Simon Brett - So Much Blood

She was staring at him now in frank amazement. ‘And how am I supposed to have done the murder?’

He recapitulated all the business of the knives lying unattended at Coates Gardens before the killing. ‘It was a long chance. The switch was likely to be discovered before the photo-call. But it might work. And it did.’

Anna gave a slight smile. ‘But surely, if, as you say, Willy and I were back together, I would have been sleeping at his place and gone straight to the Hall for rehearsal. I wouldn’t have gone to Coates Gardens at all during the relevant period.’

That was a blow to Charles’ logic. But she had lied so much that she might be lying over that as well. ‘You could have crept out in the night.’

‘Oh yes, informed by some psychic source that the knives were lying there?’

‘Yes,’ he asserted, conviction wavering.

‘Well, you’re wrong. I wasn’t sleeping with Willy. But I do have an alibi for the period. I spent that night in the Lawnmarket flat with someone else.’

‘Who?’

‘Its owner. A bloke called Lestor Wanewright. He was the reason I broke off with Willy. I met him out in Nice while I was on holiday. He has a villa there. We came back here together and he stayed until he had to return to London on business. That was on the morning of Willy’s death. Lestor went straight to Waverley Station and I went straight to the Masonic Hall for rehearsal.’

‘Why should I believe that?’

‘You can check it. Lestor works for his father in London. Wanewright’s, the merchant bank.’

‘But you took up with me only two days later.’

She shrugged. ‘Aren’t you flattered?’

‘No. You only wanted me for what I could do for you.’

‘Yes. I quite liked you too.’

‘Oh yes.’ There was no danger of his believing anything she said now. Except about Lestor Wanewright. That rang true. If she just wanted an alibi, she had got it with Charles’ own assumption that she had been with Willy (a flaw he had overlooked in his argument). The fact that she gave a checkable alibi with Lestor Wanewright meant it was true.

‘Goodbye. Charles. I don’t think we’ll see a lot of each other now.

‘No.’

She walked off, still brisk and purposeful. Lovely, but not human. Charles leant back against the North British Hotel wall and let the warring emotions inside him fight it out for themselves.

One thing he was sure of. Anna Duncan was a dishonest bitch and a whore. But she was not a murderer.

When the long night ended and light returned, Edinburgh had lost its charm. The bubbling spirits with which Charles had arrived had been ebbing for days and the previous evening’s events had finally flushed them away. Unsustained by hope and excitement, he felt tired and miserable. And above all, he felt stupid. He saw himself from the outside-a middle-aged man infatuated with a young girl, thinking she could halt the processes of time. He was a figure of fun from a Restoration comedy, the elderly dupe, no doubt dubbed with some unsubtle name like Sir Paltry Effort. The more he thought about the fantasies he’d had of himself and Anna, the way his mind had raced on, the more depressed he felt. Overnight his new lease of life had been replaced by an eviction order.

At about nine he rang Frances. He convinced himself he rang so early to catch her before she went out to the eleven o’clock concert of Mahler songs at Leith Town Hall; not because in his abject state he needed her understanding.

They fixed to meet for dinner, as if it were a casual arrangement. But she knew something had happened and he rang off curtly to stem the flow of sympathy down the phone. He was not ready for that yet.

Then there was Gerald to sort out. Charles did not want to lose a friend over some bloody woman at his age. He went to the North British and summoned the solicitor from a late breakfast.

Gerald came into the hotel foyer wiping his mouth and blushing vigorously. ‘Charles, hello,’ he said with manufactured bonhomie.

‘Hello. I came to thank you for last night.’

‘Oh… um. It was… er… nothing. I hope I got you the information you wanted.’

‘Yes. It proved I was on the wrong track.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

‘Mind you, that was a relief in a way.’

‘Ah.’ Gerald looked at him in silence, uncertainly, as if he half-expected to be punched on the nose. ‘Look, old man, about the.. er… other business…’

‘Forgotten it already.’

‘Oh good. But, you know, it’s the sort of thing that… er.. well, it was just a joke, but it’s the sort of thing… I mean, the girl did seem to be virtually offering herself…’

‘I know.’

‘Yes. But it’s sort of… not the sort of thing to make jokes about. I mean, say you were at home… with us. Kate’s got a… you know… a rather limited sense of humour in some ways.

‘It’ll never be mentioned.’

‘Oh good.’ Relief flooded into Gerald and he seemed to swell to fill his expensive suit. ‘Care for a cup of coffee?’

When they were seated with their cups, the solicitor started asking about the case.

‘I don’t know,’ Charles replied despondently. ‘I was working on the theory that Anna had done it.’

‘Good God. I thought you just wanted information out of her.’

‘Otherwise you wouldn’t have been so anxious to lure her back to your bed?’

‘Charles! You said you wouldn’t mention it.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘So who’s the next suspect? Who are you going to turn the heat on now?’

‘God knows. I can’t think beyond Anna. All my other lines of enquiry are confused. Anyway, my last performance is tomorrow. Now all I want to do is get the hell out of Edinburgh.’

‘But what about the case?’

‘I don’t even know if there is a case. Suppose Willy Mariello died by an accident? That’s what everyone else thinks. Why shouldn’t they be right?’

‘But Charles, your instinct-’

‘Bugger my instinct. Look, even if it wasn’t an accident, who cares? No one’s mourned Willy much. One slob less, what does it matter if he was murdered? It’s certainly not my business.’

‘You mustn’t take that attitude.’

‘Why not?’ he snapped. ‘I’m an actor, not a detective. If I were a detective, I’d have been sacked years ago for incompetence. There are some things one can do and some one can’t. It’s just a question of recognising that fact before you make a fool of yourself. And I now know that I have as much aptitude for detective work as a eunuch has for rape.’

‘So you don’t think you’ll pursue the case?’

‘No.’

‘Hmm. I’m getting a plane back shortly.’

‘Yes. Well, thanks for your help.’

‘It was nothing.’

‘See you in London, Gerald.’

‘And if you change your mind, and do go on investigating, let me know how you get on.

‘Sure. Cheerio.’ Charles slouched out of the hotel.

Apparently he did a reasonable performance of So Much Comic, So Much Blood to an audience of one hundred and twenty at lunch time. He did not really notice it. All he was thinking was how soon he could get out of Edinburgh.

That involved tying up professional loose ends. Which meant a call on Brian Cassells at Coates Gardens. Charles hoped that the Mary cast were rehearsing at the Masonic Hall; he did not want to meet Anna Duncan. Ever again.

His hope proved justified. The house was unusually quiet. The Company Manager was in his office, as usual pressing Letraset on to sheets of paper. ‘Thought we might need a bit of puff for Who Now? Opens on Monday in your lunch time slot. Got to keep ahead in the publicity game or no one knows a show’s on.’