Murder in the Title (11 page)

‘Thank you. And just remember, the best you can do for me, and the rest of the Board, and for Donald, and Tony is to do this show so well that our critics and the Massed Wet Blankets of Rugland Spa haven't got a leg to stand on. Make
Shove It
an artistic landmark in the history of the Regent Thee-ettah!'

Again, he got his applause.

And Charles felt the same unease that he had on his earlier encounter with Herbie Inchbald.

The Chairman of the Board's enthusiasm for the theatre was unquestionable and admirable. But did he actually know anything about it?

REGENT THEATRE ‘HANGING' – COUNCILLOR CONDEMNS
‘NEGLIGENCE' – CALLS FOR ENQUIRY
by our Arts Correspondent, Frank Walby

The fortunes of Rugland Spa's beleaguered Regent Theatre suffered another setback last Wednesday with a near-fatal accident on stage to Gordon Tremlett, one of the theatre's regular actors (and former manager of Barclay's Bank in the High Street). A stage hanging in the Regent's current production,
The Message Is Murder
by Lesley Bratt turned out all too realistic for poor Gordon, who, in his own words, ‘found the noose tightening round my neck'.

Speaking from his bed in the Chambers Kenton Hospital, where he is now recovering, the former Bank Manager is aware of how lucky an escape he had. ‘I don't remember much about it, but I gather I spent two days in Intensive Care and it was touch and go for a while.' He paid tribute to the nursing skills of the doctors and nurses of the Chambers Kenton.

Gordon, who lives in Harfleur Avenue with his wife Anita and two children, Robert and Libby, and was a former star of the Rugland Spa Players before turning professional, says he won't let the accident deter him from continuing with his theatrical career. ‘As soon as I'm fit, I'll be back. When the right part comes up. If you've really got the theatre in your blood, it takes more than a hanging to get you off the boards. Just for the time being I'm resting, but I'll be back,' he joked.

The incident, however, has a more serious side. Councillor Thomas Davenport, already severely critical of the running of the Regent Theatre, sees it as ‘just another in a long line of disasters caused by mismanagement and negligence. Obviously the equipment had not been checked properly'. He complained that the theatre received a large grant from the Council ‘which is just wasted money. Rugland Spa is not a wealthy town, and recent government spending cuts have put a serious strain on resources. Essential services like Meals on Wheels and pre-school playgroup facilities are having to be cut back, and there is a lamentable lack of sports facilities in the area. Maintaining the council's grant to the Regent is just pouring good money after bad. An enquiry should be held into the running of the theatre.'

(In recent years the council has matched the grant made to the Regent by the Arts Council. But the Arts Council too is being forced to cut back, and the continuation of their grant is by no means certain. If that was withdrawn, the Council would be unlikely to find the full amount of the subsidy, and the theatre might be forced to close. This nearly happened five years ago, when the theatre was again threatened and nearly sold for development, but it was saved by a campaign of local people.)

Councillor Herbert Inchbald, answering Councillor Davenport's allegations, said Rugland Spa needed its theatre. As Chairman of the Theatre's Board, as well as a councillor, he felt a duty to provide this cultural amenity for the people of the area and not ‘give way to the forces of philistinism'.

The theatre is also in the news at the moment, because of the controversy surrounding its next production, the outspoken West End success,
Shove It
, by Ryton Everitt, a play reputed to contain scenes of nudity and a great many four-letter words. Already opposition to the play is growing. Mrs Erica Feller, who is organizing the campaign against the production, says she is ‘receiving up to ten phone calls of support a day'. She says the play, which she has not read, is ‘disgusting and representative of all that is worst in this country at the moment'. Mrs Feller, who lives in Ronston Gardens with her husband Norman and has won prizes for flower arrangement led the successful campaign to stop the opening of a sex shop on Station Parade last year.

Councillor Inchbald said that the Regent Theatre has ‘nothing to be ashamed of', but announced that there would be a special meeting of the Theatre Board on Friday ‘to discuss ways of improving the Regent's public image, which has recently undergone a quite unnecessary battering'.

Grapes were not really Charles' style, but they were more his style than flowers or chocolates, so he took grapes to the Chambers Kenton Hospital on the Wednesday afternoon of the third week of
The Message Is Murder
. (Wednesday was matinée day, which meant no afternoon rehearsal for
Shove It
, It so Charles changed straight out of his costume after his appearance as the defunct Sir Reginald De Meaux. He thought the matinée audience could cope without seeing him at the curtain call. Actually, he doubted whether they'd notice; the average age at the matinées was even older than usual in Rugland Spa – in other words, about a hundred and fifty.)

The nurse told him he shouldn't stay long and tire the patient, but Gordon Tremlett looked indefatigable. He looked very fit and rosy in his room in the private wing. (Retired bank managers can afford health insurance schemes in a way that very few actors can.) He was surrounded by enough cards for a royal baby, enough flowers for the Guernsey Carnival and enough grapes, Charles noticed as he added his meagre offering to the pile, to start producing his own Chateau Tremlett.

Gordon had recovered sufficiently from his shock to appreciate its dramatic possibilities and was more than ready to relive it for the benefit of any pair of willing ears. Most of the Rugland Spa Players had already been to pay their homage and listen to the action replay, so he was glad to see Charles as a new audience.

‘It was my heart, you see, that's why I was so ill. The shock to the heart would you believe, it actually stopped three times.' He indicated the bandages round his neck dismissively. ‘Nasty rope-burn round here, you know, but that wasn't what did the damage. No, it was the old ticker, love. Touch and go, for a time, it was.' He clearly enjoyed this phrase, because he repeated it. ‘Touch and go, you know, love.'

‘But you feel okay now?'

‘Fit as the proverbial. Quacks say I'll have to take things a bit easy, but I'm sure once I get back on the green, Dr Theatre'll sort me out.'

Charles tried not to wince visibly at this barrage of theatrical slang. ‘And any idea how it happened?'

‘Who can say, love? One of those things. One of the A.S.M.s got the tensions wrong, I suppose. They're not very experienced, those two. Need a few years before they're real
theatre
people.'

‘They always fixed it, did they?'

‘Oh yes.'

‘I mean, you never went up into the flies yourself to check the ropes?'

Gordon Tremlett looked at him aghast. ‘Me, love? No! I have the most terrible head for heights – stand on a weighing machine and I get dizzy. No, no. Anyway, I can't be bothered with technical things when I'm on stage. Leave all that to the stage management. I'm always giving all my concentration to my performance.'

Yes, ensuring that it's so unconvincing it wouldn't be tolerated in any amateur dramatic society in the country, Charles thought. That reminded him of the review, and of Frank Walby. ‘Have you seen this week's
Gazette
?'

This got a predictable actor's response. ‘And how, love! Not a bad little spread, eh?'

Obviously sheer quantity of coverage had erased the memory of Frank Walby's qualitative strictures. Still, the journalist had obviously interviewed Gordon for the front page article. Might be worth probing a little.

‘Frank Walby wrote it, I see.'

‘Oh yes. Phoned through agog to talk to me, absolutely
agog
.'

‘Did you mention his review?'

Gordon Tremlett's face took on a saintly expression. ‘I think, Charles, something an actor has to learn . . .' He paused, and a note of reproof entered his voice, as if Charles had obscurely offended ‘. . . is magnanimity in the face of criticism. It is not for me to cast judgement on Frank's aberration, just to feel sorry for his circumstances.' In an elaborate whisper, he added, ‘He
drinks
, you know.'

So that was it. The review had now been dismissed as a symptom of alcoholic dementia. The punctures in Gordon Tremlett's ego had been repaired and it had been reinflated.

Charles allowed a silence to ensue. He knew exactly what he wanted to say next, but he wanted to present it with that what-on-earth-can-I-think-of-to-say-next desperation common to all hospital visits.

‘It never occurred to you, I suppose, Gordon, that the hanging was anything other than an accident?'

‘Charles! What on earth do you mean?'

‘Well, the rope had always been the right length before. Why should it suddenly be wrong?'

‘What, you mean someone was trying to
get at
me?'

Charles shrugged. ‘It's an idea.'

‘Yes, it is. How
thrilling.
' Gordon seemed captivated by the suggestion, gleefully contemplating all of its dramatic possibilities. He no doubt had visions of inviting back all of the Rugland Spa Players to his bedside for sessions of intriguing speculation.

‘You're suggesting, Charles, that someone might actually have
tampered
with the rope?'

‘As I say, just an idea.' Charles made it sound as much as possible as if he was suggesting a game of I-Spy or some other device to while away the afternoon.

‘Yes, well, I suppose anyone could have gone up into the flies and
tampered
. It was all right for the matinée on Wednesday, and there's never anyone in the theatre between the matinée and the evening show. Everyone rushes out to grab a drink or a bite to eat . . .'

‘Right. So anyone who wanted to would have been pretty safe going up to the gallery and sabotaging the tackle.'

‘Yes. Oh, Charles, how
exciting
!'

‘Very unlikely to have been seen doing it.'

‘You're right.'

‘The question is – who?'

‘Well, if they weren't seen, we've no way of knowing.'

Gordon had obviously never gone through the mental processes involved in detective investigation.

‘No, start from the other end. If anyone had been
seen
tampering with the rope, it would probably have come out by now. Instead, let's try and think who might
want
to tamper with the rope.'

‘Sorry, not with you, love.'

Good God, how had someone as thick as this managed to run a bank?

‘I mean – who might want you out of the way?'

‘Oh, I
see.
' The seriousness of the idea struck Gordon. ‘Oh, I'd never thought of it like that.'

‘No. Well, would you say you had any enemies in the company?'

‘Oh, I don't think so. I mean, I'm just another actor, like the rest of you, you know, mucking in, sharing the knocks, the ups and downs of theatre life, the cameraderie of the company . . .'

Dear oh dear. Soon he was going to burst into ‘Born In A Trunk', or produce a piano from under the bedclothes and say, ‘Let's do the show right here!'

‘Okay, if you haven't got any enemies, do you perhaps know something about someone that they might want suppressed?'

‘Sorry?'

‘People do have secrets. You might have stumbled on something they'd rather have kept quiet.'

‘Oh, I'm with you. Well now, let me see.' He looked round with elaborate caution. ‘I know that Laurie and Nella are having an affair.'

‘Gordon, the whole company knows that.'

‘Do they?'

‘Yes. Anything else?'

‘Well . . .' Again the Official Secrets routine. ‘I have a strong suspicion that Kathy Kitson's hair is not naturally blond.'

Charles sighed. This was uphill work. ‘That's hardly the sort of secret someone's going to commit murder to keep quiet.'

‘No, I suppose not.'

‘But there's no one else about whom you know anything discreditable?'

‘I don't think so, no.' Charles rose. ‘Well, except for Tony.'

‘Tony?'

‘Well, perhaps this is telling tales out of school . . .'

‘You can't stop there.'

‘No.' Excitement at the drama of the situation quickly overcame Gordon Tremlett's scruples. ‘Well, I don't know if I'd mentioned this to you, love, and if I haven't, I think you may have difficulty in believing it – but before I came into the business I used to be a bank manager.'

‘No, Gordon. Really?'

‘Oh yes. Here in Rugland Spa. And Tony had his account at my branch and . . . well, be wasn't very good at managing his money.'

‘What, anything criminal?'

‘Oh no, love. Just incompetent. Always asking for overdrafts, you know, always hard up.'

‘Aren't we all?' said Charles, to keep the conversation light.

Gordon looked puzzled. ‘Are we?'

‘Never mind. So Tony was always bad with money?'

‘Terrible. With his own money, that is. He seemed to run the theatre all right, but his own affairs were in a terrible mess.'

‘Did the theatre have its account at your bank too?'

‘No.'

So in fact Gordon Tremlett didn't know how Antony Wensleigh ran the theatre's financial affairs. But he might have been about to find out. Donald Mason had asked him to look through the theatre's books to check some ‘inconsistency'.

But Gordon Tremlett never got round to checking that ‘inconsistency'. Before he could do it, he was nearly killed by an ‘accidental' hanging.