your position and my actions.

‘But, James, I can't ever forgive you for the crime you didn't commit—Martin Warburton's suicide. That boy was mixed up beyond belief. But he was very talented and at a difficult time in his life. He needed help. What you did by your elaborate framing of him was to put the boy under pressures that few people completely in control of their senses could manage. I know you didn't think about him as a person; he was just a counter in your game of self-concealment. And it's because you didn't think of him as a person that I regard you as a dangerous man, who should probably be put away.'

There was another silence. James Milne did not look shattered, like a man whose life had just been ruined, but piqued, like a debater who had just lost a point. He rose with a sigh. ‘Perhaps we should go to the police then.'

‘I think we should.'

‘I'll take a book.' He turned round to the shelves and instinctively found a leather-bound copy of Oscar Wilde's
De Profundis
. ‘I dare say there'll be a lot of sitting around at the police station.'

‘Yes,' said Charles, ‘I dare say there will.'

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHARLES SPENT
a lot of time with the police over the next couple of days and did not make it back to Clachenmore. Frances joined him in Edinburgh on the Sunday. They booked into the Aberdour Guest House, where Mrs Butt patently did not think they were married.

Frances wanted to get back to London to prepare for the new school term, but Charles persuaded her to stay till the Tuesday morning so that they could attend the first night of
Mary, Queen of Sots
. His stay at the Festival would not be complete without that. He also managed to fit in a visit to Lesley Petter, who was cheerful at the prospect of leaving the Infirmary in a couple of days.

On the Monday they arrived at the Masonic Hall at seven, half an hour before the show was due to start, to find Pam Northcliffe and others energetically piling up the chairs from the back part of the hall. They were watched by an unamused group of young men in track suits.

‘Pam, what's going on?'

‘Oh Lord, Charles, hello. There's been the most frightful cock-up, I'm afraid. This lot say they're booked in here for badminton on Monday nights. Apparently it was only cancelled for the two weeks and they aren't going to budge.'

‘Whose fault is it?'

‘Brian Cassells booked it.'

‘Say no more. Where is he? Surely he should be flashing his dinner jacket and sorting it out.'

‘Oh, he's gone.'

‘Gone?'

‘Yes, he got the Civil Service job he was after, so he's gone to have a holiday in Italy before it starts.'

‘Tell me, which Ministry is the job in?'

‘Social Services, I think. He'll be doing pensions.'

That seemed apt. There was some justice after all. Charles could visualise a glowing career for Brian withholding money from old ladies.

‘So is the performance off?'

‘Oh no. The show must go on. Sam says so,' Pam announced with pride.

‘Why? Is Sam directing?'

‘Yes. As well as playing Rizzio and Bothwell and doing the music.'

‘Where's Michael Vanderzee?'

‘Ah. He had an offer to go and direct Humpe's
Gangrene
at the Almost Blue Theatre.'

‘And he went?'

‘Oh yes. It's a chance in a lifetime.'

‘Of course.'

At that moment Sam Wasserman appeared from behind the curtains, distraught in doublet and hose. ‘Pam, Pam darling, my tights have laddered.'

‘Don't worry, darling, I've got a needle and thread in my bag. Oh Lord, I'd better go.'

‘O.K. Good luck.' Pam bustled off, blushing. Charles decided he and Frances had time for a drink. And might need one.

They did. The audience was tiny. Brian Cassells' theory about morbid publicity being good publicity had proved incorrect and the average Edinbourgeois was too affronted by the title alone to consider seeing the show. The atmosphere in the hall was not helped by the full houselights necessary for the badminton and the pounding feet and occasional curses of the players.

But ultimately it was the play that made the evening a disaster. Sam Wasserman's leaden allegories proved no more lively onstage than they had when he described them. They were presented in the metronomic blank verse that can only be produced by a Creative Writing course and were mixed with songs that provided as much contrast as a bread-filled sandwich.

Charles tensed up when Anna came on, looking very beautiful in her Tudor costume. But when she spoke, he relaxed. There was no real pang, just the impression that she was rather theatrical. She was talented, but mannered. Two years at drama school might make her quite good.

At the interval Charles and Frances snuck out to the pub, giggling like schoolchildren. And somehow they omitted to return for the second act.

On the train back to London on the Tuesday morning Charles gave Frances an edited version of the whole case. When he came to the end, she tut-tutted. ‘Charles, I can't think why you've suddenly developed this very dangerous hobby. Why can't you take up golf or bowls like most middle-aged men?'

‘I don't know. It's not deliberate. It's just if I get into a situation I have to find out what happened, find out the truth, I suppose.'

‘Well, you did in this case.'

‘Yes. Mind you, I took my time. I think I must have barked up every tree in the park before I found one with anyone in it.'

At King's Cross Underground Station they paused for a moment, slightly embarrassed. Then Charles kissed Frances goodbye. She caught the Northern Line to Highgate and he caught the Circle Line to Bayswater.