Murder Unprompted

by Simon Brett

  But for the cast there was no doubt about anything. Each of them had felt the momentum of the play build up through the evening, each of them had felt his doubts about its worth evaporate, each of them felt the relief of consummation after the exhausting preparations. They were all euphoric.

  Charles and Alex tumbled back into the Number One dressing room, arms around each other’s necks, giggling like schoolgirls. ‘Yippee, yippee. It works, it works!’ cried Alex.

  They both felt emotionally drained – the parts they played were taxing – but lifted above exhaustion on to a high like drunkenness.

  As Charles became aware of this, he realised that he had given a performance – and a good one – on an alcoholic intake of only a swig of Bell’s and a quarter bottle of champagne. This was something of a record for him, and momentarily the heretical thought traversed his mind that maybe his talent could flourish without constant irrigation.

  Mind you, he really needed a drink now.

  As if in answer to his thought, Paul Lexington poked his head round the dressing room door. ‘Terrific, both of you! We have a hit on our hands, babies! Soon as you’re out of your cossies, up to the bar. Drinks are on me tonight!’

  ‘That’s very generous of you, Paul,’ said Charles.

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing. I’d laid it on for anyone who came down from London.’

  ‘And has anyone come?’

  A shadow passed over the producer’s boyish face. ‘No, not tonight. I expect they’ll be along later in the week.’

  But he was incapable of pessimism. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be on the phone first thing in the morning. Tell ’em the quality of what they’re missing. They’ll be falling over themselves trying to snap this one up.’

  At that moment Lesley-Jane Decker burst in, as effervescent as the champagne she had handed out. She threw her arms round Alex Household’s neck. ‘God, you were wonderful tonight.’

  ‘Oh Lord, praise, praise,’ he said, with a shrug.

  ‘You were super too.’ Paul Lexington patted Lesley-Jane on the shoulder. ‘See you up in the bar.’

  ‘Terrific.’

  As the Producer turned to leave, he was met in the doorway by a tall lady in a light-brown fur coat. She looked as if she was in her forties, but slightly over-elaborate make-up and hair that had been helped to recapture its former redness made putting an exact date on her difficult.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she apologised in a rich, elocuted voice. ‘I don’t want to intrude.’

  She was looking at Alex and Lesley-Jane still clasped together, a sight for which she seemed to have slight distaste.

  The young actress turned at the voice and rushed across to the older woman. ‘Mummy! Mummy, do come and meet everyone.’

  Paul Lexington, after being introduced, nodded politely and said he hoped she’d join them for a drink in the bar. Alex Household said he was enchanted, but enchanted to see her at last, he’d heard so much about her.

  ‘And, Mummy, this is –’

  ‘Ah, but I know you, don’t I, Charles?’

  Charles Paris looked up warily at the woman’s face. Maybe there was something vaguely familiar about it, but he couldn’t for the life of him say where he had seen her before. ‘Um . . .’

  ‘Long time ago, darling.’

  ‘Oh . . . er . . .’ He was going to need a bit more of a clue than that.

  Malcolm Harris blundered in through the door flanked by ferret-faced women who had to be his wife and his wife’s mother, and there was a pause for more introductions.

  ‘Wonderful play, Malcolm,’ Alex cooed. ‘Oh Lord, what a wonderful play.’

  But the diversion didn’t let Charles off the hook. ‘Have you placed me yet?’ asked Lesley-Jane’s mother seductively.

  ‘Um, no . . .,’ he had to admit, wondering whether their previous encounter had been under embarrassing circumstances.

  ‘You remember Cheltenham . . .?’ she nudged.

  ‘What? Cheltenham Rep.? Back in the early sixties?’

  ‘Sssh.’ She raised an elegantly manicured finger to her lips. ‘Don’t let’s talk dates. But yes, Cheltenham Rep. it was.’

  Given a context, he did begin to place her. ‘Oh yes.’ But he still couldn’t for the life of him remember what her name was.

  She seemed to realise this, and gave in. ‘Valerie Cass.’

  ‘Of course! Valerie Cass! Well, how are you? Talk about long time, no see.’

  As he brought out the platitudes of recognition, he placed her exactly. Yes, of course, early sixties, Cheltenham, young actress, playing ingenue roles. Now he knew the connection, he remembered that she had had that same quality of naive enthusiasm that Lesley-Jane demonstrated. Not as good an actress, though. No, his recollection was that Valerie Cass had been a pretty bad actress.

  As if to apologise for this thought, he continued fulsomely, ‘Valerie Cass! You know, you haven’t changed a bit. Have you got a picture up in the attic that grows old instead of you?’

  This was the right approach – or at least the approach she liked. She fluttered coquettishly.

  ‘I’ve followed your career with interest, Charles. Read Stage every week, you know.’

  Oh, thought Charles, there must have been a few thousand weeks when you’ve searched it in vain for any mention of me. ‘Are you still in the business?’

  ‘Oh goodness me, no, Charles. I gave up when I married Lesley’s father. Had my time fully occupied bringing up my baby girl.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure.’ It seemed a good solution to Charles. Valerie Cass had probably been quite good as a mother; whereas, had she stayed in the theatre, it would only have been a matter of time before her lack of talent had been exposed.

  ‘No, no, Lesley-Jane carries on the theatrical tradition in our family. Of course, I give her any help I can, but . . .’ She shrugged. ‘I’m afraid my career was cut short. So I’m just left with my dreams of what might have been.’

  Charles hoped, for her sake, the dreams weren’t accurate. No, no doubt like his own, they were pure wish-fulfilment.

  He still felt apologetic for not having recognised her. ‘Sorry, it was so out of context. I mean, Lesley-Jane’s name gave me no clue.’

  ‘No, she got that from her father,’ said Valerie Cass rather tartly. Mother and daughter, and Malcolm Harris and his womenfolk eventually left the two actors to change out of their costumes.

  ‘Last one in the bar’s a sissy,’ said Charles, the euphoric giggliness returning.

  They both plunged for the door and, as they collided, Charles felt something heavy in Alex’s jacket pocket thump against him.

  ‘You great fraud! All your talk of “no stimulants” and you’re another of the flask-in-pocket brigade!’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Alex Household gravely. ‘It’s not a flask.’

  ‘Then what . . .’

  ‘I got mugged last year, walking back from the theatre in Birmingham.’ His voice became unsteady. ‘I got beaten up. It won’t happen again. I never go out after dark without this.’

  He withdrew his hand from his pocket. It was clasped around the butt of a Smith and Wesson Chiefs Special revolver.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE LOCAL paper thought The Hooded Owl was a success. It even raved about it. The last sentence of the notice read, ‘It is rarely that down here in Taunton we are treated to a show of such excellence. I urge everyone to go and see The Hooded Owl now, before you have to pay fares to London and West End prices for the privilege.’

  So, as far as the local paper was concerned, the transfer was a certainty. Unfortunately, it wasn’t local papers that arranged such things. It was London theatre managements and, at the end of the first week’s run, even Paul Lexington’s unpuncturable buoyancy could not hide the fact that no one relevant had been down to see the show. Still, as he kept asserting cheerfully, two weeks to go, and a lot could happen in two weeks.

  The local paper review, as well as backing the whole show, was also extremely gratifying to
Alex Household and Charles Paris. The sentence which kept recurring in both their minds for some days was this: ‘After witnessing acting of such power and emotional truth, it is hard to imagine why these two actors are not considerably better known than they are.’

  Exactly, they both thought, that’s what we’ve been saying for years. For Charles, the review was particularly welcome. For one thing, the sort of part he usually played didn’t often get reviewed. And for another, on the past three occasions when critics had deigned to mention him, their comments had been as follows:

  ‘Charles Paris was an odd choice for the part of the solicitor’ – Guardian

  ‘Charles Paris wandered through the play like one of Bo-Peep’s sheep looking for its tail’ – Evening Standard

  And – ‘Among the rest of the cast was Charles Paris’ – The Stage.

  In spite of the fact that nothing was happening on the transfer front, the cast could not keep down their optimism. The experience of playing in a success, endorsed nightly by the audience’s reaction, was an invigorating one, and Paul Lexington’s so-far-groundless confidence was infectious.

  ‘You know,’ said Alex Household, as he made up on the Tuesday evening of the second week, ‘I think it is going to work. I think we will make it.’

  Charles grinned. Closer acquaintance with the other actor had increased his liking for the man. His antagonistic feelings of the first night had just been the product of nerves. Now he found that, so long as he arranged to be out of the dressing room for the ‘Rub-a-dub-a-dub-a-dub-a-dub’ routine, he could cohabit with Alex quite happily. He had also found, to his surprise, that Alex had some sense of humour about his various fads and would even respond to gentle teasing on the subject.

  ‘Yes, it’s going to happen,’ Alex continued. ‘I feel my luck is due for a change.’

  ‘Hmm. I gather you’ve had a fairly rough few years.’

  ‘You can say that again. First I had a long patch out of work, then my marriage broke up – are you married, Charles?’

  Difficult question, really. He had married Frances back in 1951, and they weren’t divorced. They had a grown-up daughter, Juliet. On the other hand, he had walked out after ten years and, though he still saw Frances and felt a lot of ill-defined emotion for her, theirs was not what most people meant by a marriage.

  ‘Um, not unmarried,’ he replied cagily.

  Not that Alex was really interested. He continued his own catalogue of disasters. ‘Then I had the breakdown. It was an awful time. I went through everything – drugs, psychotherapy, the lot.

  ‘But that was three years ago. Everything’s going to be all right now. I am going on on that assumption. I’ve just bought this new flat in town, so a nice West End run is just what the mortgage and I need.’

  ‘And if the transfer doesn’t happen . . .’

  ‘Treason, Charles. Don’t even say it.’

  ‘No, I mean have you got another job lined up after this one?’

  Alex shook his head. ‘You?’

  ‘Good Lord, no.’

  A tap on the door prefaced the bursting-in of Lesley-Jane Decker, even more effervescent than usual. She threw her arms round Alex’s neck and looked at him in his mirror. ‘Have you heard, darling?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Wonderful news.’

  ‘Your mother’s gone back to London?’

  Lesley-Jane giggled, then, guiltily, stopped. ‘No, no, Alex. Denis Thornton’s in tonight.’

  ‘Really?’ said both the actors together.

  The name meant a great deal. Denis Thornton had been a successful juvenile in a long string of undemanding West End comedies, but had of latter years turned his talents and money towards management. Though he would still occasionally come back for a sixth-month run in a tailor-made comedy vehicle, most of his energies now went into Lanthorn Productions, which he owned with his partner, Gerard Langley. They were lessees of three or four London theatres and, in difficult times, made commercial theatre work. The shows they put on may have contributed little to the nation’s cultural heritage, but they certainly brought in the coach parties.

  ‘Ah.’ Alex looked complacent. ‘I heard that show at the King’s was doing fairly bad business.’

  ‘King’s would be a bit big for this, wouldn’t it?’ said Charles. ‘It’s more for your grand musicals and.’

  ‘It’d do . . .’ Alex preened himself with a hint of self-parody. ‘Yes, I wouldn’t mind having my name in lights above the title at the King’s.’

  ‘I’m sure you will, darling.’ Lesley-Jane kissed the top of his head. ‘Got to go. I left Mummy in my dressing room. See you.’

  ‘See you.’

  She fizzed out. Charles gestured towards the door with his head.

  ‘She part of your new start, Alex?’

  ‘Why not? As I say, about time my luck changed.’

  ‘Hmm. I thought Peter Hickton had earmarked her.’

  ‘So did he, dear, but experience does tell, you know. It’s my belief that all young girls should have their first affair with an older man. Anyway, dear Peter’s always so busy.’

  ‘You’ve been pretty busy too. Don’t know how you’ve had time or opportunity to . . .’

  ‘Time, my dear Charles, can always be made. And you forget that Lesley-Jane and I joined the company at the end of last season. As for opportunity . . . well, always sort out a bolt-hole for yourself, Charles.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  But he only got an enigmatic and rather smug smile by way of answer. ‘Lesley-Jane’s a sweet kid,’ Charles volunteered magnanimously.

  ‘Oh yes. Only one thing wrong with her.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘She’s not an orphan.’

  ‘Ah, doesn’t the lovely Valerie approve of you?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Because you’re too old?’

  ‘No, I think simply because I’m a man.’

  Charles nodded and started to powder down his make-up.

  ‘Still, sod the lot of them!’ said Alex Household with sudden venom. ‘I am going to win through. I am going to have all the successful things I should have had years ago. And none of the buggers are going to stop me!’

  Once again Charles detected the unstable note of paranoia in the other’s voice.

  There was a call for all cast on stage at the ‘half’ for the next day’s matinée. Most of them reckoned they had a pretty shrewd idea of what it was for.

  And sure enough, when Paul Lexington addressed them, his first two words were the ones which had been the cause of much discussion and speculation since the previous evening.

  ‘Denis Thornton,’ he announced, ‘as you may or may not know, came down to see the show last night. And I have some good news for you – he liked it!’

  The cast burst into shouts of delight, but cut them off sharply, waiting to hear what followed from this.

  ‘And basically what has happened is – he has offered us a theatre to transfer the show to the West End!’

  This was greeted with more euphoria. As it died away, Salome Search, who plumed herself on knowing a bit about the mechanics of ‘going in’ to the West End, having once spent a week in the chorus of an ill-fated musical at the Apollo, asked, ‘Does that mean Lanthorn Productions will be presenting the show?’

  ‘Oh no. I will be presenting the show. Denis’s company will just be renting us the theatre. It gives us a lot more freedom than if Lanthorn actually took over.’

  And a lot more chance to fail, thought Charles cynically.

  ‘So when will we be going in to the King’s?’ asked Alex.

  ‘Ah, it’s not the King’s,’ said Paul. ‘No, Denis reckons the King’s is far too big for this show. We’d get lost in there. No, he’s offering us the Variety.’

  ‘Oh,’ said all the cast at the same moment, trying not to sound disappointed.

  The Variety Theatre had had a chequered history. It was called a West End theatre, but its p
osition, in Macklin Street, was a little too far from Shaftesbury Avenue for the designation to sound convincing. It had been a popular Music Hall venue before the First World War, and come back to prominence in the fifties with a series of intimate revues. Since then it had justified its name by the variety of managements who had tried to make a go of it and the variety of fare they had presented there. Mime shows, light shows, nude shows, drag shows had all been washed up there as theatrical fashions ebbed and flowed. Religious rock musicals had followed on modern dance extravaganzas; one-man shows based on eighteenth-century letters had succeeded abortive attempts to revive the art of stage revue; poetry readings had drawn the same size audiences as South African jail diaries; laser shows, a punk rock musical and a gay version of Romeo and Juliet in black leather had all been tried, and failed.

  It was currently occupied by an entertainment based on Maori song and dance, which had somehow maintained its sickly life there for nearly three months.

  ‘Now I know what you’re all thinking,’ said Paul Lexington hastily. ‘That the Variety hasn’t had a success for the past twenty years. Don’t worry. The Hooded Owl is going to change all that. Listen, Denis Thornton has just taken over the lease and he’s no fool. He’s been looking for a property to reopen the theatre under his management and we are it. If we go to the Variety, we’ll go in with maximum publicity and really put the place back on the map!’

  The cast were so willing to believe the best that Paul Lexington’s rabble-rousing techniques worked and they instantly forgot their reservations and shouted again with excitement. Yes, of course they could succeed where others had failed. They were good. The Hooded Owl was good. Not only were they going to take the West End by storm, they were going to redefine its boundaries.

  Alex Household adjusted his question. ‘So when do we go in to the Variety?’

  ‘If all goes well, we’d open there in about four weeks. 30th October.’

  The date seemed very near and was greeted with renewed cheering.