Murder at Ford's Theatre

by Margaret Truman

  His eyes became heavy in the mirror; he shook his head to no avail in an attempt to revive. Exhausted, he sprawled on the bed and fell asleep to the sound of a jet taking off across the highway. Thank God for sleep, he thought, anesthesia for tormented souls.

  The following morning, an insufferably talkative cab driver drove him across Queens to the larger airport, where his Virgin Atlantic flight to London would depart. Bancroft had bought the cheapest available coach seat and tried to charm the ticket agent into upgrading him to what Virgin called Upper Class. “You may have seen my films, dear girl,” he said. “I’m heading for London to negotiate my one-man show, and I’d be delighted to tell audiences that I only fly Virgin Atlantic. Wonderful press for you, you know.”

  “I’m sure it would be, sir, but I don’t have the authorization to upgrade you. Perhaps when you get to London you should call our executive offices and propose something to them about your show.”

  “Oh, I certainly intend to do that. But surely in anticipation of it happening, you could find me one of your empty seats in Upper Class. I’m afraid my back has been acting up, and—well, I really need to work on my show and would find it terribly difficult to be in the back with crying babies and—”

  “Sir, there is nothing I can do for you,” she said. Coughs from those behind him in line expressed their displeasure at his holding things up.

  “Yes, well, cheerio, my dear. I understand. Yes, I understand.”

  He slept most of the way to London. When awake, he kept going over what he would say to his agent, and to theatre people from his past. It had been almost six months since his last trip to London, and that had been a disappointing visit. This time it would be different. This time he had something tangible to offer, a one-man show featuring the former great Shakespearean actor Sydney Bancroft, whose return to the stage had “lifted the theatre world to new and refreshed excellence. His very presence on the stages of the world has audiences howling in their seats, and shedding tears as this gifted thespian presents the words of William Shakespeare as no other actor of his generation can.”

  He was in the midst of creating this self-review, saying the words aloud to the chagrin of an elderly woman seated across the aisle, when the flight attendant asked if he wished to purchase another drink.

  “No, no thank you, my dear. I believe I’ve had enough. But thank you for asking. It was sweet of you.”

  He rode the underground’s Piccadilly line from Heathrow Airport to Piccadilly Circus and walked to Beak Street, only a few blocks away, where he stopped in front of an Italian food shop. Sausages of every size and description hung in the window of the closed store, illuminated by red bulbs strung haphazardly from the ceiling. He looked up. Lights were on in the apartment above. He went to a door next to the shop and pushed the buzzer. A gruff male voice came through a tiny speaker: “Who’s there?”

  “It’s Sydney. Open up.”

  There was a harsh metallic sound as the lock disengaged. Bancroft opened the door and looked upstairs leading to the apartment. Standing at the top was the silhouetted figure of a burly man. “Well, come up, for God’s sake,” he said. “Don’t just bloody stand there.”

  Bancroft slowly ascended the stairs and followed the man, whose stage name was Aaron Kipp—a variation of his birth name, Aaron Kipowicz—into the flat. Now, Kipp was fully visible—well over two hundred pounds, black-and-green flannel shirt hanging loose over baggy tan pants, frayed carpet slippers, his full beard as wild and woolly as his salt-and-pepper hair.

  “Damn, Sydney, you’re as skinny as a pole,” Kipp said as Bancroft dropped his bag to the floor and collapsed on a couch. “What the hell have you become, one of those anorexic types?”

  “The result of healthy living, Kipp, and a busy schedule. Got a drink, or are you on the wagon again?”

  “Fell off that months ago, Sydney, but there’s no booze in the flat. Thought we’d pub it. Hungry?”

  “As a matter of fact, I am. Been working much?”

  “Nah, just a bloody voice-over now and then. Hardly enough to keep the larder stocked. I’m up for a cartoon character. Imagine that. You?”

  “Can’t keep up with it, although Washington is not like London, not for a serious artist. Come on, Kipp, I’m absolutely famished.”

  They walked to The Round Table Pub, in St. Martin’s Court, a narrow, pedestrian-only cut between St. Martin’s Lane and Charing Cross Road. The Round Table was a popular watering hole for cast and crew from the Albery and the Wyndham Theatres, whose stage doors opened onto the court. The downstairs bar was packed, so they went upstairs and found a single empty table in a corner. Patrons were three-deep at the bar, some of whom greeted Kipp as he and Bancroft passed through the room. A chunky waitress with orange hair and a heavy Cockney accent took their orders—bangers and mash for Kipp, shepherd’s pie for Bancroft, and a two-pint jug of cask ale for each. Their beer had just been served when two men and a young woman approached. “Well, well, well,” said one of the men, “what have we here? The famous Aaron Kipp and the infamous Sydney Bancroft.”

  Bancroft had seen them coming and had silently prayed they would pass. No such luck. He knew the two men; the woman was unknown to him. The older of the men, Philip Wainsley, was a relatively successful actor-turned-director, who years ago had worked with Bancroft on two Shakespearean productions, Titus Andronicus, with the Royal Shakespeare Company, in which Bancroft played the arrogant Saturninus, and Iago in Othello, at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre in Stratford-upon-Avon. Reviewers had not been kind to him in either role, although he had fared better with the critics in some of Shakespeare’s comedies, including the roles of Antonio in Much Ado About Nothing, the well-born but penniless lover, Fenton, in The Merry Wives of Windsor, and the treacherous Oliver de Boys in As You Like It. Perhaps the most scathing review he’d received had come toward the end of his stage career when an out-of-town reviewer, who’d followed Bancroft from his earliest days, wrote of his performance in Julius Caesar: “Sydney Bancroft, appearing in the minor role of Cinna, managed to remember his lines.” This came after years of reports in London tabloids of Bancroft’s bouts of heavy drinking, womanizing, and lack of professional reliability.

  The younger man was Sam Botha, an Algerian-British playwright who’d been making his mark in avant-garde London theatre circles. He’d been introduced to Bancroft at a party the last time he’d been in London, and Bancroft had attended one of his plays, which he’d detested, terming it to Kipp “an exercise in arrogant self-indulgence. The man is obviously without talent.”

  “This is Kitty Wells,” Botha said after Kipp, to Bancroft’s dismay, had invited the trio to join them at the table. “She’ll be appearing in my next play. In fact, I’ve written it for her.”

  “How wonderful,” Bancroft muttered.

  “And how are you, Sydney?” Wainsley asked.

  “Couldn’t be better, Philip.”

  “What brings you to London?” said Botha.

  Bancroft’s first words of response came out in a stammer. “I—I—well, I suppose there’s no harm in letting the cat out of the bag, is there? Truth be to tell, I’m here putting the finishing touches on my one-man show.”

  “How impressive,” said Kitty Wells. “A one-man show. What will it be about?”

  “About me, dear girl,” Bancroft said as the waitress delivered their food. “It will be—well, let me say that it will encompass various highlights of my career, particularly my experiences performing Shakespeare.”

  “Obviously a brief play,” Wainsley said. “If it depends upon highlights—”

  “Are you suggesting I have had so few, Philip?”

  “No, no, of course not, Sydney. I’m simply saying that few of us have amassed enough high points in our careers to sustain an entire evening on a stage—alone.”

  “Speak for yourself, Philip,” Bancroft said, digging into his meal.

  “Will you be opening in London?” Botha asked.

  “Oh,
yes, of course, London. London it will be. Is there any other place on earth to open?”

  “Have a theatre yet, Sydney?” Wainsley asked.

  “Purpose of my trip, make those sort of decisions on the spot. I thought I might incorporate film clips of the Bard’s plays on the silver screen. Zeffirelli and I go back a long way. I—”

  “Is it already written?” Kitty asked. “Your show.”

  “No, not quite finished,” Bancroft said through a full mouth.

  She placed long, slender fingers tipped with red on his arm and said sexily, “Any room in your show for me?”

  “I’m offended,” said Botha with mock seriousness. “Here I’ve written you a starring vehicle and you cozy up to him.”

  “Maybe you could make it a father-daughter show, Sydney,” Kipp said, laughing. “Or an examination of how old men make fools of themselves falling for pretty young things and—”

  As they bantered back and forth about how Bancroft’s show could be reconfigured to explore relationships between old men and young women, Bancroft fell silent. No, it was more than that. He’d slipped into what might be called a trance state, his eyes fixed on Kitty, his lips pressed tightly together. Their voices swirled around him like noisy insects, punctuated by her high-pitched laugh that seemed to become shriller by the second. She had long, silky black hair worn straight that reached her waist. Her lips matched the crimson of her nails; her eyelashes were long and curved, and her chalky white face was becoming ghostly. She came in and out of Bancroft’s focus, like someone manipulating a zoom lens. He rubbed his eyes. It was no longer the pretty face of a young woman he’d never met. It was Nadia’s face, smiling, then laughing at him after he’d patted her rear end backstage at Ford’s Theatre . . . a sharp, cruel laugh.

  “JESUS, SYDNEY, keep your hands off me. I don’t get off on old farts.”

  Her words, and laugh, stung. He was embarrassed. Others had heard, including a handsome young stagehand named Wales in whom Nadia seemed to have an inordinate interest.

  “Just a slip of the hand, my dear,” Bancroft said, bowing and forcing a laugh.

  “Hey, Pops, hands off. She’s young enough to be your daughter,” Wales said.

  Sydney regained his composure. “Practiced hands, sir, gentle, caressing hands that have brought pleasure to the world’s most beautiful actresses.”

  Wales and Nadia now laughed together.

  Bancroft adopted a pose, one hand placed jauntily on a hip, head cocked, a thin smile on his lips. He placed his other hand over his heart and said in stentorian tones, “‘Fair flowers that are not gath’red in their prime rot, and consume themselves in little time.’”

  Wales and Nadia looked quizzically at him.

  “From the pen of the Bard, my dear, young, ignorant friends. Waste not your youthful beauty, Nadia, lest it turn to rot. Good evening, all. I suddenly crave the company of the more enlightened. Or other old farts.”

  “YOU ALL RIGHT, Sydney?” Kipp said, slapping him on the shoulder and feeling the bones through his clothing.

  “Yes. Quite. Why shouldn’t I be?”

  Their visitors left the table, saying they were meeting people at the Ivy. Bancroft hailed the waitress and ordered double shots of scotch.

  “Drowning your sorrows, Sydney?” Kipp asked, joining him in the harder stuff.

  “Sorrows? You’re daft, Kipp. After tomorrow, you’ll be able to brag to your chums that the next star of the West End, Sydney A. Bancroft, was a houseguest.”

  “What’s tomorrow?”

  “Meeting with Harrison about my show.”

  “He still your agent?”

  “You bet he is.”

  “I thought you had a falling out, how many years ago, ten, twelve?”

  “Nothing like bringing an agent a brilliant idea and talent to make him stand up and take notice. Have you ever known one, Kipp, who didn’t respond with open arms when someone waltzes into his office to offer the chance of a lifetime?”

  “You?”

  “Good for you, Kipp. You’re still quick on the uptake.”

  They said little over the next round of drinks. When they were ready to leave, Kipp said, “Since you’re about to make a bloody fortune, Sydney, drinks are on you.”

  Bancroft’s words were slurred. “You’ll have to put up some money, Kipp, add it to the pot. I am unfortunately short of funds, but only a temporary situation. Only temporary.”

  Bancroft slept soundly that night on Kipp’s couch. But Kipp lay awake for hours, mulling over the night at the pub. “Poor, deluded bastard,” he said in a whisper before drifting off. “Poor, deluded bastard.”

  HARRISON QUILL’S OFFICES were on the second floor of a four-storey office building on Shaftesbury Avenue, across from the Lyric, Apollo, Globe, and Queen Theatres. He’d been a theatrical agent for forty years, and his small suite of offices reflected it, as did Quill himself. He was a short, moderately structured man with a hawk-like nose, thin black mustache that curved down around his mouth Oriental style, and whose hairpiece was shiny black. He wore a red-and-blue awning-striped shirt with white collar, a wide black tie, and a gray wool tweed suit. He was reading the morning papers when his receptionist announced Sydney Bancroft’s arrival. Quill lowered the paper, closed his eyes, opened them, drew a bracing deep breath, and instructed her to send him in.

  “Ta-ta,” Bancroft said, striking a pose in the open doorway. “Raise the curtain, Harry. Sydney Bancroft is back!”

  Quill stared at the actor for a moment before getting up, coming around the desk, and accepting Bancroft’s outstretched hand. “Hello, Sydney,” he said.

  “Come, come, Harry, you can do better than that. I’ve flown across an ocean specifically to see you and all I receive is that lukewarm greeting?”

  They shook hands again, with more energy this time. “Please, sit down,” Quill said. “Coffee, tea?”

  “A cup of tea would be wonderful,” Bancroft said. Quill passed an order for two teas to the receptionist.

  “Well, Sydney, how have you been?” He said it as though filling a space. Bancroft often thought that Quill would make a good ventriloquist; his lips barely moved when he spoke.

  “Quite well, thank you, Harrison Quill. And you? You look prosperous enough.” He extended his hands to take in the cluttered, overstuffed office.

  “If you mean the business, absolutely dotty. Insane. Not due to overwork, I assure you. The theatre scene here is grim, Sydney, absolutely grim. Everything is retro, dragging out old shows. Good God, we’ve got South Pacific and My Fair Lady playing to packed houses, even old Coward works like Private Lives and Star Quality. Nothing new. Absolutely nothing new!”

  “Sounds promising for older actors and actresses, Harry.”

  “And good for agents who represent them, which doesn’t include this agent. They’ve all gone to the conglomerates, the big agencies with Hollywood connections. It’s depressing, I tell you, bloody depressing. I’m thinking of getting out of the business, settle down in the Dorset cottage with the missus, tend the garden, and flip the bird at the whole bloody mess.”

  Quill had been talking this way for all the years Bancroft had known him, even when his agency was prospering. He raised poor-mouthing to new heights, and had the first pound he’d ever earned, Bancroft was sure.

  “How would you like to turn things around, Harry, old chap?”

  Quill’s response was a belch.

  “My one-man show.”

  “Your what?”

  “One-man show, Harry. It’s been percolating for years inside me, and I know the time is right.”

  “What sort of show, Sydney?” He didn’t know what else to say.

  “A show about me, Harry, Sydney Bancroft. Oh, don’t misunderstand. There will be lots more to it than simply a nostalgic look at my career.” He stood and began pacing the office. “You can’t believe, Harry—you simply cannot believe how many people remember my performances on both the stage and screen. They come up to me a
ll the time, wanting an autograph, or just to chat about a favorite film of mine. Young people, too. Last night at the pub, Phil Wainsley and Sam Botha made a point of coming to my table to pay respects, and I could sense a buzz at the bar when I entered.”

  He stood in the middle of the room and raised his hands high. “Think of it, Harry. A show in which one of Willie Shakespeare’s leading interpreters brings audiences into the Bard’s world as no one has ever done before. The humor most people—and, I might add, most actors—miss, new interpretations of famous scenes as they should have been played, some inside gossip about Shakespeare. He was as much of a scheming businessman as he was a writer.

  “There’ll be plenty of sex, Harry. Shakespeare was the master of the double entendre, wasn’t he? You know, of course, of the American comedian George Carlin.”

  Quill nodded.

  “He’s packed them in night after night with his list of forbidden words. Very clever the way he does it. Made millions, I suspect. I’ll do the same with Shakespeare, let the audience in on all the words he used that sound innocuous but have come to have sexual meanings.”

  Quill tried to say something, but Bancroft was not to be interrupted.

  “I call this section of the show ‘The Bawdy Bard.’ Here’s but a small sample. Romeo and Juliet.” He assumed a forlorn expression as he slipped into character. “I must another way to fetch a ladder by the which your love must climb a bird’s nest soon when it is dark. I am the drudge, and toil in your delight, but you shall bear the burden soon at night.”