Simon Brett - So Much Blood

‘Ah, Charles, I may look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under’t. You mustn’t rule out any possibility. There, I’ve put my name down. Declaration of interests, like the Liberals keep asking M.P. s to make. Now what about you?’

‘Me?’

‘Your declaration of interest. Had you any motive to murder Willy Mariello?’

Charles laughed. ‘No.’

‘Good. Now we know where we stand.’ James Milne smiled. His reserve was gone and he looked set to enjoy the game of detection. ‘Now, what about the other forty-odd?’

‘What indeed? Presumably I must try to meet them all and find out if any of them knew Willy well. And also what he did over the weekend before he died.’

‘Yes. And how long have you got to complete this major investigation?’

‘My show finishes a week today.’

‘Hmm. I fear we may find time defeats us.’

‘Yes. I hope not.’

‘So do I. But perhaps, Charles, I hope it a little less than you.

‘Why?’

‘Because I don’t yet fully believe that we’re on to a case of murder. I’ll come along with you for the ride, but I’m not convinced of the existence of a destination.’

The Laird was going to dinner with friends, so Charles left him about seven. He was no nearer the solution of the murder, but at least he had an ally. And the cataloguing power of James Milne’s mind could be a useful complement to his own haphazard methods.

On the first-floor landing he paused. The revue piano had given up its usual stuck-in-the-groove repetition and was playing a whole tune. A girl was singing. He could not catch the lyrics, just hear the husky purity of her voice. Anna. He felt a strong desire to go into the room on some pretext just to see her. But no. She had said it was better they should keep their relationship a secret and she was right. He did not fancy the gossip and innuendo of forty students.

No. He still had the key to the flat. He’d go back there and wait for her to return and continue his rejuvenation. Later.

On the ground floor the only sign of human occupation was the presence of old socks, creeping like firedamp from the men’s dormitory. Charles was about to leave and find a pub for the evening when he heard a slight sound from the basement. He crept down the stairs towards the glow of the sitting-room.

Michael Vanderzee was slumped on the sofa with a glass in one hand and a half-full bottle of Glenmorangie malt whisky in the other. He perceived Charles’ approach blearily. ‘I didn’t know there was anyone in the house. Thought they’d all buggered off.’

‘I’ve just been having a drink with the Laird.’

‘Oh, that old poof,’ said Michael ungraciously.

Charles did not bother to challenge the gratuitous insult, though on reflection he thought it was misplaced. He had not thought before about James Milne’s sexual status, but, when he did, neuter seemed the most appropriate definition.

However, Michael was not trying to drive Charles away. On the contrary, he seemed delighted to have a witness of his lonely drinking and an audience for his self-pity.

‘Charles Paris, you may work in bullshit commercial theatre, but at least you are a professional.’ The drink accentuated the Dutchness of his voice as he delivered this back-handed compliment. ‘Surrounded by bloody amateurs in this place. It’s an impossible situation for any creative work. You can’t create with amateurs.’

Charles grunted sympathetically and sat astride a chair. ‘Have a drink,’ said Michael, feeling that perhaps he should offer his audience some reward for its attention. ‘There’s a cup on the table.’

The cup was chipped and handleless, but the malt tasted good. When he reckoned that Charles was sitting comfortably, Michael began. ‘No, I shouldn’t have taken this job. Amateurs have no concept of theatre. Look at it. This evening I should have been working, improvising, creating something, and what happens? Half my cast are rehearsing for some bloody revue, half of them are doing some dreary Shakespeare crap, half of them aren’t interested…’

‘And half of them get stabbed…’

‘Yes.’ He nodded vigorously. ‘Though he wasn’t a lot more use to me when he was alive.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Never came to bloody rehearsals. Didn’t participate in the concentration exercises or movement classes, any of the workshop stuff. I mean, how can you build an ensemble with people like that? He hadn’t any acting talent anyway.’

‘Then why did you cast him in your show?’

‘I didn’t cast him. Look, I’m offered this job-’

‘You mean you’re nothing to do with the university?’

‘Good God, no.’ Michael was severely affronted. ‘I’m a professional director. They booked me to get some professional feel into their production. And then like bloody amateurs they don’t give me enough time to get it together properly. Everyone off for other rehearsals. Do you know how long it takes to build up an ensemble?’

‘About four years?’

‘Well, four weeks anyway. And four weeks’ work. Not four weeks doing bourgeois revues and middle-class Shakespeare.’

‘No, of course not. You were saying how Willy Mariello came to be in the show…’

‘Yes. O.K., I take the job. I go to Derby to hold auditions. And already I’m told that Willy is doing the music and, since Rizzio’s a guitarist and he has a couple of songs, O.K., he’s playing Rizzio too.’

‘Who told you this?’

‘Sam Wasserman, the guy who wrote this crappy play.’

‘Is it crappy?’

‘Yes, but it doesn’t matter.’

‘Why not?’

‘My style of direction doesn’t need a good play. In fact the play can get in the way. It’s only a starting point from which the totality emerges-the iron filing dropped into the acid which produces the perfect crystal.’ He added the last image with great satisfaction, albeit dubious chemistry. Then he looked at Charles with pitying contempt. ‘I suppose you still think a play has got to have words.’

Charles smiled apologetically. There was no point in alienating such a ready source of information. ‘Yes, I am a bit of an old fuddy-duddy on that score. I expect Sam Wasserman probably thinks words are quite important too.’

‘Maybe.’

‘He sounds an interesting bloke. I’d like to meet him.’

Michael gave a snort of laughter that could have meant anything. ‘You should get a chance quite soon. He’s coming up to Edinburgh.’

‘For the opening in the Third Week?’

‘No, before that, I hope. We’ve been sending telegrams all over Europe for him. He’s going to come up and take over the part of Rizzio.’

‘Oh really.’ That was very interesting. ‘He plays guitar too?’

‘Yes. He was going to do the music for the show himself until Willy was brought in.’

‘Ah.’ That was also interesting. ‘So everything’s back to where it started?’

‘I suppose so. More drink?’

‘Thank you.’ Charles held out his cup and the malt was sloshed in like school soup. Trying desperately to sound casual, he asked, ‘What did you think of Willy Mariello?’

‘Useless, unco-operative bastard. Ruining my production. From my point of view, his death was the best thing that could have happened.’

It was an uncompromising statement of hatred. So much so that Charles felt inclined to discount it. A murderer would be more guarded

… Unless it was an elaborate double bluff… Oh dear. The further he got into the business of detection, the further certainty seemed to recede. Still, keep on probing. Try to find out some more hard facts. Again he imposed a relaxed tone on his voice. ‘Were you rehearsing last weekend?’

‘Of course. I rehearse whenever I can get my cast together. I am trying to create something, you know.’