So Much Blood

by Simon Brett

  However the salmon were playing hard to get. So were the trout. So, come to that, were any fresh water shrimps that might be around. Obviously the recommended bunch of worms on a large hook ledgered to the bottom was an insufficient inducement. Charles turned to Frances, and put on his schoolboy party-piece voice. ‘A recitation—The Angler’s Farewell by Thomas Hood.

  “Not a trout there be in the place,

  Not a Grayling or Rud worth the mention,

  And although at my hook

  With attention I look

  I can ne’er see my hook with a Tench on!”’

  Frances clapped and he bowed smugly. ‘Ithangyoulthangyou, and for my next trick, I was thinking of going for a walk to work off some of Mrs Parker’s enormous breakfast in anticipation of her no doubt enormous lunch. Do you want to come?’

  ‘I’m nearly at the end of this book actually and I’m quite cosy.’ She looked cosy, tarpaulined in P.V.C. mac and sou’wester, crouched like a garden gnome at the foot of the tree.

  ‘O.K. What are you reading?’

  ‘Your Mary, Queen of Scots.’

  ‘Oh Lord. That’s not my book. I should have given it back. Borrowed it from someone in Edinburgh. Ha, that reminds me of Anatole France.’

  ‘Hm?’

  ‘“Never lend books, for no one ever returns them; the only books I have in my library are those that other people have lent me.” A quote.’

  ‘I didn’t know you were given to gratuitous quotation.’

  ‘The bloke who lent me the book would have appreciated it.’

  Some Victorian spirit of Nile-source-searching prompted him to go upstream towards the spring that fed the little burn. Any hopes of finding the source before lunch were soon dashed by the stream’s unwillingness to get any narrower and the steepness of the gradient down which it came. Centuries of roaring water had driven a deep cleft into the rock. Tumbled boulders enclosed dark brown pools, fed from above by broad creamy torrents or silver threads of water.

  The banks were muddy and the rocks he had to climb over shone treacherously. More than once he had to reach out and grasp at tussocks of grass to stop himself from slipping.

  At last he came to a part of the burn that seemed quieter than the rest. There was still the rush of water, but it was muffled by trees arching and joining overhead, which spread a green light on the scene. Here were three symmetrical round pools, neatly stepped like soup plates up a waiter’s arm.

  He identified the place from Mr Pilch’s descriptions in the lounge after dinner. ‘Some of the pools up there are incredibly deep, just worn down into the solid rock by constant water pressure. Makes you wonder whether we take sufficient notice of the potential of hydro-jet drilling, eh? Mind you, it takes a few centuries. Still, some of those pools are supposed to be twenty feet deep. Tam claims to have caught salmon up there, though I can’t for the life of me imagine how they get that high. Maybe by doing those remarkable leaps you see on the tourist posters, eh?’

  But Charles did not want to think about Pilch. The enclosing trees and the muffled rush of water made the place like a fairy cave. It was magical and, in a strange way, calming. Puffed by the climb, he squatted on his heels at the foot of a tree, and started to face the thoughts which regrettably showed no signs of going away.

  He knew why he was restless. It was because the explanations he had formed for recent events in Edinburgh were incomplete. Now Martin Warburton was dead, that situation looked permanent. The frustration was like getting within four answers of a completed crossword and knowing from the clues that he had no hope of filling the gaps. He could put down any combination of letters that sounded reasonable, but he would not have the satisfaction of knowing he was right. And with this particular crossword, there would not be a correct solution published in the following morning’s paper.

  It was partly his own fault for wanting a clear-cut answer rather than the frayed ends of reality. A basic misconception, like his idea that the police were way behind on the case.

  But he could not get away from the fact that the tie-up of Martin’s motivations which he and the Laird had worked out was unsatisfactory. There were too many loose ends, stray facts that he had found out and still required explanations. Though the main outline was right, there were details of Martin’s obsessive behaviour that were not clear.

  He worked backwards. Martin’s suicide demonstrated that, at least in his own mind, the boy was guilty of something. The discovery of the Nicholson Street bomb factory made it reasonable to suppose that one of the causes of his guilt was the device planted in Charles’ holdall.

  But what evidence was there that he was also responsible for killing Willy? Certainly in retrospect it looked likely. Martin had actually wielded the murder weapon and Rizzio was an obvious first victim in his macabre game of historical reconstruction. But if the murder was carefully planned, the actual execution was a bit random. Assuming Martin had switched the real knife for the treated one, he still had no guarantee that he would be given that one for the photo call. Willy might have been killed by another unsuspecting actor, but would that have given Martin the requisite thrill? Charles felt ignorant of how accurate a psychopath’s reconstruction of events has to be for him to commit a murder; it is not a well-documented subject.

  But at least he had faced the fact that he wanted to tie up the loose ends. Just for his own satisfaction. After lunch he would be organised like James Milne, sit down with a sheet of paper and make a note of all the outstanding questions of the case. Feeling happier for the decision, he set off down the hill to the hotel.

  ‘Three days ago, you know, I wouldn’t have believed it possible to eat one of Mrs Parker’s lunches within gastronomic memory of Mrs Parker’s breakfast, and certainly not with the prospect of Mrs Parker’s dinner looming deliciously like an enemy missile on the horizon.’

  Frances laughed as she watched him put away his plateful of cod and chips without signs of strain. ‘It’s the famous Scottish air. Sharpens the appetite.’

  He took a long swallow from his second lunch time pint of Guinness. ‘Did you finish the book?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. Then you can tell me. I want some details about the Earl of Bothwell.’

  ‘All right.’ She sat expectant, her schoolmistress mind confident of its recently acquired knowledge.

  ‘Well, we know Bothwell killed Darnley by blowing him up at Holyrood. What I want to—’

  ‘We don’t know any such thing. Holyrood’s still standing. The house where Darnley was staying, the one that was blown up, was in the Kirk o’Field. And anyway, Darnley wasn’t blown up; he was strangled.’

  ‘Really.’ Charles took it in slowly. ‘Then what about the murder of David Rizzio? Bothwell didn’t do it on his own, I know. Who was with him on the—’

  ‘Bothwell wasn’t involved in the murder of David Rizzio. Really, Charles, I thought you had a university education.’

  ‘A long time ago. And I read English.’

  ‘All the same. My fourth formers could do better. Rizzio was savagely murdered by Lord Darnley, Patrick Lord Ruthven (who rose from his sick bed), Andrew Ker of Fawdonside, George Douglas, um . . .’ Her new store-house of information ran out.

  ‘Really?’ said Charles, even more slowly. ‘Really.’ Martin had read History at Derby. If he were in the grip of psychopathic identification with an historical character, surely he would at least get the facts of his obsession correct. Charles began to regret the glibness with which he had assumed that Willy’s death and the bomb were automatically connected.

  ‘Hello. Everything all right?’ Mr Parker, who owned the hotel and was owned by Mrs Parker, appeared at their table with the glass of whisky that was a permanent extension of his hand.

  Charles and Frances smiled. ‘Yes, thank you,’ he said, tapping a stomach that surely could not take many more of these enormous meals without becoming gross. ‘Excellent.’

  ‘Good, good.’

  ‘Can I top
that up for you, Mr Parker?’

  ‘Well . . . if you’re having one.’

  ‘Why not? I’ll have a malt.’

  ‘Mrs Paris?’

  ‘No, I’ll—’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘All right.’

  It started to rain again heavily. Long clean streaks of water dashed against the window panes. It was cosy over the whisky.

  Charles proposed a toast. ‘To Stella Galpin-Lord, without whom we wouldn’t be here.’

  ‘Stella Galpin-Lord,’ said Mr Parker, and chuckled. ‘Yes, Stella Galpin-Lord.’

  ‘You know her well?’

  ‘She’s been here four or five times. Stella the Snatcher we nickname her.’

  ‘Snatcher?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. Perhaps she’s a friend of . . .’

  ‘No,’ said Charles in a mischievous way to encourage indiscretion.

  ‘Well, we call her the Snatcher, short for cradle-snatcher. Let’s say that when she comes here it tends to be with a young man.’

  ‘The same young man?’

  ‘No. That’s the amusing thing. Always books as Mr and Mrs Galpin-Lord, but, dear oh dear, she must think we’re daft or something. I mean, I can’t believe they’re all called Galpin-Lord.’

  ‘It is a fairly unusual name.

  Mr Parker chuckled. ‘It’s not our business to pry. I mean, I don’t care about people’s morals and that, but I must confess Mrs Parker and I do have a bit of a giggle about the Mr and Mrs Galpin-Lords.’ He realised that this sounded like a lapse of professional etiquette. ‘Not of course that we make a habit of laughing at our guests.’

  ‘No, of course not,’ Charles reassured smoothly. ‘But you say it’s always younger men?’

  ‘Yes, actors all of them, I think. Mutton with a taste for lamb, eh? Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.’

  ‘Hmm. And thanks to her latest actor getting a job, here we are.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘All the more reason to toast her in gratitude. Stella Galpin-Lord.’

  Mr Pilch edged over from the table where Mrs Pilch and the little Pilches were finishing their apricot crumble. ‘Oh, er, Mr Paris. Tam the gamekeeper’s going to take me up the burn to see if we can bag a salmon. With the right sort of fly, of course.’ He winked roguishly at this. ‘I wondered if you fancied coming . . .?’

  But Charles felt rather full of alcohol for a fishing trip. And besides, he wanted to start writing things down on bits of paper. ‘No thanks. I think I’ll have a rest this afternoon.’

  ‘Perhaps there’ll be another chance.’ Mr Pilch edged away.

  ‘Sure to be, Mr Paris,’ whispered Mr Parker confidentially. ‘I’ll ask Tam to take you another day. See what you can get. Actually, when our Mrs Galpin-Lord was here last summer, she went off with Tam and they got a fifteen-pounder. Not bad.’

  ‘And did the current Mr Galpin-Lord go with them?’

  ‘Oh no.’ Mr Parker laughed wickedly. ‘I daresay he was sleeping it off. Eh?’

  The rest of the afternoon seemed to lead automatically to making love, which, except for the Clachenmore Hotel’s snagging brushed nylon sheets, was very nice. ‘You know, murmured Frances sleepily, ‘we do go very well together.’

  He gave a distracted grunt of agreement.

  ‘Do you think we could ever try again?’

  Another grunt, while not completely ruling out the idea, was not quite affirmative.

  ‘Otherwise we really ought to get divorced or something. Our position’s so vague.’ But she did not really sound too worried, just sleepy.

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ he lied. He did not want to think about the circle of going back to Frances again and things being O.K. for a bit and then getting niggly and then him being unfaithful again and her being forgiving again and and and . . . He must think about it at some stage, but right now there were more important things on his mind.

  The lunch time alcohol had sharpened rather than blunted his perception and he was thinking with extraordinary clarity. The whole edifice of logic he had created had been reduced to rubble and a new structure had to be put up, using the same bricks, and some others which had previously been discarded as unsuitable.

  Thinking of the two crimes as separate made a new approach possible. Blurred and apparently irrelevant facts came into sharp focus. Red herrings changed their hue and turned into lively silver fish that had to be caught.

  It came back again to what Willy was doing over the few days before he died. The melodrama with Anna and subsequent events had pushed that line of enquiry out of his mind, but now it became all-important and the unexplained details that he had discovered were once more significant pieces in his jigsaw.

  He slipped quietly out of the brushed nylon sheets without disturbing the sleeping Frances, then dressed and padded downstairs to the telephone in the hotel lobby.

  First he got on to directory enquiries. Then he took a deep breath, picked up the phone again and dialled the operator. London could not be dialled direct, which made his forthcoming imposture more risky, but he could not think of another way. By the time he got through, the Glachenmore operator, the London operator, Wanewright the Merchant Bankers’ receptionist and Lestor Wanewright’s secretary had all heard the assumed Glaswegian tones of Detective-Sergeant McWhirter. If it ever came to an enquiry by the real police, there was a surfeit of witnesses to condemn Charles Paris for impersonating a police officer.

  Fortunately Lestor Wanewright did not show any sign of suspicion. When the Detective-Sergeant explained that, in the aftermath of the deaths in Edinburgh, he was having to check certain people’s alibis as a matter of routine, the young merchant banker readily confirmed Anna’s statement. They had been sharing his flat in the Lawnmarket from Sunday 4th August when they had arrived back from Nice until Tuesday 13th August when he’d had to go back to work again. Yes, they had slept together over that period. Charles Paris felt a slight pang at the thought of Anna, but Detective-Sergeant McWhirter just thanked Mr Wanewright for his co-operation.

  Charles stayed by the phone after the call, thinking. He had two independent witnesses to the fact that Willy Mariello had slept with a woman at his home during the three or four days before his death. Jean Mariello had spoken of blonde hairs on the pillow and she had no reason for making that up. And, according to Michael Vanderzee, Willy had called goodbye to someone upstairs when dragged off to rehearsal on the Monday before he died.

  True, Willy’s sex life was free-ranging and the woman might have been anyone. But Charles could only think of one candidate with, if not blonde, at least blonded hair, and a taste for younger men.

  It was nothing definite, but he still felt guilty about Martin’s death. If there was anything that invited investigation, he owed it to the boy’s memory to investigate it.

  With sudden clarity, Charles remembered the first time he had seen Willy Mariello, on the afternoon of his death. He saw again the tall figure striding ungraciously into the Masonic Hall. Followed a few moments later by Stella Galpin-Lord, who was sniffing. Had she been crying? The memory seemed to be dragged up from years ago, not just a fortnight. But it was very distinct. He remembered the woman’s face contorted with fury in the Hate Game.

  That decided him. He picked up the phone again and asked for an Edinburgh number.

  At first there seemed to be a crossed line, a well-spoken middle-aged woman’s voice cutting across James Milne’s, but it cleared and the two men could hear each other distinctly. ‘James, I’ve been thinking again about some aspects of the case.’

  ‘Really. So have I.’

  ‘It doesn’t all fit, does it?’

  ‘I think most of it does.’ The Laird’s voice sounded reluctant. He and Charles had worked out a solution that was intellectually satisfying and he did not want their results challenged. It was the schoolmaster in him, the academic hearing that his theory has just been superseded by a publication from another university.

  ‘You may be right, James
. But for my own peace of mind, there are one or two people I’d just like to check a few details with. So I’m coming back to Edinburgh.’

  ‘Ah. And you’re asking me to put my Dr Watson hat back on?’

  ‘If you don’t mind.’

  ‘Delighted. You’ll stay here, of course?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘When are you arriving?’

  ‘Don’t know exactly. It’ll be tomorrow some time. As you know, I’m out here at Clachenmore and getting back involves a taxi to Dunoon, ferry across the Clyde to Gourock, bus to Glasgow and God knows what else. So don’t expect me till late afternoon.’

  ‘Fine. And you’ll tell me all then?’

  ‘Exactly. Cheerio.’

  Then something odd happened. Charles heard the phone put down the other end twice. There were two separate clicks.