by Simon Brett
‘I’m sure.’
‘Did you hear what happened yesterday?’
‘Don’t think so.’
‘Oh, it was an absolute disaster. You know, this programme for the elderly . . .’
Oh yes, the Franchise-Grabber. He nodded.
‘Well, you know they’d got this wonderful old boy in to front it. Ian Reynolds, he’s nearly eighty.’
‘Yes, I had heard.’ A few times.
‘Well, yesterday was their first day in the studio and when he got in front of the cameras – he dropped dead.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘Yes, they lost the whole studio day.’
Charles tut-tutted appropriately.
‘They’re going to get Robert Carton in instead. I’m sure he’ll do it awfully well.’
‘Oh, I should think so.’ There was a silence. ‘It’d be nice for us to get together again soon.
‘Charles!’ She looked at him as if he had made an improper suggestion. Which indeed he had. But not one that had worried her before.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘But, Charles, I’m on a different programme now.’
His dilatoriness in getting to Studio B didn’t matter. He had checked with Mort Verdon, who assured him that the samurai sword would be kept locked in the prop store until required for the final scene. ‘Can’t leave things like that lying around, boofle. For a start, it’s worth a few bob, and things have been known to disappear, you know . . . Also, it’s an extremely businesslike weapon, dear. Very sharp. If somebody started fooling about with that, there could be a very sudden influx of new members to the Treble Section . . .’
Maybe Mort Verdon’s protective eye would be sufficient to ward off any ‘accidents’, but Charles knew Barton Rivers was cunning in his madness, and didn’t feel confident. As soon as the sword appeared on the set, he would watch Barton Rivers’s every move. Any attempt to touch it and he’d pounce. He needed evidence to ensure that the old maniac was put away where he belonged. But he’d have to be quick. He wanted evidence, but he didn’t want another corpse.
Studio B, when he found it, looked quite a bit smaller than Studio A, but he was informed that it had the same floor area. The difference was that the larger studio had permanent audience seats, while when Studio B had audience shows, banks of seats were brought in, thus reducing the acting area. The seating was built in situ on frames of bolted metal sections, and stood up in great wedges away from the studio back wall. (A large gap had to be left between this wall and the back of the bank of seats because of fire regulations.)
Charles slouched in the front row and watched the recording with mild interest. The atmosphere was different to the usual studio day. Normally the tension mounted as the day went on, building to the mock-climax of the Dress Run, and then the final release of the end of the recording. On the revised schedule, each scene was rehearsed until satisfactory, and then recorded. It made everyone more relaxed. In spite of the industrial stormclouds outside, in the studio all was cosy. Many of the actors commented how much they’d rather rehearse/record the show every week, forget the moribund studio audience and either dub on the laughs or – heretical thought to any traditional Light Entertainment mind! – dispense with them altogether.
Peter Lipscombe explained at considerable length how much more expensive this would be because of the cost of VTR machine time, but soon lost his audience in a welter of budgetary jargon.
Through the slow processes of the morning Charles kept an eye on Barton Rivers. The old man sat in the audience grinning inanely and watching the every move of his wife. Whatever had happened to his mind, his devotion to Aurelia seemed absolutely genuine, a devotion reflected in such overblown and dated terms by the relationship between Maltravers and Eithne Ratcliffe.
Once again Charles wondered who on earth Hilary could be and where she fitted into the bizarre picture.
At one point he chatted to Barton. The old man, with his zany politeness, used a lot of ‘dear boys’, commented that doing the show this way was ‘a rummy business’ and asked Charles what chance he thought our chaps had against the Indians at the Oval.
Now that he had the key, Charles could hear the intonations of Maltravers Ratcliffe in every word. And, remembering the photograph of the fine young man in the Bentley, he could see that, if ever the filming of Death Takes A Short Cut had been feasible, Barton Rivers would have been ideal casting for it.
He contemplated challenging the old man with all he knew, but he didn’t think it would work. The ruined mind would not be able to respond. No, he had to wait for the sword and see what happened.
They proceeded quickly on the new schedule and by lunchtime had recorded the bulk of the show. Of course, there were no canteen facilities, but Peter Lipscombe demonstrated that he did have his uses by laying on large supplies of take-away food in the dressing rooms. Mort Verdon was of the pessimistic opinion that this might be construed as strike-breaking and twitched visibly every time there was an announcement on the loudspeakers.
There were quite a few announcements on the loudspeakers that lunchtime, calling meetings of various branches of various unions, but, remarkably, the entire studio crew reassembled to continue work at two o’clock.
Charles began to feel nervous as the final scene of the episode drew near. He was taking a terrible risk. If something went wrong, another person could die.
Perhaps he should have gone to the police. But even as the idea came to him, he dismissed it. His story was so fanciful, so ridiculous, that no one would believe him. He remembered from his interview after the night’s filming in Clapham how little the police cared for the romantic notions of amateurs.
The recording continued. The penultimate scene was completed and the set had to be redressed before the final one, in which Colonel Strutter’s Japanese neighbour was to present him with a samurai sword.
Dob Howarth, whose work for the day was finished, came into the audience, yawning. She smiled at Charles, giving him once again the full beam of her eyes. ‘Oh, I think we’ll get it all in the can now.’
‘Looks like it.’
‘I’m exhausted. Come and sit with me and tell me sweet stories, darling.’
Charles was torn. Barton Rivers sat two rows in front of him and he wanted to keep within range of the old man. Equally, he didn’t want to arouse Aurelia’s suspicions by not accompanying her up to the back of the audience seats.
It’d be all right. The sword wasn’t even on the set yet. And it would only take a second to get down on stage. He moved up to join Aurelia in the back row.
‘Be a relief when all this industrial trouble’s over, won’t it, Dob?’
‘Will rather, darling. I must say it doesn’t make the whole process any less tiring.’
Her voice was intimate and close. He decided to talk to her about Barton. She must know a bit of what was going on. Maybe, if he told her all of it, she would agree to having the old man put away. It could all be sorted out without further risk.
Charles put his arm along the back rail of the audience seating and asked gently, ‘How is Barton, Dob?’
She sighed. ‘Not getting better, I’m afraid.’
Charles looked down on to the set. Mort Verdon walked into the light bearing, like Miss World with her sceptre, the samurai sword.
Six rows down, the long figure of Barton Rivers rose to his feet.
Immediately, Charles did the same and started down the steps.
But Barton didn’t go for the sword. Instead, with his fixed gentlemanly grin, he came up towards them.
Charles subsided back into his seat with relief. The danger had passed for the time being.
‘Barton’s mind works strangely, doesn’t it, Dob?’ he murmured.
She sighed. ‘I’m afraid so, darling.’
There was a sudden commotion on the set. Charles tensed, but Barton Rivers was still moving away from the sword.
Everyone seemed to be flooding into the studio looking bew
ildered. At last Bob Tomlinson emerged from the melee. He turned to the audience seats and shouted in his coster’s voice, ‘That’s it, folks. A.C.T.T. has called a strike. We’re all out. It’s over.’
Then everything happened fast. Charles saw Mort Verdon put the samurai sword down on the sofa. Barton Rivers, who was now almost at the top of the audience steps, turned back towards the set.
But as Charles rose, the old man’s arm suddenly swung round and caught him in the chest, toppling him backwards.
As the rail behind him gave way and Charles felt himself falling, falling backwards, his last thought was he wished he’d read Death Takes A Back Seat.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
HE LANDED WITH a terrible jolt that rearranged every cell in his body. He was winded and may have passed out for a few moments. Time seemed to have elapsed when he became aware of his surroundings.
Two men in lumberjack checked shirts lay on the studio floor with him. Both looked dazed and were rubbing various of their extremities. Around the three prone figures a little semi-circle of technicians had gathered.
One of the men on the floor found his tongue. ‘Bloody strike-breaker,’ he grumbled. ‘Where the hell did you come from?’
Charles pointed weakly up to the top of the bank of seats, where the back rail hung loose and the outline of his tipped-up seat showed.
‘You’re bloody lucky we’re not seriously injured,’ continued the man in the lumberjack checked shirt. ‘Bloody lucky.’
‘He didn’t fall on purpose,’ a voice said defensively.
‘Comes to the same thing whether he did or didn’t. Falling down on top of union members – that’s the sort of thing that could cause a strike.’
‘But we’re already on strike.’
‘Oh yes. Bloody lucky for him we are.’
The other lumberjack checked shirt groaned.
“Ere, you all right?’ asked his mate.
The only reply he got was another groan.
The speaking shirt turned accusingly to Charles. “Ere, you really hurt him. I reckon falling actors comes under industrial accident. We’ll take the company for a lot of insurance on this.’
That thought seemed to make his own injuries worse, and he too groaned.
‘You’ve chosen a bad time for that,’ observed one of the watching cameramen. ‘Now we’re on strike, the company’s not liable. In fact, with the security men on total strike, even the building isn’t insured.’
‘Bloody hell.’ Both the lumberjack checked shirts stopped groaning, stood up, and walked off, grumbling.
Charles lay still. He didn’t know if it was shock or genuine injury, but he felt numb, unable to move. There was no pain, just a lassitude, an unwillingness to come back to the real world.
He vaguely heard voices asking if he was all right and vaguely felt hands lifting him. With infinite caution, he put weight on first one foot, then the other.
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ He focused on the anxious face of a young cameraman. There should be a nurse on duty in the building. I don’t know if she’ll have gone on strike yet. I could ring. I think the phones are still working.’
Slowly, Charles’s faculties were coming back to him. He tried his voice and it seemed to work. ‘No, no, I think I’m all right. Just shock, really. And I feel as if I’m a bit bruised. Let me go. I’ll see if I can walk.’
He could. Just. It hurt. The feeling had come back to his body as well as his mind.
‘Thank you. Thank you very much. I’ll be okay.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. Thanks.’
He moved very slowly out of the studio. Each footstep, however gently he tried to place it, jarred his back, and he felt himself sweating with the pain.
But he had no doubt about what he had to do. Or where he had to go. With pain, but determination, he moved slowly towards Dressing Room Number One, which had been allocated by The Strutters new PA to Aurelia Howarth.
He knocked, and her husky, cultivated voice gave him permission to enter.
She was sitting at the mirror adjusting her make-up. Her usual diaphanous gowns and the ones she wore for the show were so similar that he couldn’t tell whether she had changed or not.
Barton Rivers was not there.
Charles’s appearance shocked her. ‘You survived,’ she gasped.
He nodded, which he found a rather painful action.
Aurelia seemed to be in the grip of a strong emotion and it was a moment before she managed to murmur, ‘Thank God.’
‘Yes, I survived. Unlike Sadie and Scott and Robin.’
Tears glinted in huge unfocused eyes. ‘I’m so sorry. I kept thinking he’d stop.’
‘Death Takes A Back Seat,’ said Charles. ‘I never got to read that one.’
She looked at him with surprise, but also a touch of relief, relief perhaps that now her terrible secret was shared. ‘So you worked it out from the books?’
‘Yes. But I was stupid today. I kept thinking it’d be the samurai sword.’
She gave a strained smile. ‘Of course. Death Takes A Short Cut. I’m afraid I’d given up trying to work out what would happen next. I just kept praying it would all stop, but it went on, and on.’
‘He’ll have to be put away,’ Charles said gently.
Aurelia inclined her head. ‘I suppose so. That’s what I feared. That’s why – once I knew – all I could do was beg him to stop. I couldn’t actually betray him. Not my husband.’
‘No.’ Charles felt the stirring of a deep emotion, sympathy for her pain. ‘But why? I see that he was following the murders in the books, but he must have had some reason, some logic, however bizarre.’
Aurelia Howarth shrugged. ‘Barton just said it had to be done. He said that von Strutter was the mastermind behind every evil and the series of The Strutters was part of a plot to take over the country.’
‘But in the books it’s von Strutter who commits the crimes, not Maltravers Ratcliffe.’
There was a little humourless laugh. ‘It’d be funny if it weren’t so tragic. Barton said that the only way to counter the Teutonic devil’s schemes was to use his own methods.’
‘I see.’ Yes, in the mind of a madman, that was a kind of logic. ‘How long has he been like this?’
Strangely, as he said it, the line seemed to echo Claudius’ response to the demented Ophelia, ‘How long hath she been thus?’
Aurelia sighed. ‘It was the war. The war left many scars, and the worst of them were invisible. For Barton, it destroyed everything. First, there was the film of Death Takes A Short Cut. That had been set up with great difficulty, with a great deal of money, but it promised so well. It would have been the two of us working together, as equals, working on scripts from his book. Barton hoped it would be the first of a series of films and would make his career. But it was cancelled as soon as war was declared. So the war, the Germans, to Barton’s mind von Strutter, ruined that chance.
‘And he wasn’t even allowed to revenge the affront personally. He was turned down for active service because he was too old. I went off to entertain the troops all over the place, and once again Barton was left behind.
‘But that was not the worst . . .’ Aurelia’s voice broke, but she regained control quickly. ‘Our son was of an age to fight for his country. In January 1944, we heard that he had been killed on active service.’
‘Your son’s name was Hilary?’
She nodded, unable for a moment to speak. Charles waited until she could continue.
‘From that time on, Barton was changed. He stopped writing, said that he would never write again. And he started to get ideas, strange, grotesque ideas. He started to dress and talk like this character and to plan revenge on von Strutter. At first he was convinced that Hitler was von Strutter in disguise, and that he would win the war and we would be overrun by the Germans.’
‘His mind went?’
She nodded again, very slowly. ‘But I always thought he was harm
less. And then . . . this started. At first I couldn’t believe it was true, then I just hoped it would stop. Now I still wish it could be kept secret. But you’ve worked it all out . . .’ Her hands dropped helplessly on to her lap.
So there it was. Bizarre, yes, ridiculous, yes, but true. Charles’ grotesque theory had been proved correct. He felt a slight dissatisfaction. He’d never liked the idea of psychopathic murders; always felt more comfortable with a logic of motivation he could understand. Still, Barton Rivers was his culprit, and Barton Rivers had to be found. One crime, the murder from Death Takes A Short Cut, had not yet been recreated.
‘Where is Barton now, Dob?’
‘In the building. Not far away.’ She spoke distractedly.
‘He must be found.’
‘Yes.’ A listless monosyllable. Then, in a different tone, ‘I still think it’s remarkable how you worked it out. I suppose you saw the books in Peter’s office.’
‘In Peter’s office?’
‘Yes. You know I lent them to him. Barton gave me a set years ago, and forgot about them when he threw out all his copies.’
‘Those were the books you thought might make a series?’
‘Yes.’
Charles felt a great surge of excitement. Something had happened. He hadn’t worked it out in detail yet, but his mind was suddenly racing away in a new direction.
He looked piercingly at Aurelia. ‘I don’t believe you.’
‘What on earth do you mean?’
He thought out loud, piecing it together as he went along. ‘Those books would never make a television series.’
‘That’s a matter of opinion,’ she said frostily.
‘No, it’s not, it’s a matter of fact. They would have made a pretty peculiar set of films in the 1940s, but a television series in 1979 – never.’
‘Perhaps not. I just thought, hoped that –’
‘No, you didn’t. The idea is a bummer and you know it.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Yes, you do. If there’s one quality which has distinguished every moment of your career, it’s your judgement. You have always done the right thing, chosen the right show, the right part. You know what works and what doesn’t.’