So Much Blood (8 page)

The facts he had found out did not take him far. There were still some forty suspects who had had equal opportunity to switch the knives. Of those two had had greater opportunities than the others to stage-manage the murder—Martin Warburton and Pam Northcliffe. Martin had struck the fatal blow and he was an unstable character with strange obsessions about violence. But it seemed too obvious, and Charles felt an understanding, even an affinity with the boy's tormented mind. He could not think of him as a murderer.

The same applied to Pam. However, it was she who had actually issued the murder weapon and there were other strange features of her behaviour. He had a strong suspicion that she was responsible for the torn poster. The pieces that he had found had burst out of a paper bag full of crepe paper scraps which Pam had been using to make props. He had not challenged her with it, but he was fairly certain. So she had something to hide.

But not murder. Why not? Because I, Charles Paris, like the girl. The same goes for Martin. It is a hopelessly subjective, emotional judgement. I have an old-fashioned, middle-class view that murderers are, by definition, nasty people. Whereas, in fact, they are just nice, ordinary people who get into situations they can't cope with and take what seems to them the only way out.

Again he desperately wanted someone to talk to about his suspicions. Someone detached and objective. Not Anna. She was involved with the other students and he did not want the murder to intrude on their growing relationship. But there was always Gerald.

Gerald Venables was a show business solicitor with a childlike relish for the cloak and dagger aspect of detection. Charles had enlisted his help earlier in the year to sort out the Marius Steen affair and, when that mystery was solved, Gerald had insisted that he should be included in any future venture of criminal investigation. This looked like his opportunity.

‘Hello, Gerald.'

‘Who's that? Charles?'

‘Yes. I think I may be on to another case.'

‘Really.' Excitement sprang into Gerald's voice. ‘Where?'

‘Edinburgh, I'm afraid. It'd cost you a lot in fares.'

‘Don't worry. I've got lots of Scottish clients. I can put it on one of their bills. What's the crime?'

‘Murder.'

‘Fantastic. Will it keep?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Keep for a few days. I'm going to Cannes for a long weekend to stay with a client.'

‘Work?'

‘Well, it'll be on his bill, but I don't intend to do anything.'

‘When are you back?'

‘Probably Wednesday.'

‘Some weekend.'

‘Pity to rush it.'

‘Hmm.' Wednesday seemed a long way off. Charles wanted someone there to talk to at that moment.

Gerald continued. ‘And then at the end of next week—Saturday—I'm taking the family out to our villa in Corsica for a month.'

‘Just the month?'

‘Yes. I have to get back to work then,' said Gerald piously, not catching Charles' sarcasm.

‘So you might be free for a couple of days next week?'

‘Might. The case won't be solved by then, will it?'

‘No, I shouldn't think so.' Depression swooped and Charles feared he was speaking the truth. ‘I'll give you a buzz when you get back if there's anything left to investigate. O.K. Fine. Have a good weekend.' It was not worth saying how pointless it would be for Gerald to come up for two days. Oh, well, another good idea gone west.

‘Oh, it's you, Charles.' James Milne was standing at the foot of the stairs in the hail. ‘I wondered who was using the phone. That one's just an extension to mine upstairs. It's meant to be disconnected soon and I'd put it in the cupboard so that it shouldn't be used.'

‘I'm sorry. It was just here on the floor when I came in.'

‘Don't worry. One of the Derby lot found it, no doubt. How's Thomas Hood?'

‘Fine. Positively going well.'

‘Good, good.' The Laird stood with one foot on the stair, posed like an old-fashioned print. His stocky figure was dressed in a biscuit-coloured tweed suit with a Norfolk jacket. ‘Can I offer you a cup of tea?'

A slow grin spread over Charles' face. ‘Dr Watson,' he said.

‘I beg your pardon.'

Over a cup of Earl Grey tea and chocolate-covered Bath Olivers, Charles explained. He told of his suspicions about the murder and the small progress of his investigations.

James Milne looked at him in silence for a moment. ‘What an amazing idea. And what do you want me to do? Crawl around the rooftops with firearms and beard villains in their dens? I don't know whether that's quite my style. I used sometimes to try to catch poachers on my mother's estate at Glenloan, but I'm not exactly a private eye.'

‘Look, all I want you to do is to address your mind to the problem. I want to hear what you think. You've met most of the people involved. You know, two heads are better than one and all that. And I'm really getting nowhere on my own. My suspicions just go round and round in circles . . . I want you to be a kind of sounding board for my ideas.'

‘Hmm. I think a ouija board for contacting Willy Mariello might be more useful.'

‘You're probably right. What do you say?'

‘Well, Charles, I'm certainly prepared to help you in any way you think might be useful. But I must say right from the start that I don't share your certainty that a murder has been committed. From what I heard it sounded like a very unfortunate accident. What makes you so sure it's murder?'

Again Charles had to fall back on his feeble cry of ‘Instinct'.

‘“Instinct is a great matter, I was a coward on instinct.” Hmm. Dear old Falstaff. Instinct. Do the police share your instinct?'

‘Not so far as I know.'

‘They don't think it was murder?'

‘I don't think so, though that won't really be clear until they've finished their enquiries.'

‘No. Hmm. Good.'

‘Why good?'

‘Well, when our investigations reach their dramatic denouement, we can feel confident that Inspector Flatfoot of the Yard won't pip us at the post.'

‘You mean you agree?'

‘Yes, I'll be your sounding board. It could be fun.'

‘Good. Thank you.'

The Laird immediately regressed to his school-mastering days. ‘Right. Now have you made any notes on the case?'

‘No.'

‘Well, I'm sure you should.' Charles watched amazed as his Dr Watson began to organise him. ‘Right, paper, fountain pen, sharp HB pencil. And a column, so. Headed ‘Suspects'. And another—' Reason for Suspicion'. Now who have we got?'

‘We've just been through all that.'

‘No harm in doing it again. There is nothing so effective for stimulating the memory and provoking thought as writing things down.'

Charles felt he was right back in the First Form. (On his present investigative form, in the corner with a big ‘D' on his hat.) But he humoured his new partner and they made out their list.

It did not take long. The ‘Reason for Suspicion' column looked particularly unconvincing. ‘In a sense,' said Charles, ‘we're starting from the wrong end. We are putting down why we suspect someone, whereas we should be thinking, from that person's point of view, why they should want to kill Willy.'

‘Would that make the list any fuller?'

Charles had to admit that it would not. ‘What we've got to do is to work out who was involved with Willy—emotionally, artistically, financially. So far it seems the only person from Derby he knew well is a guy called Sam Wasserman, who is currently touring Europe.'

‘You say he's the only person you can connect Willy with?'

‘Except for his wife. But I can't count her because she has nothing to do with the group. Unless she has an ally who's at Derby . . . A lover maybe or . . .' Lack of conviction in what he was saying brought him to a halt. ‘Nope.'

‘And she's the only person up here with whom he seems to have had dealings?'

‘Yes.'

‘Oh, Charles, Charles.' The Laird shook his head pityingly. ‘There's someone you've overlooked.'

‘Is there?'

‘Yes. And you have all the information to work out who. I know you do.' He watched for reaction and then repeated slowly, ‘I know you do.'

Charles suddenly realised who was meant. ‘Good Lord, yes. You. The house.'

‘Exactly. You see, there is a direct financial relationship between me and Willy Mariello. He bought my house. I think I should go down on our list of suspects.'

‘But that's daft. If you were the murderer, you wouldn't draw my attention to your connection with the victim.'

‘Ah, Charles, I may look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under't. You mustn't rule out any possibility. There, I've put my name down. Declaration of interests, like the Liberals keep asking M.P.s to make. Now what about you?'

‘Me?'

‘Your declaration of interest. Had you any motive to murder Willy Mariello?'

Charles laughed. ‘No.'

‘Good. Now we know where we stand.' James Milne smiled. His reserve was gone and he looked set to enjoy the game of detection. ‘Now, what about the other forty-odd?'

‘What indeed? Presumably I must try to meet them all and find out if any of them knew Willy well. And also what he did over the weekend before he died.'

‘Yes. And how long have you got to complete this major investigation?'

‘My show finishes a week today.'

‘Hmm. I fear we may find time defeats us.'

‘Yes. I hope not.'

‘So do I. But perhaps, Charles, I hope it a little less than you.

‘Why?'

‘Because I don't yet fully believe that we're on to a case of murder. I'll come along with you for the ride, but I'm not convinced of the existence of a destination.'

The Laird was going to dinner with friends, so Charles left him about seven. He was no nearer the solution of the murder, but at least he had an ally. And the cataloguing power of James Milne's mind could be a useful complement to his own haphazard methods.

On the first-floor landing he paused. The revue piano had given up its usual stuck-in-the-groove repetition and was playing a whole tune. A girl was singing. He could not catch the lyrics, just hear the husky purity of her voice. Anna. He felt a strong desire to go into the room on some pretext just to see her. But no. She had said it was better they should keep their relationship a secret and she was right. He did not fancy the gossip and innuendo of forty students.

No. He still had the key to the flat. He'd go back there and wait for her to return and continue his rejuvenation. Later.

On the ground floor the only sign of human occupation was the presence of old socks, creeping like firedamp from the men's dormitory. Charles was about to leave and find a pub for the evening when he heard a slight sound from the basement. He crept down the stairs towards the glow of the sitting-room.

Michael Vanderzee was slumped on the sofa with a glass in one hand and a half-full bottle of Glenmorangie malt whisky in the other. He perceived Charles' approach blearily. ‘I didn't know there was anyone in the house. Thought they'd all buggered off.'

‘I've just been having a drink with the Laird.'

‘Oh, that old poof,' said Michael ungraciously.

Charles did not bother to challenge the gratuitous insult, though on reflection he thought it was misplaced. He had not thought before about James Milne's sexual status, but, when he did, neuter seemed the most appropriate definition.

However, Michael was not trying to drive Charles away. On the contrary, he seemed delighted to have a witness of his lonely drinking and an audience for his self-pity.

‘Charles Paris, you may work in bullshit commercial theatre, but at least you are a professional.' The drink accentuated the Dutchness of his voice as he delivered this back-handed compliment. ‘Surrounded by bloody amateurs in this place. It's an impossible situation for any creative work. You can't create with amateurs.'

Charles grunted sympathetically and sat astride a chair. ‘Have a drink,' said Michael, feeling that perhaps he should offer his audience some reward for its attention. ‘There's a cup on the table.'

The cup was chipped and handleless, but the malt tasted good. When he reckoned that Charles was sitting comfortably, Michael began. ‘No, I shouldn't have taken this job. Amateurs have no concept of theatre. Look at it. This evening I should have been working, improvising, creating something, and what happens? Half my cast are rehearsing for some bloody revue, half of them are doing some dreary Shakespeare crap, half of them aren't interested . . .'

‘And half of them get stabbed . . .'

‘Yes.' He nodded vigorously. ‘Though he wasn't a lot more use to me when he was alive.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Never came to bloody rehearsals. Didn't participate in the concentration exercises or movement classes, any of the workshop stuff. I mean, how can you build an ensemble with people like that? He hadn't any acting talent anyway.'

‘Then why did you cast him in your show?'

‘I didn't cast him. Look, I'm offered this job—'

‘You mean you're nothing to do with the university?'

‘Good God, no.' Michael was severely affronted. ‘I'm a professional director. They booked me to get some professional feel into their production. And then like bloody amateurs they don't give me enough time to get it together properly. Everyone off for other rehearsals. Do you know how long it takes to build up an ensemble?'

‘About four years?'

‘Well, four weeks anyway. And four weeks' work. Not four weeks doing bourgeois revues and middle-class Shakespeare.'

‘No, of course not. You were saying how Willy Mariello came to be in the show . . .'