Murder Unprompted

by Simon Brett

  Charles thought it was appalling. He wouldn’t have minded the meanness of only allowing one glass each, if it hadn’t been that the reception was so timed as to prevent that vital half-hour in the pub before closing time, which was so much a part of the necessary wind-down from giving of himself in performance. (The fact that, as understudy, he wasn’t giving a performance did not reduce the necessity for the wind-down.)

  But the cast were all very professional and knew the importance of the agencies’ backing, so they presented their most charming fronts. Needless to say, the focus of the visitors’ attention was Michael Banks, who, in spite of his fatigue, made himself most affable and approachable. Charles admired the skill with which the old pro conveyed an air of ease and relaxation, of the company having been one happy family, of the great fun he had had rehearsing for the show. At one point he overheard the star laughing and saying, ‘Long time since I’ve done theatre. Even had a little trouble learning the old lines. Still, got that sorted out now.’

  As an exercise in the skills of understatement and of giving the wrong impression without actually lying, Charles thought that took some beating.

  He himself got landed with a boring little man from Luton, who was a great stalwart of the local amateur dramatic society there and clearly, though he didn’t quite put it into words, thought The Hooded Owl a pale shadow of their recent production of When We Are Married. ‘Also,’ he said expanding his criticism, ‘your show’s too long.’

  ‘Oh really?’ said Charles mildly. ‘You mean it sags?’

  ‘No, but it finishes too late. Coach party’d be very late back to Luton, and they don’t like that.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘What you want to do . . .’ The man paused, then magnanimously decided to give the benefit of his expertise, ‘What you want to do is chop ten minutes out of it. Then you may have a show.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Charles. ‘Thank you very much.’

  It was Paul Lexington’s party, and since courting the ticket agencies was very much a management job, Charles was surprised to notice that the Producer wasn’t there. Wallas Ward was filling in, exercising his rather effete charm on the guests, but it wasn’t the same. Charles heard more than one question as to where Paul was. The ticket agents felt they weren’t getting the full treatment.

  The Producer did finally arrive about half an hour into the party, and he scurried around meeting everyone, making up for his earlier absence. He did so with his customary boyish bounce, and yet there was something strange in his manner. His face had the dead whiteness of someone in shock. Charles wondered what new disaster had hit the production, or which of the Producer’s dubious deals had just blown up in his face.

  He was soon to find out. The guests were eventually ushered out at about eleven forty-five. This took some doing, as they seemed prepared to stay all night. They didn’t seem to share their clients’ reservations about getting home late. It was only when the bottles of wine had been firmly put away and the last glass drained that they got the message. (Charles also got the message that he wasn’t going to get the quick slurp of wine at the end of the evening that he had been promising himself.)

  Etiquette had demanded that none of the cast should leave until the last of their guests had gone, but, as soon as the final raincoat disappeared round the door of the theatre bar, the entire company leapt for their belongings to make a quick getaway.

  ‘Shall we go, Micky?’ Charles heard Lesley-Jane Decker say to the star.

  Which was in itself interesting.

  But they were all stopped by Paul Lexington clapping his hands. ‘Listen, everyone. I have some news. I’m afraid once again it’s good news and bad news. The good news is that we’ve got the ticket agencies on our side. They like the show and they’re going to recommend it to their clients – on one condition.

  ‘That condition is that we cut ten minutes out of the running time.’ This was greeted by a ripple of protest. Malcolm Harris, who would have been the most vigorous protester, was not present, but Peter Hickton, acting on the author’s behalf, remonstrated. ‘Look, we can’t do that. The play’s really tight now. We’ll ruin it.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Paul. ‘Got to be done. Anything’ll cut down if it has to. Peter, see me in the production office at ten and we’ll go through the script. Then we’ll have a full cast call at two to give you the cuts. O.K., Wallas?’

  The Company Manager nodded.

  ‘We should let Malcolm know,’ protested Peter Hickton. ‘It is his play.’

  ‘There isn’t time. Anyway, it’s not his play now. I’ve got the rights. I’m sorry it’s necessary, but it is. We won’t get the coach parties if the show ends as late as it does now.’

  If anyone needed evidence of the power of the ticket agencies, there it was. Grumbling slightly, but accepting the inevitable, the cast once again made to leave, but Paul Lexington again stopped them.

  ‘Then there’s the bad news.’

  They froze. They had all thought the cuts were the bad news.

  ‘I’ve just come from a meeting with Bobby Anscombe. I am afraid we could not agree over certain . . . artistic matters. As a result, he has decided to withdraw his backing from the production.’

  This hit them like a communal heart-attack. As the shock receded, Charles found himself wondering what the disagreement had really been about. He felt certain that Paul Lexington had been trying to pull a fast one on his Co-producer. Maybe the missing contract had finally appeared and Bobby Anscombe hadn’t liked its provisions. It must have been something like that; Charles was beginning to understand the way Paul Lexington worked. But if he had tried to dupe the wily Bobby Anscombe as easily as the innocent Malcolm Harris, it was no wonder that he had come unstuck.

  But, like the eternal Wobbly Man, the young Producer bounced back. ‘Now this is a pity, but it’s not a disaster. I would rather lose Bobby’s backing than compromise my artistic integrity over this production.’

  The fact that no one laughed out loud at this remark suggested to Charles that they didn’t all share his view of the man. For most of them, his plausible exterior was still convincing.

  ‘There are other investors, and don’t worry, I’ve still got plenty of backing for this show. I’m not going to go bankrupt. Don’t worry about a thing. The Hooded Owl will go on, and, what’s more, it’ll be a huge success!’

  But, in spite of the stirring words, in spite of the cast’s cheers, Charles could see panic in Paul Lexington’s eyes.

  And when he thought about it, it didn’t surprise him He didn’t know the details of the funding of the show, but he could piece a certain amount together. Paul Lexington Productions had been able to mount The Hooded Owl at Taunton, but had been unable to bring it into town without Bobby Anscombe’s support.

  And that support had been bought at the cost of considerably increasing the budget. With the Taunton cast, it remained a comparatively cheap show. But with Michael Banks’s – and indeed George Birkitt’s – names above the title, it was a much more expensive proposition.

  And now the support, whose condition the cast changes had been, had been withdrawn.

  Michael Banks was suddenly a very expensive albatross around Paul Lexington’s neck.

  CHAPTER NINE

  THE UNDERSTUDY’S is a strange role, and never is he made more aware of its strangeness than on a first night. He is caught up in the communal excitement, without the prospect of release that performance gives. He cannot quite detach himself or even avoid nerves; he has to be eternally in readiness; only when the final curtain has fallen can he be sure he will not have to go on. During the ‘half’ before the curtain rises, he has his twitchiest moments. He has to watch the actor he would replace for signs of strain or imminent collapse and wonder nervously whether he could actually remember the lines if he had to go on. Sometimes the worst happens, and the actor does not appear for the ‘half’. Then the understudy goes through agonies of indecision before the Company Manager gives him th
e order to get into costume and make-up. And how often, as the understudy trembles in the wings awaiting the rise of the curtain, does the real actor appear, full of apologies about a power failure on the Underground or the traffic on the Westway.

  It is almost impossible for the understudy to achieve mental equilibrium. His thoughts sway constantly between the desire to go on and the desire to settle down for a relaxed evening with a book in the secure knowledge that he won’t have to go on. (This at least is true of aspiring understudies, those who really wish they had parts. There is a breed of professional understudy, often, if female, actresses who have semi-retired to bring up families, for whom the job is all that they require. It gives them the contact with the theatre that they crave, without the total commitment which acting every night demands.)

  Charles Paris was not a professional understudy. He still had dreams. And, though those dreams had taken something of a battering since the heady days of Taunton, they were resilient and survived in amended form. The image of suddenly being called in to take over from George Birkitt and astounding the critics with his unsung brilliance was one that would not go away, however hard he tried to suppress it.

  He knew that that was one of the reasons why he went to see George Birkitt first on his back-stage round at the ‘half’. The vulture instinct would make him acutely observant for any signs of imminent cerebral haemorrhage in the actor.

  George Birkitt, however, looked remarkably fit. He was gazing into his make-up mirror, playing the same game that he always did on the monitor screens in television studios – in other words, deciding which was his best profile.

  ‘Hello, George. Just dropped in to say all the best.’

  ‘Oh, thanks, Charles.’ He seemed completely to have forgotten that Charles had ever played the part. ‘I think the director and some of the cast of Fly-Buttons should be out front tonight.’

  He couldn’t resist mentioning the television series, just in case anyone should forget he was in it.

  ‘Oh great. I’ll be out there.’

  ‘Good. Then you could do me a favour. You know in the dinner party scene, when I’m down-stage doing my incest speech . . .’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, could you tell me what Micky’s up to during that? I’m sure he makes some sort of reaction I can’t see. Could you watch out for it? I mean, I know he’s the star and all that, but I’m damned if I’m going to be upstaged, even by him . . .’

  The Star Dressing Room was Charles’s next port of call. Its door was guarded by Cerberus in the form of Micky Banks’s dresser, Harve, a redoubtable old queen who had been with his master for years. Recognising the visitor, he said, ‘O.K., just a quick word. Don’t want him tired.’

  ‘Fine.’

  In spite of his dresser’s cares, Michael Banks did look absolutely shattered through his heavy make-up.

  ‘All the best, Micky.’

  ‘Thanks, Charles old boy.’ The star smiled graciously.

  ‘Sure you’ll knock ’em dead tonight.’

  ‘Hope so, hope so.’

  There was a tap at the door and Harve grudgingly admitted Lesley-Jane Decker. As at Taunton, she was bearing gifts. The shape of the parcel she put on Michael’s make-up table showed that, for him at least, she had graduated to full-size bottles of champagne.

  She put her arms around his neck and said, ‘All you wish for yourself, darling.’

  ‘Thank you, love. Same to you.’ Michael Banks grinned indulgently. ‘Is the redoubtable Valerie Cass up in your dressing room ready to give you lots of tips?’

  Lesley-Jane laughed. ‘She’s out front where she should be. With Daddy.’

  ‘She’ll be round before the evening’s out.’

  Charles felt awkward, excluded from their scene. ‘Well, I’ll . . . er . . .’ He edged towards the door, which Harve obligingly – indeed, pointedly opened for him.

  Outside stood Alex Household.

  ‘Break a leg, Micky,’ he said with a rather strained intonation. ‘I’ll be out there supporting you.’

  ‘Bless you.’ The star turned round to his understudy. ‘Couldn’t do it without you, you know.’

  ‘I know.’ Alex Household gave the words perhaps too much emphasis.

  Lesley-Jane could not keep her back to the door indefinitely and turned. Charles noted how pale she looked, almost ill.

  ‘Bonne chance, Lesley-Jane,’ pronounced Alex formally. ‘See you’re doing your rounds with the first night presents.’

  He said it deliberately to make her feel awkward. And succeeded.

  ‘Yes . . . yes. I’m . . . er . . . afraid I didn’t get round to doing anything for the understudies.’

  ‘No,’ Alex Household snorted with laughter. ‘No, of course not.’

  And, slamming the door, he left the Star Dressing Room.

  Charles caught up with him in the Green Room. Alex’s strange position in the production must have been making all of the usual understudy agonies even worse. Charles wanted to say something to help, but all he could think of was ‘Break a leg’.

  ‘Oh, you think you should wish luck to people who merely feed lines, do you? People whose job could be equally well – and probably better done – by a tape recorder.’

  ‘We all need luck,’ said Charles gently.

  Alex laughed. ‘Yes, we do, don’t we?’

  Then he started trembling. His whole body shook uncontrollably. His teeth chattered and he whimpered.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes, I’m . . . Yes, I’m . . . Yes, I will be.’

  And, sure enough, he soon had control of himself again. The shivering subsided.

  ‘Sure you’re O.K.? There’ll be St. John Ambulance people out front.’

  ‘No, I’m all right.’ But Alex’s eyes belied his words. They were wide with fear. ‘This is how it started last time.’

  ‘How what started?’

  ‘The breakdown.’ And he was seized by another spasm. The worst of it passed, but his teeth still chattered feebly.

  ‘Are you cold or . . .’

  ‘Cold? No. Or if I am now, I won’t be later. I’ll be roasting. Have you any idea how hot it gets in my little solitary nest on the O.P. side? Don’t worry, I’ll be hot enough. In fact, I’ll take this off while I think.’

  He hung his jacket on a hook in the Green Room. As it swung against the wall, there was a thud of something hard in the pocket.

  Alex Household gave a twisted smile and announced ironically, ‘Right, here we go. Tonight will be the climax of my career. Twenty-three years in the business has all been the build-up for this, as I take on my most challenging role ever – bloody prompter!’

  ‘Come on, Alex. It’s not so bad, it’s –’

  ‘Isn’t it? What do you know about how bad it is?’

  Charles retreated under this assault. ‘I just meant . . . Never mind. Back to what I said first – break a leg.’

  ‘I should think that will be the very least I will break,’ said Alex Household, and walked towards the stage.

  Charles knew it would be unprofessional to use the pass-door from backstage to the auditorium once the house had started to fill, so he went out of the Stage Door to walk round.

  The first thing he came across outside was Malcolm Harris being sick in the gutter.

  ‘Are you O.K.?’

  ‘Yes, I . . . will be.’

  ‘Don’t worry. It’s going fine. And at least Micky’s deaf-aid thing guarantees that he does actually say the lines you wrote.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’ The schoolmaster looked up at him pitifully. ‘I just don’t think I can sit out there and watch it all. I’m so jumpy, I’ll be sick again or . . .’

  ‘Then don’t sit there. Stand at the back, go backstage, go out for a walk, do whatever makes you feel most relaxed.’

  ‘But if I don’t sit in my seat, I’ll be leaving my wife and my wife’s mother on their own.’

  ‘Well, you could do that, couldn’t you?’r />
  ‘Yes, I suppose I could.’ But obviously it was an idea that had never occurred to him before, and his mind would take a little while to accommodate it.

  ‘Frances, I’m sorry I’m late.’

  ‘When were you ever otherwise?’

  ‘I wasn’t late for that meal in Hampstead.’ Even as he said it, he wished he hadn’t. There was something about the memory of that evening that made him uneasy. He kissed her clumsily to change the subject.

  ‘Anyway, what is all this? Why aren’t you going to be on-stage? When we last met, you told me . . .’

  ‘I’ll explain. Have we got time for a drink?’

  They would have had, but there was such a crush in the bar, there was no prospect of getting served before the curtain went up. Which was annoying.

  While they reconnoitred the bar and found their seats (on the aisle, so that, if his services as an understudy were required, Charles could be quickly extracted), he gave Frances a brief résumé of how he had lost his part.

  ‘Well, I think that’s rotten,’ she said, with genuine annoyance. It cheered Charles, to hear her angry on his behalf. He took her hand and felt the scar on her thumb, legacy of an accident with a kitchen knife in the early days of their marriage. Accumulated emotion made him weak, needing her.

  ‘Charles!’

  ‘Well, if it isn’t that naughty Charles Paris . . .’

  ‘With his lovely wife . . .’

  ‘Frances, isn’t it? Oh, it’s been so long . . .’

  ‘An absolute age . . .’

  This stereo assault on them came from two men in late middle age, bizarrely costumed in matching Victorian evening dress. Instantly Charles recognised William Bartlemas and Kevin O’Rourke, a pair of indefatigable first-nighters.

  ‘And how are you, Charles?’ demanded Bartlemas.