What Bloody Man Is That

by Simon Brett

  Charles Paris didn’t enjoy the performance, either. Two anxieties preoccupied him as he ran through his repertoire of parts.

  First, he was worried about the imminent interview with Detective Inspector Dowling.

  And, second, he was worried that Gavin Scholes wanted to ensure that that interview did not take place.

  Charles reasoned it thus. If, as he was coming increasingly to believe, the director had killed Warnock Belvedere, and if, as their conversation of the previous evening suggested, Gavin was afraid Charles had witnessed that crime, then the obvious course was to eliminate the witness before his follow-up interview with Detective Inspector Dowling. Which logic did nothing to put Charles at his ease.

  So he was very wary throughout the Schools Matinée. He was uncomfortably aware of the number of potential murder methods a theatre offered. Scenery could fall on people. They could be ‘assisted’ down flights of stairs. And of course Macbeth demanded a whole armoury of swords and daggers. With so much lethal hardware around, and with much of the action played in half-light, it was no surprise that ugly stories of fatal accidents had built up around the play.

  And then there was the trap-door. In rehearsal John B. Murgatroyd had demonstrated that the apparatus could at least give someone a nasty jolt. Charles wondered uneasily whether it could be doctored to cause more permanent damage.

  There was no sign of Gavin as Charles, in his coal-scuttle helmet, moved cautiously towards the wooden framework under the stage. The usual Assistant Stage Manager stood by to operate the mechanism, and looked curious as Charles inspected the ropework.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ the boy hissed.

  ‘Just double-checking,’ Charles hissed back.

  ‘It’s okay.’

  ‘Did Gavin give you any notes on the trap-door?’

  ‘Said I should bring you up faster.’

  ‘Well, ignore the note. I’m quite happy with the speed I have been going.’

  ‘Look, if Gavin said –’

  But above them the three Witches were chanting,

  ‘Come high or low, Thyself and office deftly show.’ With a silent prayer. Charles mounted the platform. He took a firm hold on the sides of the cradle, and closed his eyes as he felt the platform surge beneath him.

  There was a sudden sharp pain in his knuckles as he broke through the stage and they were barked against the edge of the trap’s opening.

  In the moment of pain he forgot to crouch.

  The Apparition of an Armed Head burst through the bubbling dry ice vapour in the cauldron, with its helmet askew, and rose to reveal its Third Murderer costume underneath. One agonised hand was clutched in its armpit, and from its lips emerged the involuntary word ‘Shit!’

  The Schools Matinée audience were loud in their appreciation of the best bit of Shakespeare they’d ever seen.

  He didn’t know. Certainly he’d never held on so tight to the cradle before, so maybe that was why he had barked his knuckles. Alternatively, the apparatus might have been booby-trapped (though, fortunately, inadequately booby-trapped).

  All he did know was that he was going to keep his eyes skinned for the rest of the performance.

  And he would be very relieved when the fights were over.

  Charles had more costumes than the other actors in his dressing room, and, since some of his changes were so quick they had to take place in the wings, it took him a little while to collect up all his belongings after the performance. This was a chore that should have been done by Wardrobe, but he didn’t have much confidence in the girl with orange-streaked hair, and preferred to be responsible for his own stuff. Nothing worse for an actor than suddenly to find he hasn’t got the right pair of trousers in the middle of a quick change.

  So, by the time he got back to his dressing room after the Schools Matinée, its other residents had already doffed their armour and rushed to get out of the theatre for a break before the evening show.

  Charles was hanging up his costumes on a long, wheeled rack, when he heard the door open behind him.

  He turned sharply to see Gavin Scholes. The director was breathing heavily, and looked flustered and upset.

  ‘Oh, Charles. Others all gone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  It was then that Charles noticed Gavin was carrying the sword used by Macbeth in his final fight.

  Chapter Seventeen

  STILL, GAVIN SCHOLES seemed to be avoiding Charles’s eye. ‘Charles, I have something to ask you . . .’

  ‘Yes?’ He spoke casually, but he was carefully assessing the distance between him and the sword which he had so recently seen carried in the service of both Malcolm and Macbeth.

  ‘I don’t like doing it, but I’m afraid I’ve made a ghastly cock-up . . .’

  ‘Oh yes? What?’

  The tension was great, but the bathos was greater.

  ‘Look, I’d completely forgotten, but when I set up this matinée, I agreed with one of the teachers that I’d lead a discussion of the play afterwards. With the cast.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘And I’ve just bumped into the bloke and he’s reminded me about it, and I’ve dashed back here and everyone else seems to have gone. So I’m sorry, Charles, but would you mind coming and talking to them?’

  ‘No. No problem. Have I got time to get out of costume?’

  Gavin grimaced. ‘Sorry. I’ve kept them waiting some time already.’

  ‘Okay. Don’t worry. Just one thing, Gavin,’ Charles asked, ‘why have you got that sword?’

  ‘Oh, give them something to look at. There’s sure to be a question about whether or not the swords are real.’

  Charles felt relieved. But he still kept his distance from Gavin as they left the dressing room.

  In the passage outside, another shock awaited him. The door to the liquor storeroom, on which a new padlock had been fixed, was open. Inside, Norman Phipps could be seen, piling up crates of bottles.

  Outside, watching him, stood Detective Inspector Dowling.

  The policeman turned at the sound of the dressing-room door. ‘Ah, Mr Paris. I was just having another look at the scene of the . . . er, accident. Are you ready for our little chat?’

  Charles explained about the discussion. Gavin endorsed how important it was that Charles should participate.

  ‘Fine,’ said the Detective Inspector blandly. ‘It’ll keep for half an hour. May I use your office again, Mr Scholes?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘See you up there when you’re ready, Mr Paris.’

  The discussion was predictable. The boys of only one school had stayed to talk about the play, and clearly they had done so not of their own volition, but because their teacher had told them to.

  The boys were also disappointed to see the Director accompanied on the stage by only one member of the cast. And, though the range of that member’s performance had encompassed the Bleeding Sergeant, the Sewer, the Drunken Porter, the Old Man, the Third Murderer, the Apparition of an Armed Head, the English Doctor, the Scottish Doctor, and soldiers fighting on both sides in the final battle, they did not disguise the fact that they would rather have seen George Birkitt, whom they knew from the telly, or Felicia Chatterton, who was dead dishy.

  Gavin gave a brief exposition of his view of the play, which seemed to engage his audience’s attention no more than had the actual performance, and then invited questions.

  The response was sluggish; only heavy prompting from their teacher, a small, enthusiastic man with gold-rimmed glasses and a wispy beard, elicited anything.

  The first question was the one Gavin had anticipated about real swords, and, with a knowing look to Charles, he produced Macbeth’s weapon from the wings. He then asked if any of them would like to look at it. This was unwise, because it precipitated a rush on to the stage. The sword was snatched from him and brandished dangerously by a series of small hands before order was re-imposed by the teacher.

  ‘If you’ve got real weapons,’ asked a grumpy vo
ice from the front row, ‘why didn’t the fights look more realistic?’

  ‘Oh, I thought they were quite realistic,’ Gavin objected defensively.

  This was greeted by a chorus of derision. ‘No way’, ‘They were pathetic’, ‘I could do it tons better’, ‘No, they were missing each other by miles’ and ‘The A-Team’s much better’ came from various parts of the auditorium.

  ‘Yeah.’ The grumpy voice from the front row added a supplementary question. ‘Why isn’t Macbeth more like The A-Team?’

  This enquiry was greeted with considerable enthusiasm and seemed to be the cue for a series of machine-gun noises and Mr T impressions.

  ‘Well,’ said Gavin as the hubbub subsided, ‘I think this is one that perhaps Charles can answer better than I can.’

  You bastard, thought Charles, as he scraped the bottom of his mind for something to say. He had at least heard of The A-Team, thank God. When he had last seen his grandsons, Juliet’s boys (which, he realised with horror, had been nearly six months previously), they had talked of nothing else.

  ‘Um, well, you see, what you have to remember is that, for the people of Shakespeare’s time, there was no television. Plays were their television, if you like.’

  ‘Cor, give me Eastenders any day,’ came an opinion from the back of the auditorium.

  Charles persevered. ‘So for them, you see, the theatre provided everything. Tragedy, comedy . . .’

  ‘Where’s the comedy?’ demanded an aggressive recently-broken voice.

  ‘Well, even in Macbeth, there’s comedy.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘The Drunken Porter. He’s a comic character.’

  ‘But he’s not funny.’

  ‘No, I know he’s not funny, but he is a comic character.’ Dear, oh dear, this is uphill work, thought Charles. How on earth does Frances manage to be a teacher, doing this every day? ‘You see, for people of Shakespeare’s time, the Porter was making very good jokes.’ He parroted this opinion because he had heard it so often stated, but he couldn’t really bring himself to believe it. ‘You see, you have the latest sit com, but in the same way the people of Shakespeare’s time had the Drunken Porter. You have The A-Team, they had Macbeth.’

  ‘Poor sods,’ said a voice from the back.

  The short bearded teacher leapt up in fury. ‘Who said that? Come on, who said it? We are not leaving this theatre until the boy who said that word owns up.’

  Oh God, thought Charles. We could be here all night.

  ‘Now, come on, I don’t care what language you use at home, but when you’re in my charge, you don’t use those kind of words. What will Mr Scholes and Mr .er . . . the other gentleman think of you?’

  ‘I don’t think they’ll actually mind,’ said an earnest owl-faced boy sitting near the teacher. ‘I think they’re probably used to it. I mean, when that one . . .’ He pointed at Charles ‘. . . popped out of the pot, he said “Shit”.’

  This was greeted by choruses of ‘Yes, he did’, ‘Protheroe’s right, sir’, ‘He really did, he said “Shit”’ and ‘Did Shakespeare write that?’ Once again it was a while before a relative calm was re-established.

  ‘Any further questions?’ asked the bearded teacher, glaring round the auditorium.

  The owl-faced boy raised his hand. ‘Yes, sir, please, sir,’ he asked with the same unsmiling earnestness.

  ‘Right, Protheroe, what’s your question?’

  ‘Well, sir, it’s about that bit with the pot.’

  ‘Cauldron, Protheroe.’

  ‘What, sir?’

  ‘It’s called a cauldron.’

  ‘What is, sir?’

  ‘The pot, Protheroe.’

  ‘Oh yes, sir, right, sir. Well . . . when all those people popped out of the pot . . .’

  ‘Yes?’ Gavin Scholes smiled encouragingly at the boy.

  ‘Were the Witches going to eat them?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘That’s my question – were the Witches cannibals?’

  ‘Don’t be stupid, Protheroe.’ The teacher’s hand reached round to clip the boy’s ear.

  ‘But I wasn’t being stupid, sir. I really meant it. It was a serious – ow!’

  The teacher rode over a chorus of ‘Ooh, you hit Protheroe’s and turned to address the two figures on the stage.

  ‘I must apologise for the stupidity of some of my pupils. But I would like to say . . .’ At this point he reached into his pocket and produced a file card scribbled with notes. Oh no, Charles groaned inwardly, speeches. ‘I would like to say how much we appreciate having had this opportunity of talking to you about the . . . er . . .’ He heavily italicised the next words ‘. . . nuts and bolts of production. We realise that you are all . . . er, both . . . busy people, and we do appreciate you giving up your time to give us a glimpse backstage. As Head of English, I am aware that I can talk about a play until I’m blue in the face – and I’m sure some of my pupils present today reckon I do . . .’ He waited for reaction, but his charges were too familiar with his jokes to bother to give him any. ‘Be that as it may . . .’ For a moment he lost his place in his notes. ‘Be that as it may, yes . . . Yes, well, I can talk about a play till I’m blue in the face, but I’m sure the boys learn a hundred times more by actually seeing the play in production. I sometimes think the best way for them to get to know Macbeth is for us actually to mount a school production, but unfortunately, with Mr Palmer currently locked into rehearsal of Joseph and his Amazing Technicolour Dreamcoat, that is not logistically possible.’ He lost his way. ‘Be that as it may . . . And it is . . . I would like, finally . . .’ Thank God, thought Charles. ‘. . . er, finally, to thank Mr Scholes and Mr . . . er . . .’ The teacher glanced down at his programme ‘. . . Mr. Murgatroyd . . .’ Huh, thought Charles, so much for all my finely-differentiated character work ‘. . . for giving up their time and leading such a stimulating discussion. So, boys . . .’ He turned back towards the auditorium ‘. . . I would be grateful if you could show your appreciation in the usual way.’

  With three rousing ‘Hip hip’s, he wrung three limp ‘Hooray’s from the boys, who immediately started to shuffle out of the auditorium, and the discussion was over.

  Charles watched Gavin warily as they left the stage, but the director did not seem too interested in him. ‘Thanks very much for your help, Charles. I must go and sort a few things out in the office.’

  ‘Well, if Dowling’s up there, tell him I’m on my way.’

  ‘Oh, I’d forgotten about him,’ said Gavin casually, as he set off up the auditorium.

  Charles wondered if that could possibly be true.

  He changed back into his ordinary clothes and left his dressing room. Through the open door of the store-room, he could still see Norman reorganising his supplies of drink. It seemed months to Charles since he had discovered Warnock Belvedere’s beer-sodden body there, but he knew grimly that he was about to relive that experience in an interview that could prove to be very uncomfortable.

  He slipped through a pass-door into the theatre foyer and was about to start up the stairs towards Gavin’s office when he caught sight of movement through the glass doors at the front of the theatre.

  The bearded schoolmaster was tetchily herding his recalcitrant charges into a minibus.

  But it was what was printed on the side of the minibus that caught Charles’s attention.

  And it brought instantly to his mind another possible solution to the mystery of Warnock Belvedere’s death.

  Chapter Eighteen

  CHARLES RUSHED back into the theatre foyer as the school minibus drove away. At the foot of the stairs stood Detective Inspector Dowling. ‘On my way up to Mr Scholes’ office. Care to join me?’

  ‘Just a sec. Must just sort out something at the Box Office.’

  The detective cocked an ironical eyebrow at him. ‘A more sensitive man, Mr Paris, might think you were trying to avoid him.’

  ‘Only take a minute, I promise.’

&
nbsp; Dowling glanced at his watch. ‘Very well. See you up there.’ And he started up the stairs.

  Charles looked through the window of the Box Office to confirm who was on duty, but he went through the pass-door out of the foyer and entered the small room by its back door.

  Sandra Phipps looked round in surprise. She sat there, queen of her domain, theatre plans spread over the telephones on the counter in front of her. Behind her were rows of wooden pigeon-holes, each with its stock of different-coloured tickets and its date neatly printed on the frame.

  ‘Charles. What do you want? If it’s about comps, you should come to the window, you know.’

  She looked tired. The defiant brassiness was still there, but under their make-up, her eyes sagged. Her shoulders, under the tight satin of her blouse, drooped.

  ‘I know,’ said Charles. ‘It’s not about comps.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘It’s about Stewart.’

  Panic flashed in her eye. ‘Is he all right?’ Sandra asked.

  ‘Yes, he’s fine.’ She slumped with relief. ‘Or at least he’s not fine, is he?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, he’s not gone to school today, has he?’

  ‘No. Tonsillitis.’

  ‘Stayed at home.’

  ‘Yes. He often gets it. Look, Charles, what is this? What are you on about?’

  Before he could answer, the phone rang. Sandra answered it. ‘Pinero Theatre Box Office.’

  She took the booking punctiliously, shuffling her plans to check availability, offering a range of prices, repeating the details of the caller’s credit card.

  When the call was over, she turned back to Charles. ‘Macbeth’s booking very well. Seems like Gavin’s got a success on his hands. Of course, George is a good telly name . . .’ Charles said nothing, as she reached round to the relevant pigeonhole and withdrew a book of tickets, from which she tore two, carefully checking the printed details. ‘What I really need,’ she continued, ‘is to have this whole system computerised. But of course that’s money, and . . .’

  She seemed to realise that this babbling was not getting her anywhere. She looked straight at Charles. ‘What is this about Stewart?’