So Much Blood by Simon Brett

‘no one in their right mind would.’ This again sent him into a paroxysm of laughter. Which stopped as suddenly as it had begun. He looked at Charles in a puzzled way, as if he did not recognise him. Then, in a gentle voice, ‘What’s the time?’
    â€˜Twenty-five to eleven.’
    â€˜I should be at rehearsal.’ He rose calmly. ‘Do try to read my play if you can.’
    â€˜I will.’
    â€˜See you.’ He slouched out of the room.
    Charles lay for a moment thinking. Martin seemed to be on the edge of a nervous breakdown. The end of finals is a stressful time for most students. Charles suddenly recalled the state he had been in after Schools in 1949. Three years gone and then the apocalyptic strain of assessment. How good am I? What will I do in the real world? Or, most simply, who am I?
    He tried to imagine the effect of a shock like Willy’s death on someone in that state. A harsh cruel fact smashing into a mind that could hardly distinguish reality from fantasy. Inside his sick brain Martin might think he was a murderer, but Charles felt sure he was not. Martin Warburton needed help. Medical help possibly, but certainly he needed the help of knowing that he was only an unwitting agent for the person who planned the murder of Willy Mariello. The facts had to come out.
    And the show had to go on. He turned to the script. On sober reflection, though the day before’s run-through had been promising, there was a lot that needed improvement. Particularly the Pathetic Ballads. They should have been the easiest part of the programme with their well-spaced jokes and obvious humour. But it was hard to find the balance between poetry and facetiousness. He concentrated and began to recite Tim Turpin .
    Tim Turpin he was gravel blind,
    And ne’er had seen the skies:
    For Nature, when his head was made,
    Forgot to dot his eyes.
    So like a Christmas pedagogue—
    â€˜Um. I’m so sorry.’ Brian Cassells was peering apologetically round the door.
    â€˜Yes?’
    â€˜Look, I’m sorry to break into your rehearsal, but I wonder if you could give me a hand to carry something.’ And So Much Comic . . . was shelved again.
    Outside the Office stood Willy Mariello’s forlorn guitar in its black case, leaning against a large amplifier. It had been brought up from the Masonic Hall after Tuesday’s drama. By the door was a thin girl with long brown hair and those peculiarly Scottish cheeks that really do look like apples. Tension showed in the tightness of her mouth and the hollows under her eyes. ‘Charles, this is Jean Mariello. Mrs Mariello, Charles Paris.’
    She nodded functionally. ‘I’ve come to collect Willy’s things.’
    â€˜Yes. Charles, I wonder if you could give me a hand with this amplifier. If we just get it out on to the street, I’ve phoned for a taxi.’
    â€˜O.K.’ Brian was patently embarrassed and wanted to get rid of Jean Mariello. His administrative ability did not run to dealing with recent widows.
    They placed the heavy amplifier on the pavement. Willy’s wife followed with the guitar. Brian straightened up. ‘I’d better go. I’ve got some Letrasetting to get on with.’
    â€˜What am I going to do the other end?’
    Brian paused, disconcerted by her question. Charles stepped in. ‘It’s all right. I’ll go with you. I wanted to go over that way. Off Lauriston Place, isn’t it?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Oh . . . Oh well, that’s fine. I’ll go and get on with the . . . er . . . Letrasetting.’ Brian scuttled indoors.
    Charles felt he should say something fitting. ‘I’m sorry.’
    Jean Mariello shrugged. ‘Thank you.’
    The taxi arrived and they travelled for a while in silence. Charles felt the need for some other inadequate condolence. ‘It must be terrible for you. We were all very shaken.’
    â€˜Yes, it’s been