A Comedian Dies

by Simon Brett

  As anticipated, the Coroner brought in a verdict of death by misadventure, with recommendations that safety precautions in the theatre should be tightened up.

  As Charles and Frances were leaving the Coroner’s Court they heard someone bustling to catch up with them through the crush. They turned to see the pianist, Norman del Rosa, auburn wig gleaming over flushed face. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, ‘but it is Charles Paris, isn’t it?’

  Charles admitted it was.

  ‘Norman del Rosa. We worked together on a pantomime in Worthing, remember. Cinderella. You gave your Baron Hardup.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ Charles agreed vaguely. He remembered the pantomime but he couldn’t remember any Norman del Rosa being involved in it.

  His face must have betrayed his ignorance. ‘Oh, you remember, Charles. You were with that little dancer, Jacqui, who –’

  ‘I don’t think you’ve met my wife, Frances,’ Charles interposed hastily. Jacqui had been one of his early peccadilloes (who, surprisingly, had turned up again in the Marius Steen case), and he did not particularly want Frances reminded of her. ‘I’m sorry, Norman, I really can’t recall –’

  ‘Of course, the name. I was called Bobby Marquette then.’

  ‘Ah yes. It comes back. I’m so sorry. With the change of name and . . .’ He just stopped himself from saying ‘that frightful wig.’ ‘And . . . er . . . things, I just didn’t make the connection.’

  ‘Think nothing of it, dear boy. Delighted to see you.’

  At that moment they were joined by the lovely Vita Maureen, who (surprise, surprise) turned out to be Norman del Rosa’s wife. After exchanges of pleasantries, since the musical double act showed no signs of leaving, Charles commented conversationally, ‘Nasty business, this.’

  ‘Oh, my dear,’ cooed Vita Maureen tragically, ‘you have no idea, but no idea. What it’s been like being in the company for the last few days. Hell, darling, isn’t the word.’

  ‘Everyone pretty upset over Peaky’s death, you mean?’

  ‘But devastated, darling.’

  ‘He was popular in the company, was he?’ Charles’ curiosity to find out the background to the death could not be contained.

  ‘Oh, everyone loves a star, don’t they, darling?’

  From his experience in the theatre, particularly from working with an egomaniac called Christopher Milton, Charles very much questioned the truth of this assertion. Norman del Rosa also seemed to have misgivings. ‘Well, my love, I’m not sure that –’

  But his wife did not let him get into the flow of his objection. ‘It really is such a pleasure to meet you both,’ she interrupted. ‘Quite honestly, there are so few people of one’s type in a place like this. You must come and have tea with us on Sunday. You will still be here, won’t you?’

  And before Charles and Frances had time to marshal their excuses, they were committed to tea at four o’clock on Sunday at the Devereux Hotel.

  When they got back to the Waves Crest Guest House, Charles found a message asking him to ring his agent.

  This was almost unprecedented. Maurice Skellern was the laziest agent in the business. Charles only stayed with him because he had no hopes of dramatic changes in his acting career and because he was too soft to face the inevitable scene of severing their association. Besides, Maurice was quite amusing and a useful fund of theatrical gossip. He never got any of his clients jobs, but he did keep them up to date with who was sleeping with who and how. Charles rang up about once a fortnight for his dose of backstage dirt.

  But for Maurice to ring him . . . that really was something. Charles could not completely bottle up a bubble of excitement as he dialled the familiar number on the Waves Crest payphone.

  As usual Maurice went through his masquerade of pretending that the phone was being answered, not by him, but by one of a horde of forelock-tugging underlings.

  Charles, however, knew that the agency was a one-man operation. ‘OK, Maurice, cut the pantomime. It’s me, Charles. What gives?’

  ‘Ah, Charles. Thank you for ringing back,’ said Maurice grandly, as if it were an everyday occurrence. ‘I’ve got you a telly.’

  ‘A telly?’ Good God. Was it possible? Could rivers flow uphill? Had Maurice Skellern undergone a personality transplant and joined that small elite of agents who actually get work for their clients? ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s an Alexander Harvey Show,’ Maurice dropped casually.

  ‘An Alexander Harvey Show?’ Charles couldn’t control the great surge of excitement he felt at the words. At last he was going to be recognized, not just as an adequate support player, but as a personality in his own right. Alexander Harvey hosted the most successful chat-show in the country, which kept millions glued to their armchairs every Saturday night to watch the famous coruscate with wit in a spontaneous atmosphere of carefully rehearsed ad libs. And now the quicksilver repartee of Charles Paris was at last to be accorded its proper recognition. He was to be a guest on the Alexander Harvey Show. ‘When is it, Maurice?’

  ‘Three weeks Saturday.’ Then the agent added maliciously, ‘Why, have you got something else big on?’

  ‘Ha ha. No, of course I haven’t. Because my bloody agent never puts me up for anything, doesn’t know any important casting directors and is so in touch with the world of theatre that he thought the recent opening of Sophocles’ Oedipus Rex was a world première!’

  ‘Now, Charles, that was a genuine mistake. And it’s very hurtful when you dismiss my efforts in that cavalier manner. After all, I told you about the auditions for the modern dress Look Back in Anger in Colchester. And I’ve just got you this telly.’

  Charles apologized. ‘Yes, I’m being unfair. Sorry. How did the telly come about?’

  ‘Had a call from one of the Alexander Harvey researchers yesterday. Apparently they’re doing some big nostalgia programme. It’s the fortieth anniversary of the valve or something and they’re going to recreate some of the great radio and telly shows of the forties and fifties.’

  ‘But I wasn’t in any of the great radio and telly shows of the forties and fifties.’

  ‘No, I know you weren’t. Let me finish. One of the things they want to recreate is one of the old Barber and Pole routines. You remember them . . . Lennie Barber and Wilkie Pole. Well, apparently a guy who’s advising on the show, producer called Walter Proud – don’t know if you know him – well, he remembered that you used to do a very good impersonation of Wilkie Pole . . . Pole died, incidentally . . .don’t know if you knew . . .’

  Maurice continued his explanation and Charles felt a burning blush spread over his checks. To have thought that he was actually wanted for himself, not just as a convenient comedy feed. He tried to recall if he’d said anything to Maurice that might indicate the way his thoughts had been turning. He decided he was probably safe.

  ‘I won’t be expected to talk?’ he asked with slight distaste, as if appearing on a chat-show was his idea of a personal hell.

  ‘Oh, good Lord, no. They’ll have Lennie Barber on for a bit of chat. All you have to do is play Pole in the little sketch at the end. Only one day’s rehearsal and the money’s good.’

  They went into some detail over the money. Charles, always amazed by the size of television fees, thought they should ask for a bit more on principle. Maurice was of the opinion that, if any fuss were made, the casting director involved would say thank you very much and find someone else. Charles decided, on reflection, that Maurice was probably right.

  They then talked a bit about Bill Peaky’s death and Charles asked if Maurice had any form on the comedian.

  ‘Not a lot. Only got big recently. I’ve heard he had a bit of a reputation for the ladies. Put it about a bit, as far as I can gather. But that’s all. Think a lot was going to happen for him, though. Big talent. You seen his act?’

  ‘Not enough of it to make any meaningful judgment.’

  ‘He was a real live wire, I believe.’

  ‘You can say that again.’


  Tea in the Lounge of the Devereux Hotel had probably not changed for forty years. Charles kept feeling that he was back in rep, playing some antiquated thriller, in which the hostess, wearing a grey blouse and long tweed skirt, dispensed cold tea, while the chief suspect, a bounder in a blazer and flannels, handed round plaster fairy cakes to the juvenile lead and ingenue. He was maybe being a bit flattering to himself and Frances by casting them in the young roles, but Vita Maureen and Norman del Rosa fitted their parts perfectly, even down to the costumes.

  And yet it wasn’t a thriller. There was no crime. True, there had just been a violent death, but that had been shown incontrovertibly to be an accident. Maybe something else would happen. Maybe Norman del Rosa would step behind the sofa, cast his eyes down and freeze with an expression of horror at the sight of an old dowager with a knife between her shoulder blades. Maybe Vita Maureen would open the cupboard to get out her Dundee cake and be transfixed by the sight of the under-gardener’s body swaying on a rope inside.

  So deeply was he immersed in his fantasy, it was quite a shock to find that the tea was hot and the fairy cakes soft enough to receive his teeth.

  ‘We always stay at the Devereux when we are in Hunstanton,’ Vita Maureen was saying. ‘They know us here and I think the manager and his wife (charming couple, Bill and Geraldine, you must meet them) are more than a little stage-struck. I mean, most of their guests are . . . well, not to put too fine a point upon it, dull, and a lot of them tradespeople, so I think we are a breath of fresh air.’

  ‘Yes.’ Charles nodded jovially, feeling some sort of response was required.

  Vita Maureen continued, telling of other hotels around the country where she and Norman had stayed. Charles’ mind wandered. Frances was keeping up her social façade well, nodding and smiling encouragingly, as if what she was being told actually contained something of interest. He felt a twinge of irritation. Why did Frances suffer fools so gladly? He knew it was unreasonable to condemn her. He behaved just the same himself, but . . . but.

  Gloomily he recognized the symptoms. Soon the honeymoon would be over again. He and Frances would niggle away at each other until there would be a major row over something minor. Then he would walk out again and the cycle would restart. It was depressing. He’d felt really relaxed with her for the first few days, but since Bill Peaky’s death he was increasingly on edge.

  Bill Peaky, Lennie Barber. Comedians. Strange that Lennie Barber should be coming into his life again so soon. Coincidence.

  Vita Maureen’s monologue continued. Well, in fact it wasn’t quite a monologue. Every now and then she would refer to Norman for confirmation of a date or the title of a show. And each time he supplied it, she would hurry on, hardly allowing him to finish his sentence.

  Charles felt desperately in need of a drink. Maybe he should have had a real skinful at lunchtime, so that he could doze, anaesthetised, through this ritual of gentility.

  Maybe he did doze. Certainly it was with a shock that he, realized they were discussing Peaky’s death.

  ‘It doesn’t do to speak ill of the dead,’ Vita Maureen was saying, with discreet malice, ‘but I’m afraid certain people in the company will not have been wholly sorry to see him go.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Charles with the same intonation that had greeted her other, less startling revelations.

  ‘I’m not one to spread gossip, but let’s just say there was a certain young lady in the company with whom he was having a . . . thing. Or had been. I gather they broke it off. Somewhat acrimoniously.’ She smiled apologetically. ‘The dressing room walls of the Winter Gardens are disgustingly thin, aren’t they, Norman?’

  ‘Oh yes, my love.’

  ‘Of course, a lot of that goes on in the theatre. It’s always a great relief to me that Norman and I work together. It means one doesn’t notice other temptations. So much more satisfactory, isn’t it, Norman?’ She turned on her husband the sort of smile snakes reserve for rabbits.

  ‘Strange, Bill Peaky dying like that, though, isn’t it?’ Charles mused. ‘I mean, if he was usually so careful to check his equipment every day, you’d think of all days he’d do it when a cable had been replaced.’

  ‘But he did do it,’ said Norman del Rosa ingenuously. Charles looked at him sharply. ‘What, you mean he did do it on the day he was killed?’

  The pianist blushed. ‘No, no, I didn’t mean that. I just meant that he always did. Every other day, except that day. Maybe he didn’t know the cable had been replaced.’

  ‘I remember there was a terrible accident when we were doing a summer season at Torquay . . .’ Vita Maureen swept the conversation on.

  But Charles was not deceived by Norman del Rosa’s cover-up. The man had seemed to know something and the way he avoided Charles’ eye confirmed the impression. An instinct for the untoward stirred within Charles. When he got Norman del Rosa alone, he was going to ask what he really knew about Bill Peaky’s death.

  The opportunity came surprisingly easily. Vita Maureen, who treated the Devereux Hotel as if it were their home, insisted on showing Frances round. Charles refused the guided tour, which made it difficult for Norman to avoid being left alone with him in the Lounge.

  There was a silence. The pianist moved uneasily around the room, as if he knew the question which was coming.

  ‘What did you mean, Norman?’

  ‘When?’

  ‘About Bill Peaky testing the equipment.’

  ‘He always tested it. His manager said so at the inquest.’

  ‘I’m talking about the day he died. Did he test it that day?’

  ‘Presumably not. How should I know?’ The man looked desperately unhappy, as if he knew that his weak personality could not withstand even the mildest of interrogations.

  ‘I think you do know.’

  No, it didn’t take long. He broke immediately. ‘All right. He did test it.’

  ‘With his ringmain tester?’

  ‘Yes, he came down onstage at the beginning of the interval like he always did and tested out his gear.’

  ‘And presumably it was all right?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘If it wasn’t, he would have said something about it. Unless he was trying to commit suicide.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say anything at the inquest?’

  ‘Nobody asked me.’

  Charles thought that pretty unlikely. The police were sure to have asked all of the company whether they had any information relevant to the accident. So what was Norman del Rosa hiding?

  ‘Why were you onstage in the interval?’ The question was asked very gently.

  ‘I . . . um . . . I left some music on the piano.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with that. You could have told the police that. But it’s rather strange, because I saw the show and you played throughout your spot without music.’

  Norman del Rosa looked even unhappier. And yet Charles sensed that he did want to tell, that it would be a relief to get it off his chest.

  ‘Well, the fact is . . . I didn’t want Vita to know I was on-stage. The fact is, there’s a place in the wings where there’s a sort of crack in the wall. It’s just by the dressing room where the dancers . . .’ He halted in embarrassment.

  ‘I see,’ said Charles softly.

  ‘The fact is, Vita had once caught me looking through this . . . crack and . . . You must promise you won’t tell her.’

  ‘Of course not,’ he reassured.

  Norman del Rosa looked relieved. The confession had made him feel easier. Charles felt a wave of pity for the little man in his ridiculous wig. A Peeping Tom. The fact that he was spying on dancers made it even more ironic, since most of them were totally without shame, used to anyone and everyone wandering through their dressing rooms while they were changing. Still, in a way he could understand. Somehow he couldn’t imagine Norman having much of a sex-life with the fastidious Vita Maureen. A man who had been married to
her for a few years could be excused worse deviations.

  ‘I’m glad I’ve told you, actually, Charles. Weight off my mind. You won’t tell anyone, will you?’

  ‘Of course not. You know what this means?’

  ‘Well, I suppose it means that whatever was wrong with the cable didn’t go wrong until after Bill Peaky had tested it.’

  That was a rather naive way of putting it. But it was typical of Norman del Rosa’s timorous nature not to follow the logic through to its unpalatable conclusion.

  Cables don’t just go wrong. The cable which killed Bill Peaky had been incorrectly wired. The Live terminal had been attached where the Neutral should have been and vice versa. If the mains tester had not revealed this fault in the interval after the new cable had been installed, then it was a reasonable supposition that at that moment the wiring was correct. So it was a reasonable supposition that the wires had been subsequently reversed by a person or persons unknown. Which made it a reasonable supposition that Bill Peaky had been murdered.

  CHAPTER THREE

  COMIC: I say, I say, I say, what’s the best way to serve turkey?

  FEED: I don’t know. What is the best way to serve turkey?

  COMIC: Join the Turkish army.

  Polly, the solicitor’s husky-voiced secretary, connected Charles with Gerald Venables. ‘Hello,’ the actor said buoyantly. ‘I think I’ve got another one.’

  ‘Another what?’ asked Gerald cautiously. In the office he was all solicitor, very formal.

  ‘Another murder.’

  ‘Really? OK, spill the beans.’ The interest was instantaneous, signalled, as ever, by Gerald’s descent into American slang.

  ‘Oh, I thought you’d gone off murder.’

  ‘No, it’s still more fun than contract-fiddling.’

  ‘I mean, you didn’t give me much help when Charlotte Mecken was murdered.’

  ‘No, but dammit, her husband was a friend of mine.’

  ‘True. Have you seen Hugo Mecken recently?’

  ‘Couple of weeks ago. Met in a restaurant.’

  ‘What’s he doing these days?’

  ‘Drinking himself to death, so far as I could tell.’