So Much Blood

by Simon Brett

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Look at me—on this case I miss out the obvious solution just because Martin’s someone I like and feel sympathy for. Instead I go off into wild suspicions of more or less everyone else I meet.’ The atmosphere between them was friendly enough for a confession. ‘Do you know, I even suspected you at one point.’

  ‘Really? Why?’

  ‘God knows. My mind wasn’t working very well. I suspected everybody. Still, even if we didn’t know about Martin’s bomb factory, I think I’d have to cross you off my list now. The average murderer doesn’t deliberately try to get himself blown up.’

  ‘No.’ They laughed.

  Then Charles sighed. ‘I wish I’d got it all a bit more sorted out in my mind. I mean, it’s now clear that Martin planted the bomb, and presumably planned Willy’s death as well, but I still don’t see exactly why.’

  ‘He was unbalanced.’

  ‘Yes, but . . . I don’t know. I suppose I’ve got a tidy mind, but I’d like to find some sort of method in his madness, some logical sequence.

  ‘What about the Mary, Queen of Scots thing I suggested a few days ago?’

  ‘That would explain the Mariello stabbing, I suppose. Willy was playing Rizzio, so there might be some identification there, but what about the bomb?’

  ‘Darnley was blown up with gunpowder, Charles.’

  ‘Was he? Good God.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure he was. At the instigation of Bothwell, as I recall.’

  ‘Bothwell? But that’s who Martin’s playing in Mary, Queen of Sots. And . . . yes . . . he talked to me once about how easy it was to identify with people from history.’

  ‘There you are then.’

  ‘Let’s work it out. He’s in this show about Mary, Queen of Scots and gets obsessively involved with her life . . .’

  ‘A life surrounded by intrigue and murder.’

  ‘Exactly. He identifies with Bothwell and—I say, it’s just struck me. I bet there’s a portrait of Bothwell in the Scottish National Portrait Gallery.’

  The Laird nodded excitedly. ‘There is. It’s a miniature. And it’s the only extant picture of him.’

  ‘Yes.’ Charles pieced it together slowly. ‘Right. Martin identifies so completely that, in his confused mind, he becomes Bothwell and Sam Wasserman’s awful play becomes reality. And that reality suits his existing obsessions about violence.’

  ‘So Rizzio has to be stabbed. Willy Mariello doesn’t exist for Martin; he actually is David Rizzio. And Martin must have said something that made Willy afraid of him, which explains what Willy told me in the Truth Game. By a stroke of luck, the stabbing looks like an accident, and so Martin is free to plan his next murder, that of Darnley . . .’ His racing thoughts were suddenly brought up short. ‘But that’s strange. If he was living the reality of the play, why did he identify me with Darnley and not the bloke who’s actually playing the part?’

  ‘Perhaps he was just getting a bit confused,’ the Laird offered.

  ‘That’s a bit lame. I’m sure if the obsession’s as complicated as it seems to be, there must be some logic behind it, some sort of crazy justification for his action.’

  ‘You don’t think there’s anything missing in the historical Mary story?’

  ‘I don’t know. What happened to Bothwell in the end?’

  ‘I think he died in prison. Insane.’

  Charles smiled grimly. ‘I’m afraid that part of the identification could be horribly apt too. No, there’s something we’re missing. Why does he turn on me as Darnley?’

  ‘Because he thinks you’re on his trail?’

  ‘Doesn’t really fit the historical obsession bit. Unless . . .’ The solution flashed into his mind. ‘Good God! Anna!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Anna Duncan. She’s playing Mary. And Willy Mariello had an affair with her. Martin must have seen them together and killed him out of jealousy. And then me. He saw us together downstairs a couple of days ago.’

  ‘You and Anna?’

  Charles felt himself blushing, but the picture was developing too quickly for him to be discreet. ‘Yes, we were having an affair, and after he saw us together, he started to identify me with Darnley. So I had to be blown up.’

  ‘Leaving Anna to him?’

  ‘I suppose so. But don’t you see, James, this may give us a lead on what he’s likely to do next.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Who’s the next person to be murdered in the Mary, Queen of Scots saga?’

  The Laird pondered with infuriating slowness. ‘Well, I think actual murders are a bit thin on the ground after Darnley. There are plots and battles, but I don’t think any more major figures were actually murdered.’

  ‘None at all?’

  ‘No. Well, not until Mary herself had her head cut off. There are a lot of Scots who still regard that as a murder.’

  Charles sprang to his feet with a feeling of nausea in his throat. ‘No! I must get to the Lawnmarket.’ All he could think of was the fact that among other weapons in the Nicholson Street flat the police had found a meat cleaver.

  He was so relieved to see Anna open the door of the flat that it took a moment before he realised the situation’s inherent awkwardness. She looked at him and the Laird without emotion. ‘Good morning.’

  Urgency overcame Charles’ embarrassment. ‘Have you seen Martin?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What, here?’

  ‘Yes, he was here.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘He left about half an hour ago.’

  ‘And how long had he been here?’

  A hard look came into the navy blue eyes. ‘Listen, if you’re playing another of your elaborate games—’

  ‘I’m not. This is serious. We’ve got to find Martin. He’s in a dangerous state.’

  ‘Certainly in a strange state. He was babbling on about the police being after him or something.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They want him for the murder of Willy Mariello and the attempted murder of Charles Paris.’

  Her mouth fell open and an expression of frozen horror came over her face. Charles realised it was the first spontaneous reaction he had ever seen from her.

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘I don’t know, Charles. He came here last night in an awful state and begged to stay. I thought he was mad, so I didn’t argue.’

  ‘Just as well. I think you were next on his list.’

  ‘What?’ She started to cry with shock, and looked human and ugly. But Charles did not have time to notice. ‘Have you any idea where he was going?’

  ‘No, but he was dressed up.’

  ‘Disguised?’

  ‘Yes. I thought he was joking when he suggested it, but he was so fierce and insistent that I let him have the stuff.’

  ‘What stuff?’

  ‘A smock and a handbag of mine. And a curly dark wig I’ve got. And my sunglasses.’

  ‘He was wearing all that when he left?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He turned to rush away.

  ‘Charles?’ she whispered.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you think he really might have murdered me?’

  ‘Yes, Anna. I do.’

  As he ran down the steps from Lady Stair’s Close towards Waverley Station, he knew it was a long chance, but he could not think of anywhere else to go. If Martin wanted to get out of Edinburgh, that was the quickest way. Charles had a feeling that there was a London train at two o’clock. In twenty minutes.

  The cold sweaty feeling of his hangover mixed with the hot sweaty feeling of running. Ambling tourists turned bewildered faces towards the middle-aged man pelting down the road in the calm of a Sunday afternoon. James Milne was a long way behind him, doing the ungainly penguin run of a man with things in his pockets.

  Charles sped down the taxi-ramp into Waverley Station and halted in the sudden cool shade, gasping to get
his breath. Then he moved slowly towards Platform 1/19 where the London train would leave. It had not yet arrived.

  He stalked along the railings that ran the length of the platform and peered through at the passengers, who stood waiting with their luggage. They all looked extremely ordinary. He walked on. The women were very womanly.

  He stopped and looked at one back view again. The clothes were right. Red smock, blue jeans, curly hair, handbag dangling casually from one hand. It must be.

  But he hesitated. There was something so feminine about the stance. And no trace of anxiety.

  But it must be. Martin’s chameleon-like ability to take on another personality would enable him to stand differently, to think himself so much into the part that he was a woman. Any actor could do it to a degree and a psychopath could do it completely.

  Charles moved with organised stealth. He bought a platform ticket and walked through the barrier. Then he advanced slowly towards the ‘woman’. People peered along the line and started to gather up their luggage. The train was coming. He quickened his pace.

  He was standing just behind his quarry when the train slid protesting into the station. Even close to, the figure looked womanly. Charles waited a moment; he did not want to risk a suicide under the oncoming wheels. But as the passing windows slowed to a halt, he stepped forward. The curly head was close to his face. ‘Martin,’ he said firmly.

  The violence of the blow on his chest took him by surprise. He had time to register the skill of the boy’s make-up as he fell over backwards.

  The shove winded him and it was a moment before he could pick himself up again. By that time Martin had charged the barrier and was rushing through the dazed crowd in the main station. Charles set off in gasping pursuit.

  The boy was at least two hundred yards ahead when Charles emerged into the sunlight, and running up the hill which the older man had just descended. Martin was young and fit and moving with the pace of desperation. Charles was hopelessly out of condition on the steep gradient and could feel the gap between them widening.

  Then he had what seemed like a stroke of luck. Martin was keeping to the right of the road as if he intended to veer off down the Mound into Princes Street where he would soon be lost in the tourist crowds. But suddenly he stopped. Charles could see the reason. James Milne was standing in his path. Martin seemed frozen for a moment, then sprang sideways, crossed the road and ran on up the steps to the Lawnmarket, retracing Charles’ footsteps.

  In fact, going straight back to Anna’s flat.

  Realisation of the girl’s danger gave Charles a burst of adrenalin, and he surged forward. As he passed the Laird on the steps he heard the older man gasp something about getting the police.

  Martin was spread-eagled against the door in Lawnmarket when Charles emerged from Lady Stair’s Close. The boy was hammering with his fists, but Anna had not opened the door yet. No doubt she was on her way down the five flights of steps. Charles screamed out Martin’s name, turning the heads of a party of Japanese in tam o’shanters.

  The youth turned round as if he had been shot and froze again like a rabbit in a car’s headlights, unable to make up his mind. Charles moved purposefully forward. It had to be now; he had no energy left for a further chase.

  He was almost close enough to touch Martin, he could see the confusion in the young eyes, when suddenly the youth did another sidestep and started running again. Charles lumbered off in pursuit, cursing. If Martin made it down to the Grassmarket, he could easily lose his exhausted hunter in the network of little streets of the Old Town.

  But Martin did not do that. He did something much more worrying.

  Instead of breaking for the freedom of the Grassmarket, he ran back across the road and up towards the Castle. In other words, he ran straight into a dead end. With a new cold feeling of fear, Charles hurried after him, up between the Tattoo stands on the Esplanade and into the Castle.

  The fear proved justified. He found Martin standing on the ramparts at the first level, where great black guns point out over the New Town to the silver flash of the Firth of Forth. A gaping crowd of tourists watched the boy in silence as he pulled off the wig and smock and dropped them into the void.

  Charles eased himself up on to the rampart and edged along it, trying not to see the tiny trees and beetle people in Princes Street Gardens below. ‘Martin.’

  The look that was turned on him was strangely serene. So was the voice that echoed him. ‘Martin. Yes, Martin. Martin Warburton. That’s who I am.’ The youth wiped the lipstick from his mouth roughly with the back of his hand. ‘Martin Warburton I began and Martin Warburton I will end.’

  ‘Yes, but not yet. You’ve got a long time yet. A lot to enjoy. You need help, and there are people who will give you help.’

  Martin’s eyes narrowed. ‘The police are after me.’

  ‘I know, but they only want to help you too.’ This was greeted by a snort of laughter. ‘They do. Really. We all want to help. Just talk. You can talk to me.’

  Martin looked at him suspiciously. Charles felt conscious of the sun, the beautiful view of Edinburgh spread out below them. A peaceful Sunday afternoon in the middle of the Festival. And a young man with thoughts of suicide. ‘Don’t do it, Martin. All the pressures you feel, they’re not your fault. You can’t help it.’

  ‘Original Sin,’ said the boy, as if it were a great joke. ‘I am totally evil.’

  ‘No.’

  For a moment there was hesitation in the eyes. Charles pressed his advantage. ‘Come down from there and talk. It’ll all seem better if you talk about it.’

  ‘Talk? What about the police?’ Martin was wavering.

  ‘Don’t worry about the police.’

  Martin took a step towards him. Their eyes were interlocked. The boy’s were calm and dull; then suddenly they disengaged and looked at something over Charles’ shoulder. Charles turned to see that two policemen had joined the edge of the growing crowd.

  When he looked back, he saw Martin Warburton launch himself forward like a swimmer at the start of a race.

  But there was no water and it was a long way down.

  And Brian Cassells got another good publicity story.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  A plague, say I, on all rods and lines, and on young

  or old watery danglers!

  And after all that you’ll talk of such stuff as no harm

  in the world about anglers!

  And when all is done, all our worry and fuss, why,

  we’ve never had nothing worth dishing;

  So you see, Mr Walton, no good comes at last of your

  famous book about fishing.

  A RISE AT THE FATHER OF ANGLING

  CHARLES WATCHED THE sun-gold surface of the burn change in seconds to dull brown and then become pockmarked with heavy drops of rain. He heard a rustle of P.V.C. behind him as Frances tried to rearrange her position at the foot of the tree to keep the maximum amount of water off her book. The rain was no less cheering than the sun.

  As he knew from previous experience, if you do not like rain, there’s no point in going to the West Coast of Scotland. The whole area is wet. Wet underfoot like the surface of a great sponge. Everywhere the ground is intersected with tiny streams and it is never completely silent; there is always the subtle accompaniment of running water. The wetness is not the depressing damp of soggy socks and smelly raincoats; it is stimulating like the sharp kiss of mist on the cheek. And it is very relaxing.

  Charles twitched his anorak hood over his head and thought how unrelaxed he still felt. Suffering from anoraksia nervosa, his mind suggested pertly, while he tried to tell it to calm down. But it kept throwing up irrelevant puns, thoughts and ideas. He knew the symptoms. It was always like this after the run of a show. A slow process of unwinding when the brain kept working overtime and took longer than the body to relax.

  The body was doing well; it appreciated the holiday. Clachenmore was a beautiful place, though it hardly seemed
worth putting on the map, it was so small. Apart from a tiny cottage given the unlikely title of ‘The Post Office’, there was just the hotel, a solid whitewashed square with a pair of antlers over the door. Every window offered gratuitously beautiful views—up to the rich curve of the heathery hills, sideways to the woods that surrounded the burn (free fishing for residents), down over the vivid green fields to the misty gleam of Loch Fyne.

  So the situation was relaxing. And being with Frances was relaxing. Arriving at a strange hotel with an ex-wife has got the naughty excitement of a dirty weekend with a non-wife, but with more security. And Frances was being very good, not talking about defining their position and not saying were they actually going to get a divorce because it wasn’t easy for her being sort of half-married and half-unmarried and what chance did she have of meeting someone else well no one in particular but one did meet people, and all that. She seemed content to enjoy the current domestic idyll and not think about the future. A line from one of Hood’s letters came into his mind. ‘My domestic habits are very domestic indeed; like Charity I begin at home, and end there; so Faith and Hope must call upon me, if they wish to meet.’

  But he did not feel relaxed. He did not mind lines of Hood flashing into his head; that was natural; it always happened after a show; but there were other thoughts that came unbidden and were less welcome. He closed his eyes and all he could see were the writhing coils of the fat grey earthworms he had dug for bait that morning. That was not good; it made him think of worms and epitaphs. What would Martin Warburton’s epitaph be? He opened his eyes.

  The fish seemed to have stopped biting. Earlier in the day he had a good tug on his borrowed tackle and with excitement reeled in a brown trout all of five inches long. Since his most recent experience had been of coarse fishing, he had forgotten how vigorous even tiny trout were. But since then they had stopped biting. Perhaps it was the weather. Or he was fishing in the wrong place.

  Even with the rain distorting its surface, the pool where he was did not look deep enough to contain anything very large. But there were supposed to be salmon there. So said Mr Pilch from Coventry who came up to Clachenmore every summer with the family and who liked to pontificate in the lounge after dinner. ‘Oh yes, you want to ask Tam the gamekeeper about that. Actually, he’s not only the game-keeper, he’s also the local poacher. Only been working on the estate for about five years, but he knows every pool of that burn. Good Lord, I’ve seen some monster salmon he’s caught. They put them in the hotel deep-freeze. Mind you . . .’ Here he had paused to attend to his pipe, an aluminium and plastic device that looked like an important but inexplicable electronic component. He had unscrewed something and squeezed a spongeful of nicotine into the coal-bucket. ‘Mind you, what you mustn’t do is ask how Tam catches the fish. Oh no, I believe there are rules in fishing circles. But, you know, he goes through the water in these waders stalking them, and he can tell the pools they’re in—don’t know how he does it, mind—and he’s got these snares and things, and his ripper. It’s a sort of cord with a lot of treble hooks on. Well, he whips them out of the water on to the bank and then gets the Priest out—you know why it’s called the Priest? It gives the fish their last rites. Vicious little device it is, short stick with a weighted end. Anyway, down this comes on the fish’s head and that’s another for the deep freeze. Highly illegal, but highly delicious, eh?’