A Theatrical Murder

by David W Robinson

  “I don’t know what it was about because I didn’t hear any of it, but I saw Sedgwick and Billingham arguing over there.” He waved across the barroom.” To change the subject, he asked, “So what are you two doing now?”

  “I told Teri we’d wait here for her,” Sylvia said. “It could be some time yet.”

  Joe downed the remainder of his lager. “Well, unless Sheila and Brenda fancy visiting that lap dance club as George and Owen were on about, what say I get a round of drinks in and we wait with you?”

  ***

  It was another forty minutes before Teri finally appeared, alongside Nat Billingham. Both were in their street clothing, both looked severely harassed.

  On spotting her grandmother, Teri gave a wincing half smile. Nat spoke to her, then they split up, he making for the bar where the staff were making ready to close up and the crowd had thinned to nothing, Teri coming to the table. Her smile had gone and her eyes were empty and haunted.

  Sylvia began to fuss over her the moment she arrived, almost smothering her with overt affection and worry, until Teri softy urged her to back off, and sat beside Les.

  Nat joined them, placed a vodka and tonic in front of Teri and, taking the stool beside her, sipped on a glass of whisky.

  “Malcolm is dead,” Teri said, when Joe finally got around to asking what had happened. “The police are questioning all the cast and crew, and they’re concentrating on us two and Michelle.”

  “Michelle?” Joe asked.

  “Sorry, Mr Murray, I forget, you don’t know them, do you? Michelle Arran. She’s Malcolm Sedgwick’s personal assistant and our wardrobe and properties mistress.”

  Joe frowned. “According to Sylvia, you’re the props mistress.”

  Teri shook her head. “We’re a small company so we all pitch in. I’m wardrobe and properties assistant.”

  “Ah. Right.” Joe became more definite. “So where is Michelle?”

  Teri shrugged. “Out meeting her boyfriend or something. She said he was pretty angry about it all.”

  “But they don’t believe any of you did it, do they? Sylvia has told us that you, young fella, you were the last to handle the alleged murder weapon.”

  Nat frowned and Teri hastened to re-introduce everyone. “Mrs Riley, Mrs Jump and Mr Murray are all good friends of Gran’s, Nat, and Mr Murray is well known in Sanford as a detective.”

  Nat took another slug of whisky. “You’re a policeman?”

  Brenda laughed sharply. “As if. Joe’s much too short to be a copper.”

  The butt of her humour scowled. “And I’m ten times sharper than your average plod.” He concentrated on Nat. “You were the man who used the gun, the alleged murder weapon, so they’re bound to question you, but that doesn’t make you a suspect.”

  “I wish someone would tell them that,” Nat said, gloomily. “I feel like I’ve gone through the third degree. And as for your ‘alleged’ murder weapon, they’re saying it really did kill him. Obviously, they won’t be one hundred percent sure until after the autopsy, but they’re sure he was shot at close range.” He took a final swig of his glass. “I can’t understand how the gun was switched, never mind who could have switched it.”

  “Which is why they wanted to speak to Teri and this other woman,” Joe suggested. “I was talking about that very problem earlier. Sylvia tells me Teri is the responsible person under the Health and Safety Act.”

  Nat shook his head. “It’s a toy, Mr Murray. Not even a stage gun. They all are. All our guns are. They fire percussion caps. Louder than those you’d buy for a child, but nevertheless…” He trailed off and shrugged. “The HSA says you need a responsible person if you’re using a movie gun which can fire blank cartridges. On bigger productions, you actually need a professional armourer, but we’re simply not that big. We couldn’t run to that kind of expense, so we use toys.”

  Joe sipped his beer. “How does it work, then?”

  “When you see me shoot Malcolm in the chest, he bursts a bag of dye under his shirt. Not a difficult trick to pull off. The bag has a pull string. The gun cracks, he pulls, that rips the bag apart, Malcolm falls and his shirt is covered in what looks like blood.”

  “So how did the cops decide he’d been shot? There was a bullet hole?”

  Nat shrugged and Teri took up the tale.

  “The paramedics actually said he had the symptoms of poisoning, but when we told them how it had happened, they changed their minds. He was dead by the time they got here and instead of examining him, they called the police.”

  “Poisoned?” Sylvia asked.

  Joe took up the point, directing his question at the two cast members. “There’s a hell of a difference between a gunshot wound and poisoning. And the police confirmed a gunshot, did they?”

  Teri nodded.

  Joe aimed his next question at her. “If he was poisoned, it must have been in the fake blood. Teri, you’re assistant to the props mistress. Are you responsible for that, too?”

  “Michelle and I look after it, Mr Murray, but that’s all. Malcolm dealt with the buying, and we just drop some into a ziplock bag for each performance.”

  “Ziplock?” Sheila asked. “Like a seal easy freezer bag?”

  “Yes, but a lot smaller. The police are taking it all away for analysis.”

  “Makes sense, I suppose,” Joe said. “I don’t understand why if they’ve confirmed a gunshot wound.”

  “We’ll know by tomorrow, they said.” Teri chewed her lip. “In the meantime, we’re not allowed to leave the area.”

  “When’s your next show?” Brenda asked.

  “Monday. Kings Lynn, Norfolk.” Nat stared gloomily into his empty glass. “We have an understudy for the part of Hamlet, but we need to be in Kings Lynn no later than the early hours of Monday morning so we can set the stage, and I’d prefer us to be there on Sunday night.”

  “Isn’t that a little callous when one of your comrades has fallen?” Les demanded.

  Les had been a captain in the Territorial Army Reserve, and Joe realised he was trying to equate theatrical attitudes with those of the military. “Your father’s mob didn’t stop to pray for the dead on the Normandy beaches, Les.”

  “I know but—”

  “I suspect it’s the thespian tradition,” Sheila cut in before Joe and Les could get into a proper argument. “The show must go on. Isn’t that right, Mr Billingham?”

  “That’s right, Mrs Riley. It’s not just stubbornness, either. People have paid good money to see the play. The most disrespectful thing we can do is let them down.”

  Joe changed the subject slightly. “You’re in charge are you, Nat? Now that Sedgwick is dead, I mean.”

  “Well, I collaborated most closely with him on the production. I also have some directorial experience.”

  “Ah. Right.” Joe nodded as questions began to form in his mind. “You know, whenever I’ve looked into murder cases, I’ve always found that the victim is the one person who can tell you most about the killer.”

  “And you’ve investigated many, have you?”

  Joe was not certain whether Nat was challenging him, doubting him or simply asking a question, but he rose to the bait anyway.

  “I’ve investigated more murders than you’ve directed iffy interpretations of Shakespeare.”

  Nat, too, rose to the bait. “I beg your pardon. What qualifies you to criticise our production—”

  “I paid good money to see it and I didn’t like it,” Joe replied.

  Nat was ready to argue once more, but Joe diverted him before he could say a word.

  “We were on the front earlier today, near the Clock Tower, by the Jolly Fisherman, and your director was involved in a public slanging match with someone called Dempster from another theatre.”

  “You told me earlier,” Nat said. “Raif Dempster has a pantomime running in Mablethorpe, just up the road. Aladdin I think it is.”

  “That’s right,” Brenda said, and went on to explain. “We saw
the leaflets for both plays.”

  “This Dempster wasn’t too impressed with Sedgwick, and vice versa.”

  “Handbags at ten paces,” Sheila confirmed.

  “That’s hardly surprising,” Nat said. “Making a success of any production is all about bums on seats. Money is scarce in this country right now. A general recession, just after New Year, few people have cash to spare, especially in an out of season seaside town. There’s a lot of competition, and sometimes it gets personal.”

  “Personal enough to fight in the street like two schoolboys?” Joe demanded.

  “It wouldn’t be the first time two people have scrapped in public, and actors are no different to any other trade or profession.”

  “This is the point I’m trying to make,” Joe said. “I’m not saying this Dempster character has murdered your pal, but it’s obvious that there’s someone out there who feels the same or worse. Now, you knew Sedgwick. Throw some names at me.”

  Nat shrugged. “I didn’t know him that well.”

  “Putting aside your personal feelings, Mr Billingham, how critical is his death?” Sheila asked.

  “He was wonderful actor,” Nat replied, sadly. “A visionary. You only had to watch his performance to see that. A brilliant director, too. He knew how to get the best from an actor without tantrums, without screaming. British theatre is a sadder, emptier establishment tonight, Mrs Riley.”

  The bar staff rang the bell for last orders. Joe finished his beer and glanced across at the thin group of patrons hurrying to get in their final drinks. Turning back to face the table, he said, “Could you do me a favour, Nat?”

  “If I’m able, yes.”

  “I’m going to the bar to get more drinks. When I get back, could you come away from the Guardian obituary column and then tell us what you really thought of Malcolm Sedgwick?”

  Nat’s face fell. “Was I that transparent?”

  “Let’s say you were better as Laertes.”

  Joe retired to the bar and ordered a round of drinks. While he watched the barman, whose nametag identified his as ‘Ian’, he recalled that this was the same, curly haired youngster the irritated beard had spoken to earlier.

  “Yeah, I remember him. Collared me early in the evening. Slipped me a fiver to let him know what Malcolm Sedgwick got up to… if anything. What about him?”

  “He didn’t look too pleased the last time you spoke to him.”

  “Nah. I told him the word was Sedgwick was history, and he lost the plot. The beard, not Sedgwick.”

  “Did he tell you what he wanted with Sedgwick?”

  “Nope. Just handed over the money and asked me to keep an eye out. And when I told him Sedgy was dead, he just snapped and stormed off.” Ian held out his hand. “That’s eleven fifty, boss. Call it twelve quid for cash.”

  With the thought that this young chap would go far in the world of catering, Joe handed over the money and carried his tray of drinks back to the table, where he distributed them, finally placing another small whisky in front of Nat before dropping the empty tray on the next table.

  Taking his seat alongside Nat, he sipped the head off his beer. “Malcolm Sedgwick?”

  Nat was silent for some time. He peered through the panoramic windows out onto dark streets where vicious, January rain angled down to the pavements once more.

  When he turned back, he was a troubled man. “I don’t like having to say this.”

  “We’re all brought up not to speak ill of the dead, Mr Billingham,” Brenda told him. “Whatever sins Malcolm Sedgwick may have committed in life, he’s now being judged by a higher authority. However, there are times, like now, when it’s incumbent upon us to be frank.”

  Joe increased the pressure. “Sedgwick has been murdered. The police will need to look at a lot of angles before they can come to any serious conclusions. I said, didn’t I, that the best witness you have in a murder case, is the victim, but we need the full SP on him, not the glowing tributes. You can save those for the memorial service.”

  Nat sighed. “He was washed out. Stoned out of his mind on booze and cocaine most of the time. Over the hill and didn’t have a much of a clue what he was doing.”

  They were all surprised at the candour. Even more so at the matter-of-fact tone in which it was delivered.

  Nat went on, “Recasting Hamlet as the son of a mobster is a damned good idea, but to do it properly, you need to completely rewrite Shakespeare. Can you really imagine an East End mobster looking in a mirror and saying, ‘To be or not to be’? Sure, he might talk to himself, but not in Shakespearean language. He’d be more likely to say, ‘Right, Hamlet, should I top myself or top Claudius?’ And what kind of fool would cast himself as a fifty year old Hamlet to fight a thirty-year-old Laertes? Sedgwick was as vain as he was absurd. And you don’t need to take my word for it. The reviews have been shocking.”

  “Major reviews?” Joe asked.

  “I think the broadsheets are always hypercritical,” Sheila said.

  “Not the broadsheets, Mrs Riley. They turned their noses up at Sedgwick years ago. I’m talking provincial newspapers. The Lincolnshire Gazette described the play as the biggest farce since No Sex Please, We’re British. The Yorkshire Post said it was as if Mario Puzo and Woody Allen had collaborated with the express intention of lampooning Shakespeare. This production has, quite frankly, turned Sedgwick into a laughing stock.”

  “Dempster made similar comments,” Brenda said.

  Nat nodded. “Dempster’s a good man, Mrs Jump. His repertoire may be limited to pantomime, stand-up routines in Spanish bars and occasional cameos on TV comedies, but he knows his limitations and works within them. He didn’t have the same self-delusion as Sedgwick.”

  Joe sipped more of his beer. “You know what puzzles me? If you felt so badly about it, why did you sign on?” He glanced over to Teri. “You too?”

  “We’re actors, Mr Murray,” Teri replied. “You take such work as you can get.”

  “Teri is right,” Nat said in support of her. “The retail trade isn’t the only area feeling the effects of recession. The tales you read of actors spending a lot of time unemployed are all true. Work is scarce, so you take it where and when you can. It’s either that or you play Santa in a department store. Worse, you end up in one of Dempster’s pantomimes. But even that would be better than working for a pest control company. Before I signed on for this tour I was out of work for two months, and even then the only part I’d had was in an advertisement, as a customer in a fast food joint.”

  “So what do you do when you’re out of work?” Joe asked.

  “Anything. I spend a lot of time writing, but that doesn’t pay too well. I’ve worked in supermarkets, collecting trolleys from the car park. I’ve worked as a labourer on building sites, helped out landscape gardeners. I’ve even worked in a café like yours. Casual work, clearing tables and washing dishes. You do whatever you have to so you can pay the rent and eat.”

  “At least you have the right attitude and you’re not afraid of hard work,” Joe approved. Bringing his mind to bear on the big picture once again, he asked, “So how did you get this part? Audition?”

  “No, no. I’ve worked with Malcolm before, and on Hamlet. A traditional Hamlet. That time I played Horatio, and he played Claudius.” Nat sipped his whisky. “He told me this was an experimental version. I read the script and I thought it had promise, but I had reservations about keeping the Shakespearean dialogue in.”

  “And you didn’t argue with Sedgwick about it?”

  “Yes, of course I did. It was a professional disagreement, but in the end, he was the director and it was his production. All the things I just said to you, I had put to him, but he didn’t agree. We played it the way we played it, and instead of Hamlet reading the newspaper and saying, ‘would you Adam and Eve it, old Yorick has been topped’, he said, ‘alas poor Yorick’, and instead of having him say ‘He was a great bloke, Horatio. Massive sense of humour’ we hear him say, ‘a fellow o
f infinite jest, of most excellent fancy’.” Nat shook his head and tutted. “Coming from a couple of East End gangsters, it was absurd, and to be frank, the way things have panned out, it’s left Malcolm looking a buffoon.”

  “During the interval, I saw the two of you arguing. You were stood over there.” Joe nodded across the room. “Same problem?”

  “Worse this time,” Nat admitted. “Some idiot in the audience kept laughing.”

  “George Robson,” Brenda said and gave Nat a wincing half smile of apology. “He’s one of ours. Sorry.”

  “Forgive me,” Nat said. “I didn’t know. But it was the last straw for me. Most theatregoers would be too polite to laugh, but your friend obviously wasn’t. It put the seal on the entire play for me. It really is a farce.”

  “Sedgwick didn’t agree?” Joe asked.

  “His precise words were, ‘I don’t cater to the hoi-polloi, Nat.’ Not only obdurate, but a snob, too.” Nat put his glass down, and stared away for a long moment. It seemed to Joe as if he were trying to hold back tears.

  Then Joe recalled the tall, bearded man. “You were interrupted,” he said. “Tall, beard, in his scruffs. Sedgwick didn’t like him… or at least, that was the message I got from the way Sedgwick waved him away.”

  Nat nodded glumly. “Tony Chelton. Actor. He appeared as Brutus to Sedgwick’s Caesar a few years back. They didn’t see eye to eye, and he was another one struck off Sedgwick’s casting list.”

  “If he’s really as ignorant as he sounded to me, I can’t say I blame Sedgwick,” Joe said. “What did he want tonight?”

  “I don’t know. I wasn’t really paying attention. When he interrupted, I took the opportunity to rehearse my arguments with Sedgwick. As it turned out. I never got the chance. Sedgy told him to clear off and then we were due back on stage.” He sighed again. “For the last time.”

  Around the table, everyone remained silent. It was as if they were not sure what to say, or how to comfort this obviously distressed man. Joe, too, was at a loss, but he solved the problem by concentrating on more practical matters.

  “How bad will this look on your CV? Not his death; your appearance in the play.”