Simon Brett - So Much Blood

‘Anything I can do?’ There was immediate excitement in the voice. Gerald, who spent his entire life dealing with the peccadilloes of contract-breaking in his show-business legal firm, was fascinated by what he called ‘real’ crime. He had a Boy’s Own Paper enthusiasm for anything shady. ‘Wills to check out, blood samples to analyse, stool pigeons to third degree, hit-men to rub out? You name it, I’ll do my best.’

Charles wished he could share this detective fiction relish for the case; it all seemed depressingly real to him. ‘There is something you can do for me. I’m afraid it involves coming up to Edinburgh.’

‘That’s all right. One of my clients is in the Actors’ Company Tartuffe. There’s a film contract on the way for him. I could arrange to have to come up and discuss it.’

‘Is it urgent?’

‘No. But he’s not to know that.’

‘You mean he’s going to be footing your bill?’ Charles had to remonstrate on behalf of a fellow actor.

‘Don’t worry. You should see the money they’re paying him for the movie. And he can set me against tax. Really I’m doing him a service.’

‘Hmm.’ There was never any point in arguing with Gerald on money, it was a subject he had made his own. ‘Look, how soon do you think you can get up?’

‘If Polly can fix me a flight, I’ll be up this evening.’ It was typical of Gerald that he would not insult his client’s money by contemplating rail travel.

But it was good from Charles’ point of view. ‘Good. If you can make it, there’s a revue I’d like you to see at eleven o’clock. Oh, and could you bring one of your little cassette recorders?’

‘Conversation you want to tape?’

‘That’s it.’

‘Secretly?’

‘Exactly. Do you think you’ll be able to make it tonight?’

‘Do my best. Can I ring you back?’

‘No, I’m in a call-box.’

‘Ring me again in an hour and I’ll tell you what gives.’

Charles had decided that he could not face another night with Anna until his suspicions had been exorcised. Then, he kept telling himself, then we can bounce back together again and it’ll be even better. Maybe he’d stay in Edinburgh longer than his week. Maybe even away from Edinburgh they could…

But not till this was sorted out.

He left the call-box and went down Cockburn Street to the Accommodation Bureau. He picked up his bag from Coates Gardens and by five o’clock was installed with Mrs Butt in the Aberdour Guest House in Dublin Street, booked for two nights.

He rang Gerald’s office from Mrs Butt’s pay-phone. Polly’s efficiency had worked wonders and her boss was already in a taxi on the way to Heathrow. He would reach the Princes Street terminal in a coach from Edinburgh (Turnhouse) Airport at about ten.

The next move involved seeing Anna. After a couple of bracing whiskies in a Rose Street pub, he went back to Coates Gardens, where, as he anticipated, another cabbage dinner was drawing to its blancmangy end. He signalled to Anna, who left the table discreetly and met him in the empty hall.

The lie slipped out easily. ‘Look, I’m sorry. Can’t come tonight. An old friend called Alastair Newton came to see the show at lunch time. He’s invited me to dinner at his place. It’s some way outside Edinburgh, so he suggested I stay the night there and he’ll give me a lift in in the morning. It’s a bugger, but I can’t really get out of it.’

Anna looked disappointed, which did not make the deception any easier. Then she grinned. ‘I could do with some sleep, anyway.’

He grinned too. She was beautiful and the navy blue eyes looked so open and honest, he wished the script of the last few days could be rewritten and all the promptings of suspicion cut out. He felt confident that it would be all right. Probably they would even be able to laugh about it afterwards.

‘But tomorrow…’ he hazarded, ‘be O.K. if I come round after the revue as per usual?’

‘As per usual. Of course.’ There was a lot of warmth in her voice. But she was still discreet and did not want them to be seen together. ‘Better get back.’

As she turned to go, he took her hand and leant forward to kiss her. Their lips came together.

A creak on the stairs from the basement made Charles recoil guiltily. Anna as usual kept her cool and glanced towards the person who was staring at them. She looked back at Charles. ‘See you then, then.’ With unruffled poise she went back to the dining-room. Martin Warburton stood aside to let her pass, looked at Charles, gave one of his abrupt laughs and hurried out of the front door, slamming it behind him.

It didn’t matter. Anna was the one who wanted to keep the affair quiet, and somebody was bound to twig sooner or later.

Charles remembered that he had left his toothbrush in the first-floor bathroom. On the landing he met James Milne hurrying angrily downstairs. ‘Oh hello, Charles. I’ve spoken to them before about slamming that door. Not only is it bad for the actual door, it also disturbs the neighbours and I get complaints. Did you see who it was?’

‘It was Martin Warburton.’

‘Ah.’ The Laird’s tone changed from angry to confidential. ‘Actually I wanted to talk to you about Martin Warburton. Come upstairs and have a drink.’

‘Have to be quick. I’ve got to go out to dinner.’ It was important to maintain the lie.

‘Won’t take long.’

More malt in the leather-bound library. The Laird stood by his marble mantlepiece to give drama to his pronouncement. ‘Further to our discussion about Martin’s disguise, I followed him this morning.’

‘From here?’

‘Yes, all the way to Nicholson Street as you described. I waited and he came out with the beard and what have you, and then I followed him again. Guess where he went this time?’

‘Not a clue.’ Charles found it difficult to get excited about Martin’s bizarre doings. He had decided that they were irrelevant to the investigation.

‘The Palace of Holyroodhouse,’ said James Milne dramatically. ‘Now why should he go to the National Portrait Gallery and Holyrood in disguise?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe he’s embarrassed about being a tourist.’

This flippant answer was not well received by the Laird who thought that Martin was definitely the murderer. Charles wished he could share that simple faith; it would be a relief from the forbidding tangle of thoughts that filled his head. But he did not feel inclined to tell his confidant what he knew. It would be better to play along with this Martin theory.

James Milne elaborated. ‘I think there’s some strange tie-up in his mind. It’s all connected with the Mary, Queen of Scots story, I’m sure. Rizzio was only the first of a sequence of murders of people close to that particular lady.’

‘I’m a bit hazy about the details of her life. I just remember that she was very tall and when they executed her they lifted the head up and her wig came off.’

‘What unusual details you pick on, Charles. I’m sure one of your psychologists would have something to say about the selective processes of your mind. But let me tell you, there’s quite a lot more significant stuff in the unfortunate queen’s story. I know it fairly well-as a schoolboy I spent one long wet holiday at Glenloan reading everything available on the subject. As you probably know, Mary was the daughter of James V of Scotland and Mary of Guise-’

Charles was in no mood for a schoolmaster’s lecture. Worry made him less tolerant than usual. ‘James, I’m sorry. I do have to go.

‘Well, let me lend you a book on the subject. I won’t give you one of my heavy schoolboy tomes. But there’s Antonia Fraser’s biography. Popular, but none the worse for that.’ His mental catalogue took him straight to the right volume on the shelf.