Free An Amateur Corpse by Simon Brett Page B

had even, by a mixture of luck and serendipity, solved crimes before. But this one mattered. He had to concentrate, sort it out. He was motivated by his affection for Hugo and his abiding sense of guilt.
    His first assumption remained Hugo’s innocence. No logic for this, just a conviction.
    If only he could see Hugo face to face, talk to him, ask him. Then he would know, he felt sure.
    But how do you get to see a man who has just been arrested for murder? Gerald would know. All action seemed to hinge on speaking to Gerald.
    Half past nine. The evening was passing, but slowly. Perhaps another generous Bell’s would speed up the process.
    He looked at the floor through the slopping spirit in his glass. The image was refracted and distorted. Like his thought processes.
    The obvious solution was that Hugo had killed his wife. In a wild reaction to the collapse of his dreams he had taken the terrible kamikaze course of the disillusioned romantic. ‘Yet each man kills the thing he loves . . .,’ as Oscar Wilde wrote in his despair.
    The only way to escape the obvious, solution was to provide a feasible alternative. Either to prove Hugo was doing something else at the time that Charlotte was killed. Or to prove that someone else did it.
    Charles’s brief experience of the Backstagers told him that emotions ran high in the group. Charlotte had antagonized the established stars by her success as Nina. Vee Winter, for one,., felt herself usurped by the newcomer.
    But that kind of jealousy wasn’t sufficient motive for murder. A sexual impulse was more likely. A woman as beautiful as Charlotte was bound to cause reverberations wherever she went and no doubt her appearance among the Backstagers had let to the snapping-off of a few middle-aged husbands’ heads by middle-aged wives who saw eyes lingering with too much interest. Indeed, Charles had seen evidence of this with the Hobbses.
    But that was still not something for which a sane person would kill.
    It must be a closer attachment. Clive Steele. Charles thought back over the conversation he had heard in the car park. The young man’s passions had been demonstrably immature, but they had been strong. He was supposed to be away working in Melton Mowbray for the whole week, but it might be worth investigating his movements.
    Or then again, why should the murderer have anything to do with the Backstagers? Charlotte did have other contacts. Not many but a few. Diccon Hudson, for instance. He had made some sour reference to having gone around with her before her marriage. Probably nothing there, but anything was worth looking into to save Hugo.
    After all, Diccon could have been the mysterious lover of whom Hugo had spoken. Charles didn’t know whether to believe in this personage or not. It could just be a creation of Hugo’s fevered imagination. But if such a person did exist, the possible permutations of violent emotions were considerably increased.
    Equally, if he did exist, Hugo’s motive for killing his wife was that much stronger. But Charles put the thought from his mind. He had to start by assuming Hugo’s innocence.
    He was full of nervous excitement. He wanted to do something, get started, begin his task of atonement.
    He looked at his watch. Twenty-five to eleven. Thank God, he could try Gerald again. The need to do something was now almost unbearable.
    Kate, Gerald’s wife, sounded disgruntled. No, he wasn’t home yet. Yes, Charles could try again in half an hour if it was important, but not much later because she was going to bed.
    Charles stood by the phone, seething with energy. There must be something else he could do. He could start piecing together Hugo’s movements from the time he left the Back Room on Monday night. Someone must have seen him leave, someone might even have walked him home. Details like that could be vital.
    The only Backstager’s number he had was Geoffrey and Vee’s. Geoffrey