So Much Blood

by Simon Brett

  ‘You’re lying,’ he said sharply. ‘You’re going to the North British to see Gerald Venables. You’re going to see him because you think he’s a big film producer and can help your career. In the same way that you slept with me because I direct plays, and with Willy Mariello because he was a pop star and might have useful contacts.’ He wished the accusations carried some dignity rather than sounding clumsy.

  A spark of anger came into the navy blue eyes when she started to speak, but it was quickly smothered. Her voice kept its level tone. ‘I see. You set Gerald Venables up?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And he isn’t really a film producer? The part he was talking about doesn’t exist?’

  ‘He is a sort of occasional film producer. But no, the part doesn’t exist.’

  She flared. He had hit her where it hurt most, in the career. ‘That was a dirty trick.’

  For a moment he almost felt a twinge of guilt until he reminded himself of the situation. Anna carried such conviction in her acting. She went on. ‘I suppose I should have realised that it was unwise to mix with old men. They only get clinging and jealous.’

  That stung him. ‘Good God! Do you think I set all this up as some elaborate charade to test your affection for me?’ He almost shouted the words. A tweedy middle-aged couple who were passing turned curiously.

  ‘I can’t think of any other reason why you should do it.’

  That sounded genuine, but then everything she said sounded genuine. Charles was not going to be stopped now. It was a time for truths. And accusations.

  ‘I set Gerald up to get certain information from you.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like the fact that you and Willy Mariello were lovers.’

  ‘So what? At least he was my age. You see, you are jealous. Jealous of someone who’s dead. Anyway, Willy and I were finished. It happened while we were in Derby. We thought it would continue while we were up here, but it didn’t.’

  ‘You told Gerald it did, right up to Willy’s death.’

  ‘Oh, you’ve been spying carefully. That wasn’t true. I just said that to sound more like the girl in the film.’

  That again sounded plausible. The set-up may have been too heavy, and Anna may just have given any information that seemed likely to help her to the part. But Charles was not checked. ‘Did Willy want the affair to end?’

  ‘No. He got clinging too. Kept trying to win back my affections. But I’d outgrown him.’

  ‘How did he try to win back your affections?’

  ‘Silly things.’

  ‘Like pushing Lesley Petter down the steps by the Castle?’ That did shake her. There was a long pause before she replied. ‘Yes. I suppose that was an attempt to get me back.’

  ‘Did you suggest it?’

  ‘No, I did not!’ she snapped. ‘I may have mentioned that I was understudying her, that the parts she was playing were good ones, but no . . .’

  Charles could imagine her ‘mentioning’ with all the innocence of Lady Macbeth. ‘Listen, Anna, you’re in serious trouble.’

  ‘What on earth do you mean?’

  ‘Murder is a serious business.’

  ‘What? Are you accusing me of murder?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re off your head. Whom am I supposed to have murdered?’

  ‘Willy.’

  ‘Good God.’ Now she really did look lost, stunned by the accusation. ‘It never occurred to me that he was murdered. And how in heaven’s name am I supposed to have done it? And why, for God’s sake?’

  ‘Why first. You incited Willy to nobble Lesley.’

  ‘That’s not true. It was his idea.’

  ‘Quite! He did it, thinking that you’d be grateful and bounce back into his arms. It gave him a hold over you and you were forced to go back to him.’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘But then he became, as you say, clinging. He was a nuisance, he proved to be without influence in show business circles, but he was not easy to shake off because of your shared guilt over Lesley. So you killed him.’

  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.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Even the bright extremes of joy

  Bring on conclusions of disgust,

  Like the sweet blossoms of the May,

  Whose fragrance ends in must.

  ODE TO MELANCHOLY

  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 th
ere 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.’

  ‘No, they don’t,’ said Charles pointedly, thinking of the publicity his show had got.

  But irony was wasted on Brian. ‘I’ve changed “A Disturbing New Play” to “A Macabre and Bloody Exposition of Violence by Martin Warburton”. Pity I have to hint; I’d like to add “. . . who stabbed Willy Mariello”. That’d really bring the audience in. Still, the police are probably still investigating, so we may get some more publicity.’

  Charles searched the Company Manager’s face for a trace of humour after this pronouncement, but it was not there. ‘ “Stabbed to death” rather implies a positive act, like murder, Brian. Doesn’t fit in with an accident.’

  It was a half-hearted attempt to see if the average member of D.U.D.S. harboured any suspicions about Willy’s death. Brian obviously did not. ‘Oh, that’s just semantics. You mustn’t get too hung up on meaning, you’ve got to think of the impact of words.’

  ‘Hmm. Are you going into advertising?’

  ‘I might think of it if I don’t get this Civil Service job I’m up for.’

  ‘You’d be very good at it.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Again totally unaware that a remark could be taken two ways.

  ‘Actually I wanted to talk about money.’ They arranged that Brian would send a cheque to London when the miserable fifty per cent of the miserable box office was worked out. Charles was not expecting much; in fact he could work out exactly how much by simple arithmetic; but he preferred not to. That always left the possibility of a pleasant surprise.

  But he knew the payment would not begin to cover his expenses. It hurt to think how much lavish meals for Anna figured on those expenses. The classic fall-guy, the duped sugar-daddy—he felt a wave of self-distaste.

  Have to make some more money somehow. Maybe the B.B.C. P.A.s’ strike would soon be over and the telly series would happen. It was the first time he had thought outside Edinburgh since he arrived. A line echoed in his mind. ‘There is a world elsewhere.’ Was it Shakespeare? He could not recall. But it was melancholy and calming.

  He hoped to leave Coates Gardens without meeting James Milne, but failed. So he was left with the unattractive prospect of Sherlock Holmes telling Dr Watson that he had given up investigation.

  ‘Anything new?’ the Laird hissed eagerly as they met in the hall. He swivelled his white head left and right in an elaborate precaution against eavesdroppers. Charles was getting sick of enthusiastic amateur sleuths—Gerald with his inept slang, James Milne with his melodramatic whispering.

  ‘No, not a lot.’ He tried unsuccessfully to make it sound as if that exhausted the subject.

  ‘You haven’t been following Martin again?’

  ‘No, I’ve . . . er . . . no.’ He had not mentioned any suspicions of Anna to his confidant and it seemed pointless to start just as the Dr Watson role was becoming redundant.

  ‘But you must have been following some line of investigation the last couple of days.’

  ‘Yes, I have, but I . . . don’t really want to talk about it.’

  ‘Something personal?’

  ‘Yes, I found it involved someone I knew well and . . .’ He hoped that might edge the conversation in another direction. The Laird’s old-fashioned values would surely respect a chap’s discretion about his private affairs. I mean, dash it all, when there’s a lady in the case . . .

  But James Milne’s curiosity was stronger than his gentlemanly outlook. ‘And where are those suspicions leading you?’ he asked with some excitement.

  ‘Nowhere. Well, I mean they’ve led anywhere they’re going to lead. And produced nothing. I just want to forget about the case now.’

  The Laird looked at him quizzically. ‘But you were so keen on it before. I mean, it was your idea that there was anything to investigate. And now you’ve managed to persuade me there’s something
in it. You can’t just drop it.’

  ‘I can. I have.’

  ‘But don’t you think we ought to do some more investigation of Martin’s movements and behaviour?’

  ‘Sorry. I’ve lost interest.’

  ‘Oh. And you’re leaving tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Ah. Well, I’d better return your Hood.’ James Milne ignored Charles’ remonstrance that it didn’t matter, found the volume immediately and handed it over.

  ‘Enjoy it?’ Charles saw a way out of the awkwardness into the impersonal area of literary criticism.

  ‘Yes,’ came the morose reply.

  ‘Amazing feeling for words.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There’s a lot of discussion as to whether it’s a purely comic gift. I mean, in some cases a pun does reinforce a serious statement. You know, like that line from A Friendly Address to Mrs Fry. “But I don’t like your Newgatory teaching.”’

  ‘Yes.’ The Laird responded in a predictably brighter tone.

  Charles pressed home his advantage. ‘And some of the wholly serious poems aren’t bad. Did you try The Plea of the Midsummer Fairies?’

  ‘Yes. Sub-Keats, I thought.’

  ‘Right. But The Song of the Shirt’s O.K. if hackneyed, and The Bridge of Sighs is quite moving. And did you read The Dream of Eugene Aram?’

  ‘No,’ said the Laird, ‘I’ve never heard of it,’ and relapsed into gloom. Charles felt churlish for his proposed defection. He needed to soften the blow of his departure. ‘Look, let’s meet for a farewell drink in the morning. At the pub by the Masonic Hall. See you there about eleven. Before my last lunch time. O.K.?’

  The Laird nodded, but he looked downcast and Charles felt that he had let the man down.

  Dinner with Frances was refreshing in that, unlike Gerald Venables and James Milne, she did not encourage him to continue with his detective work. In fact, when he gave her a selective résumé of his investigations, she positively discouraged him. Murder, in her view, was an extremely unpleasant business, and when inadvertently it did occur, it belonged by right to the police and not to untrained amateurs. It could be very dangerous. Although they were separated, Frances retained a maternal protective instinct for her husband. This regularly manifested itself in warm socks and sensible Marks and Spencer shirts for birthdays and Christmas.