by Simon Brett
‘Practical jokes, anything of that sort . . .?’
By way of answer, Russ Lavery reached into his jacket pocket and held a folded letter towards Charles.
The notepaper was headed ‘Robbie Patrick Associates’ and Charles read:
‘Dear Russ,
Hope you’re knocking them dead in Warminster.
Wanted to pass on the great news that the producers want you to test for a part in the new Bond movie. Ring me for details of time, etc.
Yours ever,
Robbie.’
He looked up. Now the boy’s tears were really flowing. Charles had forgotten just how cruel young actors could be to each other.
‘Little sods,’ he said. ‘Where did they get the paper from?’
‘Easy enough these days with photocopiers,’ Russ sobbed. ‘I think they nicked one of Robbie’s real letters from my pocket and copied the letterhead.’
Yes, there was a faint line across the paper above the typewritten text.
‘And you fell for it?’
Russ nodded glumly. ‘Right in. Talked about it, too.’
‘Oh dear. And rang Robbie?’
‘Yes. He thought I was mad. So now I expect I’ve screwed things up with him as well.’
‘No, of course you haven’t. You’ve just been the victim of a practical joke. You’re sure it was them who did it?’
Russ nodded. ‘Can’t prove anything. But they’ve been sniggering all day, the bastards.’
‘Well, look, it’s done now. You’ve given them the satisfaction of falling for it, now you’ve got to make sure you don’t give them any more satisfaction.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Just never mention it again.’
‘I suppose you’re right. But I’d really like to get my own back on them.’
‘No. That won’t help. Honestly. You’ll soon forget all about it.’
But Charles’s soothing words disguised his very real anger. It had been a vicious trick, and its crudeness simply reinforced the viciousness. Only someone as naive in the business as Russ would have fallen for it. To think that an unknown out of drama school should be screen-tested for a Bond movie.
And yet Charles could empathise. He knew that silly bubble of hope trapped inside all actors, which can burst to the surface through any amount of logic and common-sense. He knew that, if he had received that letter, his first reaction would have been to believe it. Then experience and a native cynicism would have dampened his enthusiasm and he would have recognised the cheat.
But poor Russ Lavery hadn’t got that protective armour. All he had was the boundless enthusiasm and vulnerability of youth.
‘And is that all that’s wrong . . .?’
Charles asked tentatively, remembering the purpose of his visit.
The boy shook his head. ‘Oh, I don’t know. There’s money . . .’
‘There’s always money . . .’ But it must be hard for a boy trying for the first time to budget on the pittance of Equity minimum. Particularly hard if he’s trying to squire around an actress ten years his senior. A couple of flamboyant gestures of buying meals for Felicia could have written off most of his week’s pay-packet.
‘Well, Russ, I haven’t got much, but if you need a fiver to help you out till Friday . . .’
‘No, it’s all right. I’m okay. I don’t want to get into debt.’
‘Very wise.’ Charles himself always tried to avoid the endless circle of borrowing from other actors. It so quickly got out of hand, and the reputation of being a sponger was easily acquired.
‘No other problems, though?’
Russ looked up defiantly. ‘Why, what should there be?’
Charles shrugged. Two-and-a-half days into his abstinence, he could now once again shrug with impunity. Maybe that was another of the advantages of not drinking . . .? On reflection, though, it did seem a pretty small advantage.
‘Well, there’s always sex . . .’ he ventured in answer to Russ’s question.
‘What do you mean?’
‘All the old clichés of sexual angst. Somebody you like rejecting your advances . . .? Someone you don’t like making advances . . .?’
The boy turned abruptly to look out of the window. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Listen, I saw the way Wamock was behaving to you that first night.’
Russ’s eyes flashed back at Charles. ‘I’m not gay!’
‘I never said you were. In fact, just the reverse. I’m saying how embarrassing it must have been for you to have that old queen pawing at you.’
The boy shuddered. ‘Yes, he was horrible. I think the most evil person I’ve ever come across.’
It was quite possible that, in Russ’s limited experience, that was true.
‘The only good thing that’s happened in the last few days,’ the boy continued, his eyes burning, ‘is that old bastard’s death. He certainly deserved it.’ This last sentence was spoken in an intriguing tone of satisfaction.
But Charles decided not to probe in that direction for the moment. Instead, infinitely gently, he said, ‘And then, of course, there’s Felicia . . .’
Russ seemed about to flash further defiance at this intrusion, but then subsided into misery. ‘Yes, there’s Felicia. I love her,’ he confessed abjectly.
‘She’s a very beautiful girl.’
‘Yes, but I . . . I think I misunderstood her.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, have you ever . . . I mean, with a woman, have you ever sort of thought you were getting signals from her, and thought you understood those signals, and thought she wanted you to do something . . . and then you’ve done it – and suddenly realised that wasn’t what she meant at all?’
‘Yes, I’ve known that happen. Is that . . . with Felicia . . .?’
The boy’s tears were once again flowing. ‘I did what I thought she wanted . . . and now she’s turned against me . . .’
‘Are you talking about Monday night?’
‘Yes. Oh, it’s just awful. I ruined everything.’
‘What, you mean you went back to her digs and –’
‘No,’ Russ interrupted fiercely. ‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Where did you go?’
‘I didn’t go anywhere. I stayed round the theatre. I don’t know what I did.’
‘Russ, you must tell me if –’
Abruptly Russ Lavery rose to his feet. ‘I’ve said too much.’
‘It’s good to talk.’
‘No. You can’t trust people. They suddenly turn on you and then you . . . have to get your own back.’
Charles rose from his seat to bar the boy’s access to the door. ‘I’m not going to turn on you, Russ. You can trust me.’
‘That’s what Warnock said,’ the boy snapped bitterly.
Then in an instant he turned and, reaching for the catch of the window, opened it and slipped out on to the path that skirted the theatre. He was running and out of sight almost before Charles had time to register the movement.
Charles went forward and looked at the window. At the bottom of the frame was an anti-theft device that should have locked down into the sill. But the screw had broken.
In other words, anyone who knew about that window could escape from the theatre when everything was supposedly locked.
Just as it had been on the night of Warnock Belvedere’s murder.
So the problem of the murderer’s getting out of the locked building had suddenly evaporated.
And, as he had just demonstrated, Russ Lavery clearly knew about the broken window-lock.
Chapter Thirteen
HE KNEW IT was silly to be influenced by Macbeth, and yet there was a kind of logic about it. A crime committed by a man, but instigated by a woman. The idea of Felicia Chatterton as an unwitting Lady Macbeth to Russ Lavery’s callow Macbeth made an ugly kind of sense.
From the very start of rehearsal, she had found Warnock Belvedere difficult. He had been extremel
y rude to her in front of the entire company on more than one occasion. Even worse than that from Felicia’s point of view, he had threatened the single-minded concentration which was so essential in her build-up to a part.
And she was so obsessive about her work that she would want all obstacles to its progress removed.
No doubt she had said as much to Russ. The poor boy, absolutely besotted with her, excited at the thought not only of embarking on his professional career but also of having an affair with a real actress, would have done anything to gain her favour. And, though she probably did no more than express a wish that Warnock might be got out of the way, Russ might have taken her too literally and seen the murder as the ultimate proof of his devotion.
That would tie in with what the boy had said about getting signals from Felicia and misinterpreting them.
‘I did what I thought she wanted . . . and now she’s turned against me . . .’ Yes, it fitted horribly well. After he had committed the murder, Russ had gone to her, figuratively presenting his beautiful Salome with the head of Warnock Belvedere, anticipating presumably some sexual reward for realizing her desires. And she, when she understood what he had done, had recoiled in horror. That would explain the marked estrangement between them after the Monday night.
There were other uncomfortably appealing elements in the theory. Russ did not just have Felicia’s promptings as motivation to kill Warnock. The old actor’s advances had clearly upset the boy. The vehemence with which Russ had asserted his heterosexuality to Charles betrayed an insecurity about his sexual identity. He was emotionally immature, as his puppy-like courtship of Felicia revealed, and he must have been deeply unsettled by Warnock Belvedere’s overt importuning. He needed to remove that disturbing challenge from his life.
Charles suddenly recalled Russ’s appearance in the store-room during the Saturday morning run-through. So there was no doubt that the boy knew what the room was. And, with sickening logic, Charles also remembered Russ saying he had supplemented his grant by working as a bar-man. He would therefore know all about changing beer barrels and be aware of the potentially lethal presence of carbon dioxide in the gas cylinders.
It was beginning to look painfully likely that Russ Lavery had murdered Warnock Belvedere. The way to check of course was to talk to the poor boy’s Lady Macbeth.
‘God, I’m just having such difficulty sleeping,’ Felicia announced, producing yet another parallel for anyone wishing to compare her situation with that of the character she was playing. Charles found himself half-expecting her to continue, ‘Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much beer on him’, or to sniff distractedly at her fingers and murmur, ‘Here’s the smell of beer still. All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. Oh! Oh! Oh!’
‘Yes, everyone’s getting a bit tense. The thought that we open Tuesday week and there’s so much to do.’
‘You can say that again. It’s just never going to happen. I mean, I knew it was insane to try and do such a complex piece in three-and-a-half weeks. We need three-and-a-half weeks just talking about it before we even start rehearsal.’
‘It’ll happen,’ Charles reassured. ‘It always does happen. Somehow.’
‘Not always,’ Felicia disagreed gloomily. ‘Some productions don’t open on time. Particularly of the Scottish Play.’
‘Oh, come on, you don’t believe all that rubbish, do you?’
Her reply came back in a tone of pious reproof. He had challenged one of the articles of her faith in the theatre. ‘There must be something in it. That sort of rumour doesn’t build up for no reason. You hear such terrible stories . . .’
‘Like what?’
‘Well, this is absolutely authentic, because I know the people involved. Girlfriend of mine was playing Second Witch in Glasgow, and she had a thing with the Banquo. She got pregnant and . . .’ the voice dropped to an awestruck murmur ‘. . . she lost the baby.’
‘That could be regarded as a coincidence.’
‘Maybe, but I think there’s something else behind it. The Witches’ incantations are supposed to be real black magic, you know.’
‘Yes, I’ve heard that.’ Charles spoke dismissively.
‘And then I heard of a production when, in the fight at the end, Macduff’s sword got knocked out of his hand and flew into the auditorium . . . and impaled someone to their seat in the front row.’
‘Yes, I’ve heard that story. Everyone’s heard that story. But I’ve yet to come across anyone who can name the production in which it occurred. It’s always something heard from a friend of a friend. I’m sure it never really happened.’
‘Well, what about this production then?’
‘You think this one’s got a jinx on it?’
‘Oh, come on, Charles. Look at the things that have gone wrong. First, a three-and-a-half week rehearsal period . . .’
‘Ah, now I know you think that’s hopelessly inadequate, but it’s a bit extreme to see that as a manifestation of malign influences. You can blame Gavin’s judgement, you can blame the hard economic facts of running a theatre, but to blame the Powers of Evil is really excessive.’
‘It’s not just that, though. Other things . . .’
‘Like . . .?’
‘That Macduff’s Son not being allowed to continue with the part . . . George being delayed in Paris . . .’
‘Those are inconveniences, yes, but they’re the kind of things that happen in lots of productions. I don’t think they’re evidence of a curse on the play.’
‘And then . . .’ The wonderful voice swooped even lower ‘. . . there’s Warnock Belvedere’s death.’
‘Yes,’ Charles agreed, glad the conversation had moved to that subject of its own accord. ‘There is something strange about that, certainly . . .’
They were sitting in the bar at the end of the Friday’s rehearsal. They had worked hard and knew that they would have to work harder the next day. Gavin was insisting on another Saturday run-through to fix the shape of the whole play and consolidate what they had done during the week. Straight through the play in the morning, then notes and detailed repair work on bits that weren’t right in the afternoon.
Russ Lavery was not in the bar. He had been at rehearsal and done his work, but made no social contact with anyone. Whenever Charles had come near, the boy had taken evasive action.
Charles and Felicia were both sipping chaste Perrier water. Felicia, in her nun-like devotion to her art, very rarely drank alcohol during a rehearsal period. And Charles, of course . . . well, he’d made his pledge, hadn’t he?
On his fourth alcohol-free day, after excursions to various other sickly fluids, he had come back to Perrier. With a decent-sized chunk of lemon, it almost began to have a taste.
It wasn’t the same, though. Nothing was the same. He looked wistfully across to the bar, where other actors swilled their carefree pints or sipped convivial scotches.
His resolution wavered. The disgusting image of Warnock Belvedere’s beer-soaked body was fading. So was the memory of the Tuesday’s hangover. One drink wouldn’t hurt, surely . . .?
But no. He had made a vow. Not until he had solved the case. When he knew who the murderer was, then he’d have a drink.
‘What were you thinking of doing about eating?’
Felicia’s voice brought him out of his alcohol nostalgia. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘Eating. I wondered if you had any plans.’
‘Not particularly, no.’
‘Would you like to come back to the cottage? I could rustle up something . . .’
‘Oh, that’s very kind.’
‘I always find cooking takes my mind off work. If you don’t mind something pretty basic . . .’
‘I’d be delighted.’
‘And I’d like to talk,’ Felicia said earnestly.
Yes, thought Charles. I’d like you to talk, too.
It had to be a cottage. It was the R.S.C. background. The villages around Stratford-upon-Avon
are full of rented cottages in which actors and actresses stay up late into night performing microsurgery on Shakespeare’s plays and discussing their art, to them so infinitely various and to outsiders so infinitely the same.
So, when Felicia looked for digs for the Pinero job, she homed in on what she knew, and rented a cottage. Her London base was a tiny studio flat in Maida Vale, but she hadn’t even gone back there on the free Sundays in the Macbeth rehearsal period. She did not want her attention distracted from her ascent of the North Face of Lady Macbeth.
It was a pretty, chintzy little cottage and on arrival she allowed herself the indulgence of a glass of white wine and Perrier. Charles, though sorely tempted, had one without the white wine. In a way, that was the most difficult moment he had encountered in his campaign of temperance. It just seemed so against nature not to have a drink while sitting down waiting to eat.
What Felicia rustled up was lasagne and salad. Very nice, too. Not shop-prepared. The pasta came from a packet, but she cooked it all herself.
Charles could see her through the open kitchen door as she prepared the meal, but she was too far away for continuous conversation. He looked around the room. Let furnished, of course, so she had had little opportunity to impose her personality on the environment.
But there were a few characteristic touches. On a low table in front of the sofa books were piled randomly, some opened, some not. There were at least three different editions of Macbeth. The Cambridge A New Companion to Shakespeare Studies, Shakespeare’s Macbeth, A Selection of Critical Essays, Edited by John Wain, Terence Hawkes’ Twentieth Century Interpretations of Macbeth. Felicia Chatterton certainly believed in doing her homework.
On a dresser there was a book on aerobics and another on how to deal with back pain. A couple of cards on the mantelpiece. Charles managed to read their messages without snooping too overtly. Both wishing her good luck for rehearsals. Both evidently from actors and, judging from the in-jokey tone, actors who had been her colleagues at Stratford.
In the otherwise empty fireplace stood a tall vase containing a dozen red roses. A gesture of affection from someone. But there was no sign of a card. A few red petals lay wrinkling on the hearth, so the gesture had probably been made the previous week. By whom? Russ? That would have made heavy inroads into his Equity minimum. But it would have been typical of his romantic naïveté.