Murder Unprompted

by Simon Brett

  ‘Oh.’

  So Miles reckoned the international financial scene could cope with another child. Hmm, maybe the recession was bottoming out.

  ‘They’d love to see you.’

  ‘Sure, I’d love to see them,’ he replied automatically. ‘Incidentally – apropos of Miles – you said there was something boring you wanted to talk to me about.’

  Frances grinned guiltily. ‘You must stop saying things like that about Miles.’

  ‘Why? It’s true. Or have I missed something? Go on, tell me, I’m anxious to know – have you ever heard an interesting word pass our son-in-law’s lips?’

  ‘I decline to answer that. Juliet’s very happy with him.’

  ‘Thank you. You have answered it.’

  ‘Anyway,’ said Frances, heavily changing the subject, ‘what I wanted to talk to you about was the house.’

  ‘Our house in Muswell Hill?’

  ‘Yes. I want to sell it.’

  ‘Sell it?’

  ‘And move in somewhere smaller.’

  ‘Are you hard up?’

  ‘No, I’m better off than ever now I’m headmistress. But I’m also busier, and a house like that takes a lot of time.’

  ‘I suppose it does. I’d never really thought about it.’

  ‘And I’m over fifty now and have to start looking ahead to retirement. So selling the house seems the logical thing to do.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘You don’t mind, do you?’

  ‘Mind? No, why should I mind?’

  But he did. Somehow, through all the extravagations of his life, he still thought of Frances in the house in Muswell Hill as a fixed point, a moral and geographical norm from which everything else was a kind of deviation. He was surprised at the emptiness he felt at the prospect of her moving. That sort of thing, like Juliet thinking of having another baby, like the twins growing up, made him feel abandoned, immobile in a world where everything else was on the move.

  He tried not to show his hurt, because he knew he had no justification for it, but for him the sparkle had gone out of the rest of the meal.

  He saw Frances to her car, a bright yellow Renault 5, another symbol of her independence of him.

  ‘Shall I . . . er . . .’

  ‘No, Charles. I’ve got to do that marking.’

  ‘Sure.’

  She thanked him for a lovely evening and for the roses, with a strange formality, almost as if they had just met for the first time.

  ‘We’ll meet up again soon,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, I’d love that.’

  She kissed him gently on the lips and was gone.

  Charles found a cab and gave the driver the address of the Montrose, a drinking club off the Haymarket.

  ‘Hello, Maurice Skellern Personal Management.’

  ‘Maurice, it’s me, Charles.’

  ‘Oh, hello.’

  ‘What’s with all this “Personal Management”? I thought you were called “Maurice Skellern Artistes”.’

  ‘Yes, I was, Charles, but I decided it had a rather dated feel. “Artistes” is so . . . I don’t know . . . so Variety. I thought “Personal Management” had a more with-it, seventies feel.’

  ‘We’re in the eighties, Maurice.’

  ‘Oh yes, so we are. Well, you know what I mean.’

  ‘Hmm. In my experience, “Personal Management” usually means the agent taking twenty per cent rather than ten.’

  ‘Ah yes, well, Charles, we must talk about that sometime. Anyway, how did the play go down in Bristol?’

  ‘Taunton.’

  ‘Taunton, Bristol – it’s all West Country. Anyway, how was it?’

  ‘You mean you haven’t heard?’

  ‘Heard what?’

  ‘Honestly, Maurice! I thought agents were meant to be the antennae of show business, alert to every rumour, every flicker of interest. I don’t think you even know where the West End is.’

  ‘You know, Charles, sometimes you can be very hurtful.’

  ‘Listen. The Hooded Owl was a very big success in Taunton.’

  ‘Oh, good.’

  ‘And it’s coming in to the West End.’

  ‘REALLY?’

  ‘Yes. Opening on 30th October at the Varietyoh.’

  ‘What’s the Varietyoh?’

  ‘The Variety. It saves you the trouble of saying ‘oh’ in a disappointed voice.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Maurice, in a disappointed voice.

  ‘No, it’ll be all right. Denis Thornton’s got the lease of the theatre now.’

  ‘Has he?’

  ‘And Bobby Anscombe’s backing the show.’

  ‘IS HE?’

  ‘Yes, I’m surprised you haven’t heard anything about it.’

  ‘Now, Charles, I’m not as young as I was. I don’t get about the way I –’,

  ‘No, I meant I was surprised the management hadn’t been in touch to sort out the West End contract. You sure you haven’t heard anything?’

  ‘Not a squeak.’

  ‘Oh well, they must be pretty busy this week. There’s a meeting tomorrow. No doubt I’ll hear more then.’

  ‘Yes. You don’t want me to ring anyone?’ asked Maurice, with distaste at the prospect.

  ‘No, don’t bother.’

  ‘You know, Charles, this is very good news. Very good news. It’s really gratifying for me, you know, as an agent . . .’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘Yes, when one feels that all one’s hard work has not been in vain, that all that careful guiding of a client’s career has not been wasted. Yes, moments like this make one understand the meaning of Personal Management.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘Now, Charles, about this rate of commission you pay me . . .’

  The Friday’s meeting for the company of The Hooded Owl was held in a superannuated gym near Covent Garden. Everyone was in good spirits, ranging from the quiet complacency of Alex Household to the Christmas Eve child’s exhilaration of Lesley-Jane Decker. The week’s break had relaxed them with that relaxation an actor can only feel when he knows he’s got a job to go to. Those based on London had seen friends, seen shows, talked endlessly; those based outside had sorted out digs or friends to land themselves on, seen shows, talked endlessly. And when they all met up again in the gym, they talked further, volubly, dramatically, hysterically.

  The meeting was called for three in the afternoon, but by three-fifteen there was still no sign of Paul Lexington. At one end of the gym there was a folding table with a couple of chairs, from which he would no doubt address them when he arrived. One chair was already occupied by a young man in a beige suit with immaculately waved hair. No one knew who he was or made any attempt to talk to him, but he didn’t seem worried by this. He just sat at the table looking through some papers and playing with a pencil.

  Peter Hickton wasn’t expected at the meeting. He was still monitoring his next Taunton production, Ten Little Indians (called by its author, Agatha Christie, in less sensitive times, Ten Little Niggers), which had opened on the Wednesday. He would come up to town for the re-rehearsal, starting on the following Monday. In the view of most of die cast, two weeks was an excessive allocation of time to re-rehearse a show they had brought to such a pitch of perfection in Taunton. They reckoned they were in for a fairly lazy fortnight.

  At three-twenty Paul Lexington arrived. He clutched a brief-case full of papers, and still looked pretty exhausted, but he had lost the wild look of the last week at Taunton. His confidence had returned a hundredfold.

  ‘Sorry I’m late, everyone. There’s been a lot to arrange, and one particular deal I only got signed half an hour ago. Have you all met Wallas?’

  He indicated the young man in the beige suit. No, it was clear no one had met him. ‘Ah, this is Wallas Ward, who is going to be our Company Manager.

  Wallas Ward nodded languidly, and the company looked at him with new interest. The Company Manager would play a significant part in their lives during the run. H
e was the management’s representative, responsible for the day-to-day running of the show. It would help if the cast got on with him, though, because of his allegiance to the management, they would never quite trust him.

  ‘Right,’ said Paul. ‘I’m sorry that we haven’t got round to contacting your agents during the last week, but it has been very busy. I’ve had to set up a Production Office, sort out the deals with Denis Thornton and Bobby Anscombe – there’s been a hell of a lot to do.’

  ‘Still, the important bits are now settled, and the result of it all is . . .’ He paused, seeming uncertain, which was out of character for him. ‘Well, let me say that I have some good news and some bad news for you.’

  The cast was absolutely silent. This was the first discordant note since the euphoria of the Taunton party.

  ‘Now, as you know, Bobby Anscombe is coming in with me on this production. The credit’ll read: “Paul Lexington Productions, in association with Bobby Anscombe”. Now this is excellent news for the show. I don’t think I need to give you a list of Bobby’s successes. He’s got the best nose in the business, and the fact that he’s with us means that we’re going to have a hit.’

  He paused again. The cast hardly breathed. They hadn’t had the bad news yet.

  Paul Lexington chose his words with care. ‘Now Bobby Anscombe’s success in the theatre hasn’t been just coincidence. He knows what makes a show work, and, if all the elements aren’t there, he has never been sentimental about making changes as necessary.’

  There was a tiny rustle of unease from the cast. They were beginning to anticipate what was coming.

  ‘Now I think it’s no secret from any of you that when we opened the play in Taunton, we were hoping to have a star name in the cast.’

  They all knew now. Imperceptibly, they all glanced towards Salome Search, whose face shone with tension.

  ‘We didn’t get a star name, but we got an excellent performance, and the show was still a huge success. And, for myself, I’d like to keep that success intact. I don’t believe in changing a winning team.

  ‘However . . .’

  Moisture glowed on Salome Search’s eyes.

  ‘Bobby Anscombe does not agree with me. Obviously he’s more objective than I am, he doesn’t know you all, he hasn’t worked with you all. But his view is that to bring in a play by an unknown author without any star names is commercial suicide. He wants to make changes in the cast.

  ‘Now I’ve argued with him about this, but he won’t budge. In fact, what it comes down to is, if we don’t make cast changes, he’ll back out. I’ve checked round other potential investors and there’s nothing doing. Either we do the show with Bobby Anscombe – or the transfer’s off.’

  The cast was once again silent.

  ‘I’m sorry I have to break the news to you like this. I’d rather have spoken quietly to the individuals concerned, but I’m afraid there hasn’t been time. So I’m going to be brutal and just tell you . . .’

  He paused. Once again, as at the cast party, Charles wondered whether the producer wasn’t rather enjoying the suspense he created. There seemed to be a kind of glee behind the apology, a relish in the role of hatchet-man.

  ‘Alex,’ Paul Lexington announced finally, ‘I am afraid you’re out. We’ve just done a deal with Micky Banks to play the part of the father.’

  Now at last he got reaction, but it was a confused reaction. If he hadn’t mentioned the name of the replacement, the cast would have been shouting at him in fury, in defence of the one of them who had been so savagely axed. But Michael Banks . . . Even in their moment of shock, they could recognise what a coup it was to get him. Now if ever a name was box office, it was Micky Banks. And though their hearts went out to Alex, their actor’s fickleness could appreciate the commercial sense of substitution.

  Alex Household himself was the slowest to react. The noise around him subsided and they all looked covertly towards him.

  ‘I see,’ he said, very, very coolly.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said the producer. ‘If it could have happened any other way, I’d’ve . . . I’m sure we can sort out some sort of deal for you. I mean of course, you haven’t signed any sort of contract . . .’

  I see, thought Charles. Maybe that was the reason for delaying the announcement of the transfer; maybe that was why no approach had been made to any of their agents. Paul Lexington hadn’t wanted to get any of the original cast signed up until he had contracted his star.

  ‘But I’m sure, Alex, we can sort out some sort of generous terms for you if you want to understudy –’

  ‘Understudy!’ the actor repeated, rising to his feet. ‘Understudy . . .’

  ‘I mean it’s up to you. You just say what you want and I’ll –’

  ‘Say what I want, eh?’ Alex’s anger was beginning to build. ‘Say what I want. Shall I tell you what I want? I want the world rid of all the little shits like you who run it. I want you all out – gone – dead – exterminated!’

  ‘Look, Alex, I’m sorry –’

  ‘Sorry, yes, but you’re not as sorry as you will be! You dare to offer me the job of understudy to a part I CREATED! Well, you know what you can do with your job – stuff it! Understudy!’

  And, with that sense of occasion that never deserts an actor even in the most real crises of emotion, Alex Household exited from the gym.

  There was a murmur of mixed reaction from the cast. They were sorry, yes, angry, yes, but inside each felt relief. In each mind was the thought: It wasn’t me.

  ‘I’m sorry, this is very painful,’ Paul Lexington continued, with the same hint of relish. ‘It’s not the part of the producer’s job that I enjoy.

  ‘I mentioned cast changes.’

  They were all struck dumb again. In their relief they had forgotten that. The axe was still poised overhead. Eyes again slid round to Salome Search.

  ‘Charles,’ said Paul Lexington, ‘I’m sorry . . .’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHARLES WAS no less hurt than Alex Household at losing his part in The Hooded Owl, but his way of showing the hurt was different. He was not quick to anger and confrontation; shocks caught up with him slowly and he usually faced them in solitary depression rather than by throwing a scene. A bottle of Bell’s was the only witness of his lowest moods.

  It was just the two of them. The rest of the cast had survived the axe. Charles stayed at the meeting long enough to hear when the rehearsal call was for the Monday; if he accepted Paul’s offer of an understudy job, then he’d have to be there. But he wasn’t sure whether he was going to accept. He said he’d think about it over the weekend, and let Paul know on the Monday.

  When he left, the other actors offered him clumsy commiseration, as to someone who had been bereaved. And, as to the bereaved, their words glowed with the grateful confidence that their own worlds were still intact.

  It was when he got outside into the sunlight of a newly-trendy Covent Garden that the disappointment hit him. His armour of cynicism was shown up as useless; all he could feel was how desperately he had wanted the job and how bitter he felt at the injustice that had taken it away from him.

  Because it was injustice; he knew it wasn’t a matter of talent. He had played that part well, certainly at least as well as the actor taking over from him.

  George Birkitt.

  He knew George Birkitt, had worked with him on a television sit. com. called The Strutters. He liked George Birkitt and thought he was a good actor. But to lose the part to George Birkitt . . . that he found hard to stomach.

  And why? Simply because George Birkitt was a better-known name from television. After The Strutters, he had gone on to play a leading part in another sit. com. called Fly-Buttons. That had just started screening as part of the ITV Autumn Season and so suddenly George Birkitt was a familiar name. The sort of name which, on a poster – particularly if placed directly beneath that of Michael Banks – would in theory bring the punters in.

  Whereas Charles Paris, who knew
that he had given one of the best performances of his career in The Hooded Owl, was a name that the punters wouldn’t know from a bar of soap.

  So he was out, and George Birkitt was in.

  Charles just walked. Walked through the streets of London. He often did at times of emotional crisis. He didn’t really notice where he was going, just plodded on mechanically.

  The sight of an open pub told him how much time had passed and also reminded him of his normal comfort in moments of stress.

  But he didn’t want to sit in a pub, listening to the jollity and in-jokes of office workers.

  He went into an off-licence and bought a large bottle of Bell’s.

  But he didn’t want just to go back to Hereford Road and drink it on his own.

  He needed someone to talk to. Someone who would understand what he was going through.

  There was only one person who would really understand, because he was going through exactly the same. And that was Alex Household.

  The new flat was at the top of a tall house in Bloomsbury, round the back of the British Museum. Alex opened the door suspiciously and, when he saw who was there, was about to shut it again.

  ‘I don’t want your bloody sympathy, Charles!’

  ‘That’s not what I’m bringing. I’ve got the boot too.’

  ‘Oh Lord.’ Alex Household drew aside to let him into the flat. The interior was still full of boxes and packing cases, showing signs of recent occupation.

  ‘I’ve bought a bottle of whisky and I’m planning to drink my way right through it.’ Charles slumped on to a sofa. ‘You going to help me, or are you still on the “no stimulants” routine?’

  ‘I’ll help you. What does it matter what I do now?’

  ‘Transcendental meditation no good? Doesn’t the “earth’s plenty” –’

  ‘Listen, Charles!’ Alex turned in fury, his fist clenched.

  ‘Sorry. Stupid remark. I’m as screwed up as you are.’

  ‘Yes, I must say this is a wonderful “new start”.’ Alex laughed bitterly. ‘For the last few months I’ve really been feeling together, an integrated personality for the first time since my breakdown. And now . . . Do you know, my psychiatrist spent hour after hour convincing me that it was all in the mind, that nobody really was out to get me, that the world wasn’t conspiring against me . . . And I’d just about begun to believe him. And now – this. Something like this happens and you realise it’s all true. The world really is conspiring against you. I’d like to see a psychiatrist convince me this is all in the mind. It’s a –’