Murder Unprompted: A Charles Paris Murder Mystery (13 page)

It is almost impossible for the understudy to achieve mental equilibrium. His thoughts sway constantly between the desire to go on and the desire to settle down for a relaxed evening with a book in the secure knowledge that he won’t have to go on. (This at least is true of
aspiring
understudies, those who really wish they had parts. There is a breed of professional understudy, often, if female, actresses who have semi-retired to bring up families, for whom the job is all that they require. It gives them the contact with the theatre that they crave, without the total commitment which acting every night demands.)

Charles Paris was not a professional understudy. He still had dreams. And, though those dreams had taken something of a battering since the heady days of Taunton, they were resilient and survived in amended form. The image of suddenly being called in to take over from George Birkitt and astounding the critics with his unsung brilliance was one that would not go away, however hard he tried to suppress it.

He knew that that was one of the reasons why he went to see George Birkitt first on his back-stage round at the ‘half’. The vulture instinct would make him acutely observant for any signs of imminent cerebral haemorrhage in the actor.

George Birkitt, however, looked remarkably fit. He was gazing into his make-up mirror, playing the same game that he always did on the monitor screens in television studios – in other words, deciding which was his best profile.

‘Hello, George. Just dropped in to say all the best.’

‘Oh, thanks, Charles.’ He seemed completely to have forgotten that Charles had ever played the part. ‘I think the director and some of the cast of
Fly-Buttons
should be out front tonight.’

He couldn’t resist mentioning the television series, just in case anyone should forget he was in it.

‘Oh great. I’ll be out there.’

‘Good. Then you could do me a favour. You know in the dinner party scene, when I’m down-stage doing my incest speech . . .’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, could you tell me what Micky’s up to during that? I’m sure he makes some sort of reaction I can’t see. Could you watch out for it? I mean, I know he’s the star and all that, but I’m damned if I’m going to be upstaged, even by him . . .’

The Star Dressing Room was Charles’s next port of call. Its door was guarded by Cerberus in the form of Micky Banks’s dresser, Harve, a redoubtable old queen who had been with his master for years. Recognising the visitor, he said, ‘O.K., just a quick word. Don’t want him tired.’

‘Fine.’

In spite of his dresser’s cares, Michael Banks did look absolutely shattered through his heavy make-up.

‘All the best, Micky.’

‘Thanks, Charles old boy.’ The star smiled graciously.

‘Sure you’ll knock ’em dead tonight.’

‘Hope so, hope so.’

There was a tap at the door and Harve grudgingly admitted Lesley-Jane Decker. As at Taunton, she was bearing gifts. The shape of the parcel she put on Michael’s make-up table showed that, for him at least, she had graduated to full-size bottles of champagne.

She put her arms around his neck and said, ‘All you wish for yourself, darling.’

‘Thank you, love. Same to you.’ Michael Banks grinned indulgently. ‘Is the redoubtable Valerie Cass up in your dressing room ready to give you lots of tips?’

Lesley-Jane laughed. ‘She’s out front where she should be. With Daddy.’

‘She’ll be round before the evening’s out.’

Charles felt awkward, excluded from their scene. ‘Well, I’ll . . . er . . .’ He edged towards the door, which Harve obligingly – indeed, pointedly opened for him.

Outside stood Alex Household.

‘Break a leg, Micky,’ he said with a rather strained intonation. ‘I’ll be out there supporting you.’

‘Bless you.’ The star turned round to his understudy. ‘Couldn’t do it without you, you know.’

‘I know.’ Alex Household gave the words perhaps too much emphasis.

Lesley-Jane could not keep her back to the door indefinitely and turned. Charles noted how pale she looked, almost ill.

‘
Bonne chance
, Lesley-Jane,’ pronounced Alex formally. ‘See you’re doing your rounds with the first night presents.’

He said it deliberately to make her feel awkward. And succeeded.

‘Yes . . . yes. I’m . . . er . . . afraid I didn’t get round to doing anything for the understudies.’

‘No,’ Alex Household snorted with laughter. ‘No, of course not.’

And, slamming the door, he left the Star Dressing Room.

Charles caught up with him in the Green Room. Alex’s strange position in the production must have been making all of the usual understudy agonies even worse. Charles wanted to say something to help, but all he could think of was ‘Break a leg’.

‘Oh, you think you should wish luck to people who merely feed lines, do you? People whose job could be equally well – and probably better done – by a tape recorder.’

‘We all need luck,’ said Charles gently.

Alex laughed. ‘Yes, we do, don’t we?’

Then he started trembling. His whole body shook uncontrollably. His teeth chattered and he whimpered.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes, I’m . . . Yes, I’m . . . Yes, I will be.’

And, sure enough, he soon had control of himself again. The shivering subsided.

‘Sure you’re O.K.? There’ll be St. John Ambulance people out front.’

‘No, I’m all right.’ But Alex’s eyes belied his words. They were wide with fear. ‘This is how it started last time.’

‘How what started?’

‘The breakdown.’ And he was seized by another spasm. The worst of it passed, but his teeth still chattered feebly.

‘Are you cold or . . .’

‘Cold? No. Or if I am now, I won’t be later. I’ll be roasting. Have you any idea how hot it gets in my little solitary nest on the O.P. side? Don’t worry, I’ll be hot enough. In fact, I’ll take this off while I think.’

He hung his jacket on a hook in the Green Room. As it swung against the wall, there was a thud of something hard in the pocket.

Alex Household gave a twisted smile and announced ironically, ‘Right, here we go. Tonight will be the climax of my career. Twenty-three years in the business has all been the build-up for this, as I take on my most challenging role ever – bloody prompter!’

‘Come on, Alex. It’s not so bad, it’s –’

‘Isn’t it? What do you know about how bad it is?’

Charles retreated under this assault. ‘I just meant . . . Never mind. Back to what I said first – break a leg.’

‘I should think that will be the very least I will break,’ said Alex Household, and walked towards the stage.

Charles knew it would be unprofessional to use the pass-door from backstage to the auditorium once the house had started to fill, so he went out of the Stage Door to walk round.

The first thing he came across outside was Malcolm Harris being sick in the gutter.

‘Are you O.K.?’

‘Yes, I . . . will be.’

‘Don’t worry. It’s going fine. And at least Micky’s deaf-aid thing guarantees that he does actually say the lines you wrote.’

‘Yes, I suppose so.’ The schoolmaster looked up at him pitifully. ‘I just don’t think I can sit out there and watch it all. I’m so jumpy, I’ll be sick again or . . .’

‘Then don’t sit there. Stand at the back, go backstage, go out for a walk, do whatever makes you feel most relaxed.’

‘But if I don’t sit in my seat, I’ll be leaving my wife and my wife’s mother on their own.’

‘Well, you could do that, couldn’t you?’

‘Yes, I suppose I
could.’
But obviously it was an idea that had never occurred to him before, and his mind would take a little while to accommodate it.

‘Frances, I’m sorry I’m late.’

‘When were you ever otherwise?’

‘I wasn’t late for that meal in Hampstead.’ Even as he said it, he wished he hadn’t. There was something about the memory of that evening that made him uneasy. He kissed her clumsily to change the subject.

‘Anyway, what is all this? Why aren’t you going to be on-stage? When we last met, you told me . . .’

‘I’ll explain. Have we got time for a drink?’

They would have had, but there was such a crush in the bar, there was no prospect of getting served before the curtain went up. Which was annoying.

While they reconnoitred the bar and found their seats (on the aisle, so that, if his services as an understudy were required, Charles could be quickly extracted), he gave Frances a brief résumé of how he had lost his part.

‘Well, I think that’s rotten,’ she said, with genuine annoyance. It cheered Charles, to hear her angry on his behalf. He took her hand and felt the scar on her thumb, legacy of an accident with a kitchen knife in the early days of their marriage. Accumulated emotion made him weak, needing her.

‘Charles!’

‘Well, if it isn’t that naughty Charles Paris . . .’

‘With his lovely wife . . .’

‘Frances, isn’t it? Oh, it’s been so long . . .’

‘An absolute age . . .’

This stereo assault on them came from two men in late middle age, bizarrely costumed in matching Victorian evening dress. Instantly Charles recognised William Bartlemas and Kevin O’Rourke, a pair of indefatigable first-nighters.

‘And how
are
you, Charles?’ demanded Bartlemas.

‘Yes, how
are
you?’ echoed O’Rourke.

Neither waited for a reply as they galloped on. ‘Are you still up to your naughty detective things we hear so much about?’

‘Yes,
are
you?’

‘No, not at the moment. I –’ was all he managed to get out.

‘Another first night. I don’t know . . .’

‘Not as glittering as it should be, is it, Bartlemas . . .?’

‘No, not really
glittering,
no . . .’

‘So few people dress up for first nights these days . . .’

‘It is disgraceful . . .’

‘Appalling . . .’

‘That lot . . .’ he gestured to a large block of seats full of people in evening dress, ‘have made the effort . . .’

‘Yes, but they’re Micky Banks’s chums . . .’

‘Oh well . . .’

‘At least that generation knows how to behave at a first night . . .’

‘That
generation, dear? They’re
our
generation!’ This witticism reduced both of them to helpless laughter. But not for long enough for Charles or Frances to say anything.

‘Lot of paper in tonight, isn’t there?’ said Bartlemas, looking up to the Circle and Gallery.

‘Lot of paper, yes . . .’

‘Paper?’ Frances managed to query.

‘Free seats, love. Often happens for a first night if it’s not selling . . .’

‘Yes, blocks of tickets sent round the nurses’ homes, that sort of thing . . .’

‘Believe me, love, if you go to as many first nights as we do, you get to recognise them . . .’

‘Recognise individual nurses even . . .’

‘There’s one with a wall-eye and a wart on her nose who I swear goes to more first nights than we do . . .’

This also was apparently a joke. They roared with laughter.

‘Why is there so much paper?’ Charles managed to ask.

‘No publicity, dear . . .’

‘And the theatres out of the way . . .’

‘People’d flood to see Micky Banks . . .’

‘Simply flood . . .’

‘But they’ve got to know where he is . . .’

‘As you say, no publicity . . .’

‘By
the way, who’s Dottie with tonight?’

‘Don’t know, but looks such a nice young man . . .’

‘Joy-boy?’

‘Maybe . . .’

‘Oh,’ said Charles. ‘You mean she and Micky don’t . . .’

‘Now you don’t want us telling tales out of school, do you?’

‘Oh, you naughty Charles Paris, you . . .’

They seemed set to continue talking forever, but the auditorium lights began to dim, so they scuttered off, giggling, to find their seats.

Charles and Frances sat down too. And with feelings too complex to itemise, he watched the curtain rise on the first official London performance of
The Hooded Owl
.

The applause at the interval was very generous. It almost always is on a first night, when the audience tends to be Mums, Dads, husbands, wives, lovers and friends-in-the-business. But, even allowing for that, Charles reckoned they were enjoying it.

Michael Banks was giving a performance of effortless authority. Some of the
cognoscenti
had recognised why he was wearing the deaf-aid, but for the majority, it just seemed to be part of the character, justified by a couple of new lines.

The performances were all up, with the possible exception of Lesley-Jane Decker, who seemed to be giving a little less than usual. Probably the result of nerves at her first West End opening.

But what also shone through was how good a play
The Hooded Owl
was. It was very conventional, even old-fashioned, but its tensions built up in just the right way, and it gripped like a strangler’s hand.

Charles looked round to where he knew Malcolm Harris should be, but the seat between the ferret-faced women was empty. The author had taken his advice and was presumably prowling around somewhere. His ferret-faced women looked unamused by his absence.

Charles and Frances joined the exodus to the bar and met another couple coming towards them. The man was unfamiliar, but there was no mistaking the woman with her subsidised red hair.

‘Charles, darling!’

‘Oh. Valerie. I don’t think you know my wife, Frances . . .’

‘But of course I do. We met in Cheltenham.’

‘Did we?’ asked Frances, clueless as to whom she was addressing.

‘Yes, yes, all those years ago.’

‘Oh.’

‘And this . . .’ said Valerie Cass, with no attempt to disguise her contempt, is my husband.’

He was twenty years older than his wife and looked meek and long-suffering. As indeed he would have to be. Either that or divorced. Or dead.

‘Oh God,’ Valerie Cass cooed. ‘I know what you must be feeling, Charles. I feel it myself. Just aching to be up there with them. Only we who have worked in the theatre can understand the ache.’

She raised one hand dramatically to her forehead. She was wearing long evening gloves, indeed seemed to be fully dressed for a ball.