Simon Brett - So Much Blood

‘I’m sure it’s going to be very interesting.’ Charles tried not to sound patronising, but was still greeted by a despairing snort. Martin rose suddenly. ‘I must go. I’m late. Got to rehearse Mary. The composer’s body not yet decomposed and we rehearse.’

‘You’re punning yourself, like Hood,’ said Charles, trying to lighten the conversation.

‘Oh yes. I’m a punster. A jolly funny punster.’ Martin let out one of his abrupt laughs. ‘A jolly punster and a murderer. I killed him, you know.’

‘No. You were the instrument that killed him.’

This struck Martin as uproariously funny. ‘An instrument. Do you want to get into a great discussion about Free Will? Am I guilty? Or is the knife guilty perhaps? Where did the will come from? The knife has no will. I have no will.’

‘Martin, calm down. You mustn’t think you killed him.’

‘Why not? The police think I did.’

‘They don’t.’

‘They asked so many questions.’

‘It’s the police’s job to ask questions.’

‘Oh yes, I know.’

‘Why? Have you been in trouble with them before?’

‘Only a motoring offence, sah!’ Martin dropped suddenly into an Irish accent.

‘What was it?’

‘Planting a car bomb, sah!’ He burst into laughter. Charles, feeling foolish for setting up the feed-line so perfectly, joined him. Martin’s laughter went on too long.

But Charles took advantage of the slight relaxation of tension. ‘Listen, the police can’t think you did it. No one in their right mind would commit murder in front of a large audience.’

‘No,’ said Martin slyly, ‘no one in their right mind would.’ This again sent him into a paroxysm of laughter. Which stopped as suddenly as it had begun. He looked at Charles in a puzzled way, as if he did not recognise him. Then, in a gentle voice, ‘What’s the time?’

‘Twenty-five to eleven.’

‘I should be at rehearsal.’ He rose calmly. ‘Do try to read my play if you can.’

‘I will.’

‘See you.’ He slouched out of the room.

Charles lay for a moment thinking. Martin seemed to be on the edge of a nervous breakdown. The end of finals is a stressful time for most students. Charles suddenly recalled the state he had been in after Schools in 1949. Three years gone and then the apocalyptic strain of assessment. How good am I? What will I do in the real world? Or, most simply, who am I?

He tried to imagine the effect of a shock like Willy’s death on someone in that state. A harsh cruel fact smashing into a mind that could hardly distinguish reality from fantasy. Inside his sick brain Martin might think he was a murderer, but Charles felt sure he was not. Martin Warburton needed help. Medical help possibly, but certainly he needed the help of knowing that he was only an unwitting agent for the person who planned the murder of Willy Mariello. The facts had to come out.

And the show had to go on. He turned to the script. On sober reflection, though the day before’s run-through had been promising, there was a lot that needed improvement. Particularly the Pathetic Ballads. They should have been the easiest part of the programme with their well-spaced jokes and obvious humour. But it was hard to find the balance between poetry and facetiousness. He concentrated and began to recite Tim Turpin.

Tim Turpin he was gravel blind,

And ne’er had seen the skies:

For Nature, when his head was made,

Forgot to dot his eyes.

So like a Christmas pedagogue ‘Um. I’m so sorry.’ Brian Cassells was peering apologetically round the door.

‘Yes?’

‘Look, I’m sorry to break into your rehearsal, but I wonder if you could give me a hand to carry something.’ And So Much Comic… was shelved again.

Outside the Office stood Willy Mariello’s forlorn guitar in its black case, leaning against a large amplifier. It had been brought up from the Masonic Hall after Tuesday’s drama. By the door was a thin girl with long brown hair and those peculiarly Scottish cheeks that really do look like apples. Tension showed in the tightness of her mouth and the hollows under her eyes. ‘Charles, this is Jean Mariello. Mrs Mariello, Charles Paris.’

She nodded functionally. ‘I’ve come to collect Willy’s things.’

‘Yes. Charles, I wonder if you could give me a hand with this amplifier. If we just get it out on to the street, I’ve phoned for a taxi.’

‘O.K.’ Brian was patently embarrassed and wanted to get rid of Jean Mariello. His administrative ability did not run to dealing with recent widows.

They placed the heavy amplifier on the pavement. Willy’s wife followed with the guitar. Brian straightened up. ‘I’d better go. I’ve got some Letrasetting to get on with.’

‘What am I going to do the other end?’

Brian paused, disconcerted by her question. Charles stepped in. ‘It’s all right. I’ll go with you. I wanted to go over that way. Off Lauriston Place, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh… Oh well, that’s fine. I’ll go and get on with the… er… Letrasetting.’ Brian scuttled indoors.

Charles felt he should say something fitting. ‘I’m sorry.’

Jean Mariello shrugged. ‘Thank you.’

The taxi arrived and they travelled for a while in silence. Charles felt the need for some other inadequate condolence. ‘It must be terrible for you. We were all very shaken.’

‘Yes, it’s been a shock. But please don’t feel you have to say anything. Willy and I weren’t love’s young dream, you know.’ The accent was Scots and she spoke quietly, but there was a hard note in her voice.

‘Did you live together?’

‘Up to a point. Though one or other of us always seemed to be touring or something.’

‘You’re a musician too?’

‘Yes. I sing in folk clubs. Not Willy’s sort of music. We grew apart musically as well as everything else.’ She leant forward and tapped the glass partition. ‘If you drop us just here…’

Meadow Lane was lined with grey houses, considerably smaller than those of Coates Gardens. They had the dusty shabbiness of the Old Town. Most of the windows were shrouded with grey net. But on the house they stopped by the windows were clean and unveiled.

Charles let Jean pay the driver. She turned to him. ‘Can you manage that on your own? It’s heavy.’

It certainly was. Also an awkward size. His hands could not quite clasp round it. But he was determined to manage.

As she opened the front door, he noticed a worn stone slab over it which dated the house: 1797. Inside, however, the place had been extensively modernised. There was no sign of a fireplace in the front room, but there were new-looking central heating radiators. Everything gleamed with fresh white paint. There was even a smell of it. The room was empty of furniture, but a ladder and a pile of rubble in the corner indicated decorating in progress.

He lowered the amplifier gratefully on to the uncarpeted floor. ‘Would you mind putting it against the wall there where people can’t see it? The catch has gone on the window and I don’t want to encourage burglars.’

Another effort moved the amplifier to the required position. He stood up. Jean Mariello had left the front door open and stood with her arms folded. He was expected to go.

And he was never likely to get such a good opportunity for finding out more about Willy. No point in beating about the bush. ‘Mrs Mariello, do you think your husband was murdered?’

She was not shocked or angry, she seemed to expect the question. ‘No, I don’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘No one wanted to kill him. Listen, Willy wasn’t a particularly nice person. He was mean and lazy. But those aren’t reasons for anyone to murder someone.’