Murder in the Title

by Simon Brett

  The state of the Regent’s internal politics was also starting to have its effect on the company. The conflict between General Manager and Artistic Director could no longer be disguised. Nor could the importance, for the future of the theatre, of the following evening’s Extraordinary Meeting of the Board. All this added pressure to the normal anxieties of a week before a new production opens.

  For Charles, who reckoned he had deeper insight into the real causes of the divisions in the theatre, the stress was greater. He could recognize the increasing strains on Tony Wensleigh, feared that they might resolve themselves into violence, and yet felt impotent to stop the escalating sequence of crime.

  If only he had some proof of Tony’s involvement in the earlier attacks . . .

  He decided to go up into the gallery and watch the Act Two hanging of Colonel Fripp (now being played with rather more conviction, because, in spite of his years, he had more talent than Gordon Tremlett, by Rick Harmer). Seeing the effect repeated might give Charles some clue as to exactly how the accident had been staged.

  The top floor of the Regent Theatre was quite complex. The central area was the decorated ceiling of the auditorium with the roof directly above it. Above the stage was the flying space with a gallery on either side. In the front of the building, above the bar, was the space into which the administrative office was crammed.

  But along the sides, joining the front of the theatre to the back, were two broad passages. The primary function of these was to give access to the catwalk round the auditorium from which much of the lighting was fixed, but because storage space is always at a premium in a repertory theatre, they were also used for other purposes. One side, on long mobile rails, was kept the company’s stock of all-purpose costumes (the sort of peasant blouses and leather jerkins which would see service in anything from medieval mystery plays, through pantomime, to Robert Bolt). The other side was used as a prop store, where Roman helmets nestled side by side with papier-maché marrows, rubber skulls dangled by strings of plastic onions, glass jewellery hung from deer’s antlers, and tennis rackets poked from witches’ cauldrons.

  Both of the stores had doors at either end, giving access to the flying gallery and the administrative office area.

  Charles had climbed up the wall-ladder to the gallery and was inspecting the counter-weighting of the wire from which Rick Harmer was about to be suspended when he heard a noise from the props store.

  The door was closed. Charles had seen Nella, Rick and the other members of the Stage Management down at floor level. They were the only people who might have legitimate cause to go to the prop store during a performance. Alert to the danger of another act of sabotage, Charles decided that he should investigate.

  He opened the door with extreme caution, but the light it admitted put the intruder on his guard. From the far side of the gloom a torch-beam swung round into Charles’ face, blinding him.

  ‘Charles.’ The voice, which he recognized, sounded relieved. Then Charles thought he heard a click, like the throwing of an electrical switch.

  There was sufficient light from the door for him to see a light-switch on the wall nearby. He flicked it. Two naked hanging bulbs illuminated the scene. He stepped inside and closed the door.

  Tony Wensleigh was momentarily thrown by the sudden light and froze. He was crouched in the far corner of the store by a fibreglass sundial and a pile of breastplates made of stiffened felt. In his hand he held a World War I army revolver.

  After the shock he moved hastily, shuffling the breastplates back against the wall, tucking a dangling string behind a grandfather clock before he turned back to Charles with apparent insouciance.

  ‘What on earth are you doing here?’

  ‘Just heard a noise and wondered who it was.’

  ‘Oh.’

  The monosyllable seemed to require further explanation.

  ‘I was just going for a walk round the gallery, you know killing time.’

  ‘Yes, of course. You do have a long wait between your appearance and the curtain call.’

  ‘Yes,’ Charles agreed, with some edge.

  ‘Why do you do it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Why do you wait? Why not just get changed straight away? I’m sure no one notices whether you’re there or not at the curtain call.’

  Charles looked at the Artistic Director in amazement. ‘I do it because you specifically asked me to.’

  ‘Oh, did I?’ Tony looked confused, suddenly like an old man. ‘I’m sorry. I keep mixing things up. Do things and can’t remember I’ve done them. Don’t do things and think I have done them. Sorry.’ He rubbed his hand across his brow, as though his mental state were something external, that could be wiped away.

  ‘You’ve been under a lot of pressure recently, Tony,’ said Charles gently.

  The Artistic Director gave a weary smile. ‘That is a wonderful understatement. A lot of pressure, yes. I wonder how much pressure it takes before a man cracks. How many straws can a camel take cheerfully, and how does he recognize the one that’s going to do the damage? Does it carry a Government Health Warning?’

  He let out a bark of nervous laughter. Then silence came between them. With surprising clarity further banalities by Leslie Blatt filtered up from the stage.

  Charles kept his therapist’s tone of voice. ‘Tony, you don’t have to crack up completely. You can save yourself, you can talk, tell the truth.’

  ‘Yes, I firmly intend to. Get the truth out into the open, then the pressure’ll go away.’

  ‘Exactly. And you’ll feel a lot better.’

  ‘Yes.’ The Artistic Director seemed calmer. ‘Yes, I’ll get people to listen to my side. Then they’ll realize I’m not mad.’

  ‘Of course they will,’ Charles soothed.

  ‘And the nightmare’ll soon be over.’

  ‘Yes. You can put an end to it whenever you want to. It’s up to you.’

  ‘You’re right, Charles.’ The Artistic Director looked directly into his eyes. ‘It’s all a lot clearer now, what I should do. I’ve been very confused the last few weeks, but now its coming clear.’

  ‘Good.’

  The revolver was still in Tony’s hand. Charles thought the atmosphere had relaxed sufficiently for him to mention it.

  ‘Where did that come from, Tony?’

  The Artistic Director looked down, as though noticing the weapon for the first time. ‘Oh, that. I just found it up here. Forgotten we’d got it. Came from one of my first productions at the Regent, Journey’s End. In the early days we didn’t have any money. We could just afford the cast, but nothing left for costumes and props . . . So we put out an appeal in the Gazette – any one got any First World War uniforms and stuff they’d lend us. Quite a good response. This came from an old girl who’d had two brothers in the war. They’d both been wounded, and she’d nursed them both until they died. She’d kept everything . . . all their uniforms, everything . . . and she said we could borrow them because of the play . . . because Journey’s End was against war, and she hated war. I don’t know why we’ve still got this. We should have given it back . . . I can’t remember.’

  Once again the clouds of confusion were gathering. He pulled himself together with an effort. ‘The old lady gave us all the ammunition, too. She’d kept that.’ He gave a little laugh. ‘We shouldn’t really have used a gun like this on stage. Not one that works. Should have had a spiked one, but . . .’ He shrugged. ‘. . . I’m sure we were in a panic as usual, and the important thing was to get the production on. I think that’s always been the important thing – to get the production on – and it’s never left much time for anything else. Plays are easier, too – I find plays easier than everything else. Other things just get so . . . complicated . . .’

  This comment seemed to encompass his whole life. He drooped, exhausted.

  ‘Tony,’ said Charles very quietly, ‘why don’t you give me the gun?’

  There was an instantaneous change as the m
an’s body snapped alert. ‘Oh no. I may need it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘There are people out to get me. People who aren’t afraid to use violence.’

  His words sounded like the definitive statement of paranoia.

  ‘But, Tony, you can’t go round shooting people.’

  ‘Only in self-defence. I hope it won’t come to that. I’m sure it won’t. But if someone attacks you, you have to defend yourself. Those who offer no resistance get trampled on, and I’ve been trampled on for long enough.’

  ‘Tony –’

  ‘No, Charles. I know what needs to be done. It’s all very clear to me now. I know what needs doing, and at last – thank God – I’m ready to do it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean that all the cheating that’s been going on, all the things that have been wrong with this theatre, are about to be sorted out.’ He sighed, anticipating the relaxation this moment would bring. ‘Soon it’ll all be over. One confrontation . . . if I have the strength to do it . . . and it’ll all be over.’

  This was beginning to sound uncomfortably like a statement of intent to murder. Charles moved forward. ‘Tony, I think you’d better give me that gun.’

  ‘No. I’m sorry. I need it. To protect myself.’

  Charles stretched out a hand. ‘Tony . . .’

  The noise of the gunshot in the enclosed space was thunderous. Charles heard the lightbulb above him shatter and felt the rain of glass on his shoulders.

  He looked for a second at Tony. The man’s face seemed to register surprise as he looked at the gun, almost as if the firing had been accidental.

  But Charles didn’t feel inclined to explore that possibility. The barrel still pointed at him, and he was no hero. He turned and rushed out of the door, slamming it behind him.

  He had reached the bottom of the wall-ladder and was at stage level before he realized that there were no sounds of pursuit. He froze for a full minute, then gingerly climbed back up the ladder and on to the cast-iron floor of the gallery. He inched his way towards the prop room door, his ears straining for any unexpected sound.

  All he could hear came from down below. ‘The deaths will not stop at one,’ Miss Laycock-Manderley was saying. ‘The forces of evil demand their toll of blood.’

  He reached the door and, leaning against the adjacent wall in best television detective style, reached for the handle. He gave it a sharp turn and a push.

  The door did not shift.

  He tried a more forceful shove.

  Nothing. The door had been locked from the inside.

  He put his ear to it. No sound.

  He banged on the door with increasing force. But there was no response.

  Then he remembered the other exit from the prop-store, the exit that led to the front of the theatre.

  That was the way Tony Wensleigh must have gone, crazed by paranoia, with the gun in his hand.

  Straight into the administrative office.

  Where he was likely to find the man he saw as his greatest enemy – the Regent Theatre’s General Manager – Donald Mason

  ACT THREE

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘WHAT MAKES IT all so gruesome,’ announced James De Meaux, ‘is the fact that it must all have been planned. Someone worked it all out, every ghastly move.’

  He stifled a yawn. He really was feeling very tired. Of course, he was playing a major role, and it was the third week, but that shouldn’t make him feel so absolutely drained. He knew what it was, of course – Nella. Lovely girl, but so inconvenient that she was at Shove It rehearsals all day. He could have coped with her very nicely in the afternoons, but all this late night emotion was very wearing. Sex was very nice, he reflected, but not when it interfered with sleep. Be quite a relief really, to get back to his nice little flat in Pimlico. Have a few days’ sleep.

  ‘Yes, but who?’ asked Felicity Kershaw. ‘We’re still no nearer to working out who did it.’

  She was also tired, but happier about it. The guy who’d directed Scrag End of Neck at the Bus Depot had turned up to the night before’s performance and said she acted like ‘a real cow’, which she had taken as a compliment. He had then let her buy him a meal (including Vanilla Ice Cream) at Mr Pang’s, while he expatiated on the rights of women. He had gone back to her digs, made love to her relentlessly all night and left after breakfast, having borrowed fifty pounds. She felt fulfilled as a woman.

  ‘Well, Colonel Fripp was certainly involved. He must have tampered with the telephone. Why else should he bring that great array of screwdrivers in his luggage?’

  ‘But he didn’t hang himself. That was the work of his accomplice.’

  ‘The mysterious woman.’

  ‘Whoever she may be.’ Felicity Kershaw let out another of her laughs, confident that she was showing exactly what sort of bourgeois cow would be first against the wall, ‘come the revolution’.

  James De Meaux looked thoughtful. An infatuated First Fairy had once told him he was very sexy when he looked thoughtful, so he did it whenever possible.

  ‘We’ve heard from Professor Weintraub’s examination of the body that Colonel Fripp probably died between four and five in the afternoon. It might be worth checking what everyone was doing round that time.’

  ‘Well, if you want to start with me, darling, my movements were quite simple. I remember exactly. I went for a walk with Miss Laycock-Manderley.’

  ‘In the rain?’

  ‘Yes. It was pouring.’

  ‘Precisely. Pouring. Which makes one thing rather odd.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I refer to the fact –’ James De Meaux rounded on his fiancée ‘– that, when you returned from that walk, your overcoat was dripping wet, while Miss Laycock-Manderley’s was not even damp.’

  ‘Ah.’ Felicity Kershaw was meant to look trapped, and expressed this by clutching her stomach.

  ‘Do you have any explanation of that for me, Felicity?’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘Or let me put it another way – what evil hold has Miss Laycock-Manderley over you that would make you lie to provide her with an alibi?’

  Then followed one of Leslie Blatt’s favourite dramatic devices, which was used liberally throughout his work. Just at the point when a character had asked a relevant question, one that threatened to unravel the plot a little, another character would enter and prevent the answer being spoken.

  In this case, the interruption came from Lady Hilda De Meaux. She swept on in her Act Three pearl grey silk dress (Tony had put his foot down, but she had overruled him) and recited, ‘I thought we could all do with a drink, so I’ve asked Wilhelmina to bring them in here.’

  As she said this, she decided definitely that Sylv would wear a midnight-blue silk dress for Act Two of Shove It. That’s what the character would do. She was, after all, going to appear in public, in the court, and Sylv was the sort of person to really care about her appearance under such circumstances. If she wore that thing Wardrobe had provided, she would look less smart than the two policewomen who flanked her in the dock. That wouldn’t do. No, midnight-blue definitely. She would speak to Tony.

  ‘What a good idea, Lady Hilda,’ said Felicity Kershaw, glad of the change of subject. ‘It’s not my usual drink, but I could do with a large whisky after all this.’

  ‘I think I might join you in one,’ agreed James De Meaux. He’d tried putting the emphasis on every separate word of that line, and none of them sounded right. Tonight’s experiment, hitting the ‘one’, seemed no more successful than the others.

  Wilhelmina appeared in the doorway with a silver salver bearing the impedimenta of whisky and sherry decanters, soda syphon and cut-glass tumblers. ‘Where would you like me to put these, milady?’ she asked.

  Her mind supplied an obscene suggestion to answer the question. She was now even more tired, the midnight excursions with her factory-owner having continued through the run of the play. She was also dis
gruntled that he had made no further reference to the West Indies, and wondered whether he had been spinning her a line all the time. On top of that, her period was a couple of days late, which was all she needed.

  ‘Oh, over by the fireplace, thank you, Wilhelmina. And would you like to call Professor Weintraub and Miss Laycock-Manderley?’

  ‘No need in my case. I am here already,’ said the Professor leaping friskily through the French windows.

  Three more performances, he was thinking. Get this one finished and then there are only three more. Then, first thing on Sunday morning, shake the dust of Rugland Spa off my feet and get back to Jerome and the chihuahuas.

  ‘I wonder,’ mused James De Meaux thoughtfully, because Leslie Blatt had to fill in the hiatus till Miss Laycock-Manderley’s entrance with something, ‘if there’s any way we could make contact with the police. Do you think they’d see, mater, if I did semaphore from the tower?’

  ‘With the weather like this?’ asked Lady Hilda rhetorically. The man in charge of Sound tweaked up his volume control and it rained heavily. ‘They’d never see you, James. When the wind’s coming up from the sea, the Grange is virtually invisible from Winklesham.’

  ‘Oh just an idea.’

  Wilhelmina returned. ‘Miss Laycock-Manderley will not be a moment, milady. She is just powdering her nose.’

  If I actually am pregnant, she was thinking, I could tell him it’s his (which it quite possibly could be) and maybe he’d marry me. Hmm, on the other hand, he has already got a grown-up family. And he doesn’t really give the impression that children are any longer what he wants from a woman. Have to ask him directly tonight about the West Indies, at least find out where I stand.

  ‘Thank you, Wilhelmina. Would you care to serve the drinks?’

  ‘Yes, milady.’

  ‘[AD LIB SERVING DRINKS DURING THE ENSUING DIALOGUE]’ it said in the script, which is always a risky thing (and often a lazy thing) for a playwright to write, because actors vary so much in their improvisational skills. Some are struck dumb as soon as they have to leave the printed text, while others seize the opportunity to weave elaborate fantasies, build in complicated sub-plots which bear no relation to the main action. Without a strong directorial hand, chaos can ensue.