Murder in the Title (6 page)

Donald Mason looked at his out-tray. Seeing Tony Wensleigh's note, he casually picked it up, folded it and put it in his inside pocket. No need to advertise the Artistic Director's lapses. He then picked up the next piece of paper from the tray. ‘I've had a report from the Stage Manager about your behaviour during last night's performance.'

‘Yes.'

‘You were late for the “half”, and then, when it came to the moment – and I use the word advisedly – of your performance, you did not play your part as rehearsed, and the general opinion seems to have been that you were . . .'

Charles finished the sentence for him. ‘Smashed out of my mind.'

‘Yes.' The General Manager paused. ‘A lot of people would regard such behaviour as grounds for dismissal.'

‘Yes.'

‘I've talked to Tony about it, and he says there's no question about it – you should go.'

‘Yes.'

‘You're just contracted for the one show?'

‘That's right.' Oh, for God's sake, get on with it. ‘And my role is hardly onerous. It won't be difficult to get someone else rehearsed up to take over.'

‘No.'

Oh, get on with it. What else is there to say? But Donald seemed hesitant. It was unlikely that someone with his abrasive manner would have difficulty in sacking an actor, but maybe he was finding it awkward. Charles decided to help him out.

‘Obviously I'm sorry for the trouble I caused, but I fully understand that you have no alternative but to show me out and –'

‘Oh, I wouldn't say that.'

Donald Mason's words were so unexpected that Charles gaped at him.

‘No, Charles, there are alternatives.' Then, with surprising gentleness, the General Manager continued, ‘People usually have a reason for getting drunk. What is it – domestic problems?'

‘Well . . .'

‘Woman?'

For a second Charles felt tempted to spill it all out, to succumb to pathos, to plead for sympathy. But, hell, no. He couldn't define the situation with Frances to himself, let alone spell it out to a stranger. ‘No, I just got drunk. I sometimes go on these benders. I know it's unprofessional and stupid, but . . .' He shrugged.

‘Hmm. My inclination, Charles, is always to give people a second chance.' This again seemed inconsistent with Donald Mason's brusque image. ‘If you want to stay, I'm prepared to ignore Tony's opinion and let you. What do you say?'

Charles felt embarrassingly emotional. ‘Well, I . . . er . . .'

‘I mean I'm sure it's not the sort of thing that's going to happen again.'

This was once more back to the headmaster's study. I'm going to give you one more chance, Paris, and I'm going to trust you, because in my experience most chaps respond to trust.

‘So tell me, do you want to stay in the show?'

‘Well, yes, I would be very grateful if . . .' Mumble, mumble, grovel, grovel.

‘Good, that's settled then.' The General Manager screwed up the Stage Manager's report and threw it into his waste paper basket. ‘You know, I think part of the trouble for you is that you've got so little to do in this show.'

‘Maybe. I think we should try to get you more involved in the company. Perhaps there'll be a part in another of our forthcoming productions.'

‘Well, that'd be very . . .'

‘I'll see what I can do.'

At that moment the intercom on Donald's desk buzzed and a female voice crackled, ‘Mrs Feller in the foyer. She wants to come and see you about
Shove It
.'

‘Oh God. Okay, send her up.' Donald Mason rose from his desk and straightened his tie. ‘Have you come across the redoubtable Mrs Feller, Charles?'

‘No.'

‘You will. She's Rugland Spa's answer to Mrs Whitehouse. A one-woman Puritan Backlash, who only comes to the theatre to count the number of letters in the words.'

‘So she isn't going to care for
Shove It
.'

‘No. There'll be protest meetings, picketings, strong letters to the local paper . . . Honestly, what a bloody stupid choice of play for Rugland Spa. Over half the population's past retirement age – they're hardly going to lap up the Anglo-Saxon diatribes of Royston Everett.'

‘The theatre's got to do some modern stuff.'

‘Modern, yes, but it doesn't have to be obscene. I sometimes think Tony's judgement has gone completely. He's just lost touch with reality.' He shook his head ruefully. ‘Still, again not your problem, Charles. Anyway, with regard to you, we'll leave things as they are – Okay?'

‘Yes. Thank you very much.'

‘And if Tony –'

Donald Mason was interrupted by a knock on the door. ‘That'll be Mrs Feller. This is obviously the early stage of her campaign – she still bothers to knock. It'll get worse.'

He extended his hand to the actor. ‘Thanks for coming in, Charles. I'm relying on you, so keep it up.'

Considering the circumstances, Charles reflected, the General Manager's final cliché was singularly inapposite.

Well-being flooded through Charles. Partly it was the first symptom of recovery from his hangover, that breakthrough moment when continuing existence first seems a possibility. When he had woken, three hours previously, the movement from horizontal to vertical had seemed insuperable, and yet here he was, on two feet, moving around, suffering from nothing worse than a light headache playing around his temples. He was even feeling hunger, a sensation which he thought had abandoned his body for ever.

He went into a little café near the theatre and tucked into an espresso coffee and two jam doughnuts.

Of course the euphoria wasn't just physical. The interview with Donald Mason had contributed enormously. Though he'd thought he'd wanted the catharsis of dismissal, he was deeply relieved to have been spared it. Basically he had a respect for his profession and was disgusted by his unprofessional behaviour.

And the surprise of how he had misjudged the General Manager's character added an extra glow.

All he had to do was to behave impeccably for the remainder of the run of
The Message Is Murder
.

And sort out where he stood with Frances.

There was a payphone in the café. But there was still no reply from his wife's number at her new flat in Highgate.

Still, she was unlikely to be there at twelve o'clock in the morning. If it was term-time, she'd be hard at work at the school where she was headmistress. And if it was half-term or holiday . . . oh God, he could never remember when they came. Frances' life was always sliced up into neat segments by these academic dividers, while his own remained a shifting morass without any demarcation.

He contemplated trying the school, but rejected the idea. Even if she was there, she was bound to be busy, and the circumstances wouldn't be ideal for the sort of conversation they needed to have. Instead he rang the Pangbourne number of his daughter, Juliet. She answered.

‘It's me . . . Charles.' She never called him by his Christian name, but he couldn't bring himself to say ‘Daddy'.

‘Oh, hello. How are you?'

‘Fine.' The conventional lie. ‘And you?'

‘Yes, fine. Busy, but fine.'

‘Kids?'

‘Twins are at school, thank God, but Sebastian's being a bit of a pain. He's teething.'

Charles had forgotten about his third grandson. Sebastian, born some eight months previously, ‘a brother for Damian and Julian'. God, why did they choose those names? Probably because Juliet's husband, rising star of the insurance world, had discovered there were special reduced premiums for people whose names ended in I-A-N.

‘How is Miles?'

‘Oh, fine. He's just been promoted. He's now an Assistant Branch Manager.'

‘Oh.' Then, because comment seemed appropriate, ‘Good for him.'

‘Yes, it is. It means we've been able to get a new dishwasher.'

‘Oh, good.'

‘Makes a big difference.'

‘Yes.'

‘And Miles has just bought me a food-processor, which is going to be a great help mashing up Sebastian's stuff.'

‘I'm sure it is.' He had to change the subject before he was treated to a complete inventory of the Taylersons' kitchen. ‘I've been trying to contact your mother.'

‘Ah.' He was sure Juliet's tone changed with this syllable. It became more guarded. What was she hiding? Had she been given specific instructions from Frances as to how to deal with enquiries? Had Frances moved into some love-nest with her schools inspector and was Juliet the guardian of their secret address?

‘Can't get any reply from her flat.'

‘No. Well, it's half-term. She's away.'

‘I thought you said your boys're at school,' said Charles with involuntary suspicion.

‘Yes, but they have different half-terms from the State schools.'

My, oh my, Miles was doing well. Private education. No doubt paid for by a carefully selected insurance policy.

‘Of course. When's Frances back?'

‘Sunday afternoon, I think.' The ‘I think' was mere dressing: Juliet obviously knew the exact hour of her mother's return.

‘Where is she?'

‘Paris.'

‘Ah.'

Silence hung between them, the old silence of poor communication and ungainly love, but now shadowed by another awkwardness.

Charles couldn't just let the conversation drift to more kitchenalia and then goodbyes. He had to ask the questions hovering between them.

‘Is she there on her own?'

‘No.'

He must mention the name as if it were familiar, as if he were a man of the world accepting the
fait accompli
. ‘Is she there with David?' he asked, begging for a negative reply.

‘Yes,' said Juliet.

In some ways it made things better. At least it introduced an element of definition. Like a condemned man who has heard his sentence, Charles could begin to plan, devise ways of coping with his situation. He ordered another cup of coffee.

It had been inevitable and he had no right to complain. He had left Frances twenty years before, and had been lucky to retain her as an emotional long-stop for so long. There had been rapprochements and reconciliations, but none had lasted. His character and his life were not compatible with the regularities of marriage. The only surprise was that she, still an attractive woman in her early fifties, had not met anyone else sooner.

So he reasoned it out.

But it still hurt.

It was by forcing his mind off the subject of Frances that he began to think about the events of the previous night. His worries about her, the haze and pains of alcohol, the threat of dismissal, had prevented him from concentrating on the rather significant fact that someone had tried to kill him.

Some of his recollections of the night were blurred, but the sight of the sword-blade stabbing through the flat above him was cinematically clear.

It had happened. There was no doubt about it. When he inspected the flat under the working lights of the stage, Charles could see the new gash in the canvas. He stood in his normal dead body position and confirmed that gash corresponded with the middle of his back. He shivered.

He went round the back of the flat and found that the tear had been repaired. A rectangular strip of canvas had been glued on to prevent the split from spreading. Someone had made that repair, but had it been just an act of routine maintenance or the cover-up of a failed crime?

The theatre appeared to be empty. It was lunchtime on the Friday of the first week of the run. The
Shove It
cast would be at their outside rehearsal room (the Drill Hall which, he had learned that morning, they were about to lose). Any stage staff who might be in the theatre were likely to be up in the bar. But Charles did a little backstage tour to see if he could find the mysterious flat-repairer.

He heard a voice as he approached the Green Room. It was Rick Harmer's. Charles stopped out of sight of the phone and listened.

‘Yes, I know that's the situation at the moment, but don't worry, I'm going to be up for that recording. And the whole day's rehearsal. I'm going to see that cast says my lines
right.
Look, I know that, and I'm not going to risk losing the job here, but somehow I'm going to make the bastard change his mind and agree to release me. I don't know how, I'll think of something. He is not going to stand in my way. No, okay, leave it with me. Yes. Anything else come up? Any enquiries? Availability checks?'

These last questions identified Rick's interlocutor as his agent. And Charles gained unworthy pleasure from the fact that Rick obviously got the same answers as he did when making the same enquiries of Maurice Skellern.

He waited till the phone was down before proceeding casually round the corner.

‘Oh, Rick. Hello.'

‘Hi. Feeling better this morning?' the A.S.M. asked with a hint of malice.

‘Yes, thank you.'

‘Seen Donald?'

No secrets in a provincial theatre company.

‘Yes. Yes, I have.' Charles deliberately delayed gratifying Rick's patent curiosity, before saying, ‘I'm staying on.'

‘Oh.' The A.S.M. was so surprised it was a moment before he managed to say, ‘Good.'

‘Yes. Oh, incidentally, Rick, I was just looking onstage . . . at the scene of my disgrace . . .'

‘Yes?'

‘And I noticed there was a tear in the flat at the back of my cupboard.'

‘Oh yes, I noticed that. I just repaired it, so that it doesn't spread.'

The answer came quickly enough, and apparently without guile.

‘Any idea how it happened?'

‘What?'

‘The tear. What I mean is – did I do it while I was thrashing around last night?'

‘Oh, I don't think so. No, I imagine something fell against it or someone caught a prop on it in the dark.'