Murder Unprompted: A Charles Paris Murder Mystery (18 page)

She made no attempt to move when he came in, just lay there looking vulnerable. Nor did she say anything beyond ‘Hello, Charles.’ Her champagne bubble was distinctly flat.

‘Tired out?’ he asked solicitously.

‘Shattered.’

‘Yes, it’s been tough for all of us. Doing eight shows a week is enough, without all this other business.’

‘Yes.’ She looked at him, curious as to why he was there. But not that curious; she seemed too tired to be very interested.

‘I wanted to talk about Michael’s death,’ he began bluntly.

‘Ah.’ Even this didn’t animate her much.

‘I’m sorry to go through it all again, but there’s something about it that seems odd to me.’

‘What?’

‘You see I don’t know. There’s just something that doesn’t seem right about it.’

‘I don’t think murder’s often right,’ she observed with a touch more spirit.

‘No. By definition it isn’t. But listen, we both witnessed that murder. I was out front, and it was pretty horrible from there. From where you were standing, it must have been . . .’

She gulped, forcing back nausea, and nodded.

‘But what interests me, what I wanted to ask you, is about how you reacted.’

‘I screamed, didn’t I? I can’t remember very well, but I thought I . . .’

‘Yes, you screamed all right. It was
when
you screamed that interests me.’

‘When?’

‘Yes. What happened was this: Micky stopped getting the lines, turned round in confusion, then presumably saw someone in the wings pointing a gun at him. He said ‘Put it down. You mustn’t do that to me’ or something and then he was shot.’

Lesley-Jane nodded. She wasn’t enjoying the re-creation of the shock.

‘But you didn’t scream then.’

‘Didn’t I? I can’t remember. It was all confused . . .’

‘No, you didn’t scream until you looked off into the wings.’

‘Delayed shock, I suppose. I couldn’t believe what had happened to Micky straight away, I didn’t even
know
what had happened to him.’

‘But when you looked into the wings you
did
know. And you also knew who had done it. And then you screamed.’

‘Yes. I suppose it brought it home to me.’

‘And who did you see in the wings?’

She looked at him as if he were daft. ‘Well, Alex, of course.’ He didn’t know what he had been expecting, but he felt very disappointed. Something inside had been hoping against all logic for a different answer. He didn’t know what, just anything that would settle the unease he felt about the death.

‘What exactly did you see?’

‘I’ve been through all this with the police.’

‘I know. I’m sorry. It’s just . . . I wasn’t backstage for all the police inquiries, and I really would like to know,’ he appealed pathetically.

‘All right. I saw Alex. He was very near the edge of the set . . .’

Must have been. He knew how impenetrable the shadows were in the wings.

‘He looked over his shoulder at me, our eyes met for a split-second, then he rushed off and I screamed. I suppose it was the expression on his face that made me scream.’

‘Because it made you realise what he’d done?’

‘Yes, I think he’d only just realised himself. His face was . . . I don’t know . . . it was full of fear.’

‘Was the gun in his hand?’

‘The police asked me that, too, and honestly, I just can’t remember. I didn’t notice his hands.’

‘Was he wearing his jacket?’

‘Again I just don’t know. All I seemed to see was his face – or maybe just his eyes. I can’t get them out of my mind even now. Those eyes full of terror. I felt awful, as if I had hurt him. He was always very unstable, you know.’

‘Yes.’ Charles reckoned he could take advantage of her lethargic state to push a bit further. ‘I suppose, of course, you had hurt him.’

‘You mean by going off with Micky?’

Charles nodded.

‘Yes. I suppose so. It didn’t really seem like that at the time. I mean Micky just seemed so nice, so friendly and, in a strange way, so lonely. Going and having a few meals with him didn’t seem evil or furtive in any way. Somehow it was difficult to feel anything was wrong with Micky around.’

He knew what she meant. Michael Banks’s effortless charm no doubt carried through into his romantic life.

‘And it was just a few meals . . .?

He had hoped she wouldn’t notice the impertinence, but she coloured and began angrily, ‘I don’t see that that’s any business of yours . . . but yes, it was.’

‘Whereas with Alex . . .?’

‘That again is no business of yours . . .’

‘Come on, we were all in Taunton together . . . It certainly had the look, to the impartial observer, of a full-blown affair.’

‘All right, yes. But I had wanted to break it off after Taunton. It was getting awkward, even before I met Micky.’

‘Awkward?’ Charles fed gently.

‘Alex was so strange. The more time I spent with him, the stranger he seemed to be. All his mystical religion thing, his faddishness about food, his belief in being close to nature, following nature . . . all that appealed to me at first. It was so unlike anything I had come across before. He was so unlike any of the people I had met before . . .’

Certainly unlike the nice middle-class friends of Mr. and Mrs. Decker, Charles imagined.

‘But, after a time, I began to see all his ideas as sort of odd, not charming eccentricities, but . . . you know, symptoms.’

‘Symptoms of what?’

‘Of his mental state. I knew he had had the breakdown and at first I didn’t mind. I thought, oh, he just needs someone who really loves him and will look after him . . .’

‘And you thought you could supply that want?’

She nodded. ‘I thought we really would make a new start, that I would sort of . . . make him blossom.’

She blushed as if aware of the cliché she was using. Charles wondered how many naive young girls had got caught in messy affairs with older men from the belief that they could bring new love into their lives and ‘make them blossom’.

‘But,’ he prompted.

‘But I came to realise that it’s all very well gambolling about the countryside feeling at one with nature, but people don’t change completely. We couldn’t go on pretending that the first forty-seven years of Alex’s life hadn’t happened. And, as soon as I realised that, as soon as I thought about his breakdown, I started to worry, I started to see just how unstable he still was. I started to be afraid.’

‘Afraid of what?’

‘Afraid he would do something . . . well, something like he did do last week.’

Charles nodded slowly. ‘What about now? Where do you think he is now?’

Tears came to her eyes. ‘I think he’ll have killed himself.’

Charles nodded again. It seemed depressingly likely.

Further conversation was prevented by the door opening, unknocked, to admit Valerie Cass. She was smartly dressed in a fawn trouser suit and seemed in high spirits.

‘Hello, darling, I’ve brought you some – oh, hello.’ This last was to acknowledge Charles, whom she looked at for a moment with suspicion.

‘Charles just dropped in to wish me luck,’ Lesley-Jane supplied hastily.

Don’t worry, Valerie, I’m not another older man sniffing round your precious daughter. Which, considering the fate of the last two, is perhaps just as well.

As a matter of fact, I don’t really fancy her. I used to, I think, but since I met you and saw what she was likely to turn into, I seem to have gone off her. In spite of your excellent state of preservation, Valerie Cass, I’m afraid there’s something about you that doesn’t appeal to me.

Valerie cut short further interior monologue by gracing him with a smile and saying, ‘I just brought Lesley-Jane some home-made soup for the interval. She doesn’t eat properly. I keep saying she should eat little and often, but the young don’t listen. You have a daughter, don’t you, Charles?’

‘Yes, I don’t see her that often.’

She leapt on this, a useful confirmation of one of her pet theories. ‘Yes, as usual no doubt it’s the woman who’s left to take care of things. Poor Frances, I do feel for her.’

‘My daughter is twenty-eight, you know, quite capable of looking after herself without her parents breathing down her neck all the time.’ He just managed to resist adding, ‘Yours is twenty, and I would have thought the same went for her too.’

Sensing that something of the sort might be going through his mind, Lesley-Jane interposed, ‘We were just talking about Micky’s death.’

‘Oh, what a terrible tragedy.’ Valerie Cass made an elaborate gesture, reminding Charles once again what a bad actress she had been. ‘It was so awful for all of us. Lesley-Jane was desolated, but desolated. I was so glad that I was up here when she came off stage. If ever there was a moment when a girl needed her mother, that was it. And to sort of protect her during all that police interrogation. I was just glad I could be of help.’

She smiled beatifically. She seemed to have new confidence in her hold over her daughter. It’s an ill wind, thought Charles. Micky Banks’s death and Alex Household’s disappearance were tragedies, but at least they had removed possible rivals for Valerie’s daughter’s affections.

And Lesley-Jane didn’t seem to mind her mother’s renewed take-over. In her shocked lethargy, she seemed content to let Valerie run around after her and do everything for her.

But Michael Banks’s memory remained sacred. Perhaps, after all, Valerie hadn’t resented him, grateful for his reflected glory. That seemed to be the case from what she said next. ‘Poor, dear Micky. Such a terrible tragedy. And just when he and Lesley-Jane were getting close. Oh, I know some people would say it was May and December, but I thought it was a lovely relationship. He just seemed so delighted, so
rejuvenated
to meet my little baby. What might have been . . .’

She sighed the sort of sigh that drama teachers spend three years eradicating from their students. Lesley-Jane, perhaps from long experience of having her mother going on about her or perhaps just from exhaustion, did not seem to be listening.

‘Oh yes, I think Lesley-Jane could have mixed with some very eminent people. She is just the sort of girl to stimulate the artistic temperament. Don’t you agree, Charles?’

Charles, who shared G. K. Chesterton’s opinion that the artistic temperament is a disease which afflicts amateurs, grunted. He could well believe that Lesley-Jane could stimulate male lust; but he found her mother’s visions of her, launched in society as a kind of professional Laura to a series of theatrical Petrarchs, a little fanciful.

‘Mind you, at the same age, I myself . . .’ she blushed, ‘. . . was not without admirers in the . . . world of the arts. If I hadn’t been trapped by marriage so young . . . who knows what might have been . . .? Though of course I wasn’t
half
as attractive as Lesley . . .’

This was said in a voice expecting contradiction, which Charles wilfully withheld.

THE CONFIDENCE to ring Dottie Banks, absent over the weekend, came after the Friday’s performance. The show had gone well, and Charles felt his acting had matched it. There was even a slight swagger in his stride as he entered the star dressing room. (In spite of his enduring understudy status and certain representations that George Birkitt had made to the Company Manager, Charles was still in there.)

Once inside, he saw that great perk, the telephone, and remembered Dottie’s note. He also remembered that he’d said he’d ring Frances about the possibility of going down to Miles and Juliet’s on the Sunday, but decided to do that the next morning.

He dialled Dottie’s number, trying not to dwell on thoughts of the times Michael Banks must have done the same from the same phone.

No, she didn’t mind his ringing so late. And yes, she was glad to hear from him. And yes, she had meant what she had said in her note, that it’d be nice to get together for a chat and . . . things. And why didn’t he drop round to her flat in Hans Crescent for a drink after the show tomorrow?

Charles conceded that he would be free, and graciously accepted the invitation.

Drinks with strange women after the show fitted well into the fantasy of himself as the big West End star that the night’s performance had engendered.

Even as he thought it, he couldn’t help remembering that West End stars tended to be paid a bit more than he was getting with his humble understudy-plus-supplement deal. He really must have a word with the company Equity representative about that contract. Surely Equity wouldn’t approve it.

On the other hand, since his agent had accepted the terms so avidly, he thought there might be problems in getting them changed.

Still, there was plenty of time to sort that out. His main priority was Dottie Banks. When he thought of their forthcoming encounter, he felt the guilty excitement of a schoolboy sneaking into the cinema to see an ‘X’ Certificate movie.

The block of flats in Hans Crescent was expensive and discreet. The porter who rang up to Mrs. Banks and directed Charles to her flat was also no doubt expensive, and would have been discreet if he had refrained from accompanying his directions with a wink. Charles got the impression that perhaps he wasn’t the first to have followed this particular route.

The Dottie Banks who opened the flat door was looking expensive; as to her discretion, he would no doubt soon find out. The black satin trousers, the fine black silk shirt and the black lace brassiere which was meant to show through it; they too were expensive. And just about discreet.

‘Charles, how nice to see you.’ She threw her arms round his neck and kissed him on the lips, enveloping him in discreetly expensive perfume. ‘Come in and have a drink.’

The same adjectives which had applied to everything else applied to the flat. Charles was unused to moving in circles where interior designers were used; most of his friends just accumulated clutter and wielded emulsion brushes when things got too tatty; but he recognised the genuine article when he saw it. And he had to admit it was well done.

There was a great deal of Michael Banks memorabilia about. Photographs, framed posters, the odd award statuette. Whatever the nature of their relationship, it was clear that husband and wife had shared the same flat.