Murder Unprompted: A Charles Paris Murder Mystery (22 page)

‘Yes. I was in a train that got delayed.’

‘Where were you coming from?’

‘Taunton.’

Wallas Ward tutted, spinster-like. ‘Mr. Paris, you should have left more time. While you are contracted for a West End show, it is very irresponsible to go such a long way. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if there were a clause in your contract forbidding that kind of journey on a performance day. Remember, you are under contract to Scenario Productions and –’

‘I thought I was under contract to Paul Lexington Productions.’

‘No, Paul is now working through a new company.’

‘Why?’

‘That is not at the moment relevant,’ reprimanded the Company Manager. ‘I am talking about your lateness for the “half”.’

‘Yes, all right. Well, I’m very sorry. Won’t do it again. Now if you’d –’

‘And another thing,’ Wallas Ward continued inexorably. ‘The lines in the first act were very sloppy this evening. I had a note from Malcolm Harris who was out front and was very annoyed about it. You got badly lost in the dinner party scene.’

‘Yes, that was because Lesley-Jane was giving me the wrong cues. Her lines were all over the place tonight.’

‘Yes, Malcolm Harris mentioned that, too. Presumably that was because she was unwell. But in your case, when you have every line being repeated in your ear, it’s unforgivable.’

‘But if you get the wrong cues, you have to adjust the lines to make sense of the dialogue.’

That’s as may be, but Malcolm Harris said –’

‘Look, come on. Every author is obsessed about his lines. You don’t have to –’

‘It is my job as Company Manager,’ said Wallas Ward primly, ‘to listen to points from everyone in the company and the author is just as important as –’

‘I would have thought it was also important for you to keep the author informed of everything that’s going on. Do you know, on the first night, Malcolm Harris didn’t know about the cuts we’d had to make for time. He thought Micky Banks was just randomly slashing great chunks out of his script.’

‘I agree. He should have been told. And he was extremely annoyed that evening when he came round at the interval. But I pointed out to him that Mr. Banks was not making cuts himself – he was merely repeating the lines he heard in his earphone.’

‘And you said that Alex was reading from a cut script?’

‘I didn’t have time to do that. Mr. Harris rushed off in something of a paddy.’

‘I’ve got to get upstairs and see Lesley-Jane!’ hissed Charles.

Wallas Ward stepped aside with mock-deference.

But as soon as his foot was on the first step of the stairs, Charles heard the fatal summons over the loudspeaker.

‘Beginners, Act Two, please.’

He froze. It was rarely that he felt such a direct clash between his twin roles as actor and detective.

But there was no doubt which triumphed. Thirty-two years of professional conditioning left him no alternative.

He turned round and walked towards the stage.

The father was on for the whole of the second act of
The Hooded Owl
and never had that part of the play passed as slowly as it did that evening. Mechanically going through the motions, repeating his words, hardly aware of the small Monday night audience, hardly aware of the new girl hesitantly feeding him Lesley-Jane’s lines, he was in an agony of apprehension throughout the performance.

But he had to play his part through to the end.

The end of the play, one curtain-call, and then, sod it, he’d risk another slap on the wrist from the arch Mr. Ward. He rushed offstage and up to Lesley-Jane’s dressing room.

He tapped on the door and entered.

There were four people inside.

And one of them was Michael Banks’s murderer.

Lesley-Jane lay on the daybed in her kimono. She was drained of all colour and animation, but alive.

Her mother, Valerie Cass, was busying herself, packing things into a small overnight case.

Paul Lexington (now of Scenario Productions) was looking at Lesley-Jane anxiously and asking if he should arrange an ambulance.

Malcolm Harris sat disconsolately in a chair, chewing his fingernails.

‘No, for the last time, she’ll be quite all right,’ said Valerie Cass, in reply to Paul. She looked round to see Charles. ‘Oh, not another man. Really. Just leave us alone, will you, all of you? Lesley-Jane’s quite all right now I’m here. Only a woman can understand what’s wrong, and there’s nothing any of you could do. So thank you for your concern, but will you now please go.’

‘Look, we’re worried about her,’ grumbled Malcolm Harris.

‘If you don’t want me to call an ambulance, I’ll drive her to the hospital, if you like,’ offered Paul Lexington.

‘No, thank you very much. We needn’t involve hospitals.’

‘I think she should be seen by a doctor,’ the Producer insisted. ‘Look, I’m employing her. I have to know how long she’s likely to be out of commission.’

‘Oh, I should think she’d be all right,’ said Charles. And then, deciding that it was time to start dropping bombshells, ‘Some actresses have continued acting well into the eighth month of pregnancy.’

He should have realised it before, but it was only when he had seen Juliet that the obvious had appeared in all its blatancy. The same strained paleness. Even the detail of needing a sleep in the afternoon.

Lesley-Jane herself was the only one who didn’t react. The two men looked at him open-mouthed. But Valerie Cass’s response was the most interesting. She turned to Charles with an almost beatific expression and said, ‘Well done. Yes, the little secret is out. I am to become a grandmother.’

To say ‘Congratulations’ somehow seemed inappropriate. Instead, he asked cautiously, ‘Even after tonight?’

‘Oh yes,’ replied Valerie with breezy gynaecological certainty. ‘That was just a little “show”. Lesley-Jane will be fine if she just rests up for a few days. Exactly the same thing happened to me at the same stage when I was pregnant.’

‘I . . . um . . . think I’d better be off,’ said Malcolm Harris awkwardly.

Charles stood aside, and let him go.

Paul Lexington also looked embarrassed. ‘Well, of course, this will affect her availability for the show.’

‘As I say, only for a few days. Then she’ll be fine. It’ll be a good three months before she shows, and, with skilful dressing, she could go on a lot longer.’

‘But,’ said Charles, ‘It’s going to curtail her theatrical career a bit, isn’t it?’

‘Oh no.’ Valerie Cass looked at him radiantly. ‘I’ve got it all worked out. I will be able to look after the baby. Lesley-Jane’s career will be hardly interrupted. No, no, my little girl’s talent will still take her right to the top.’

The prospect realised Valerie Cass’s most exotic dreams. Her daughter would be perpetually in her debt, perpetually chained to her, and she would have the new stimulus of another baby to bring up. Best of all, there would be no father around to challenge her supremacy over either her child or her grandchild.

‘Hmm,’ grunted Paul Lexington. ‘I still think she should see a doctor.’

‘I’ll get our family doctor to take a look at her in the morning. There – will that satisfy you?’

‘I suppose it’ll have to. Let me know what the prospects are.’

‘I will.’

Paul Lexington moved towards the door.

Charles stood aside, and let him go.

‘Well, now, Charles. As you see, everything is fine. I’m now going to take my little baby home. So there’s nothing to keep you here.’

‘Oh, but there is,’ said Charles. ‘I want to talk about Alex Household.’

‘I can’t think what relevance he has to anything.’

‘Can’t you? He’s the child’s father.’

‘As I say, I can’t think what relevance he has to anything.’ In those words Valerie Cass expressed everything she felt about the relationship between the sexes.

‘You think the father is irrelevant?’

‘Yes. It’s the woman who carries the child, the woman who does the work, the man does nothing.’

Charles restrained his anger, and started on a new tack. ‘It was on the first night that Lesley-Jane told you she was pregnant.’

Valerie Cass was silent, surprised by the change of direction. ‘She told you Alex was the father, and suddenly you saw the awful vision of history repeating itself. You saw Lesley-Jane’s career being cut short by pregnancy, just as yours had been. And all your hatred of men, all the anger you have used to make your own husband’s life a misery, it all became focused on Alex Household. Not only did he threaten your daughter’s career, he also threatened to take her away from you.’

Valerie Cass now looked as pale as her daughter. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘I’m talking about the death of Michael Banks. I’m talking about the taking of human life. I’m talking about murder.’

There was a wail from the bed and, for the first time since Charles had entered the room, Lesley-Jane spoke. ‘I have taken human life,’ she cried. ‘I am the murderer!’

They both looked at her in amazement. Tears were running freely down the girl’s face. She clutched at herself to claw away a sudden pain.

Charles understood. He hadn’t known until that moment, but now he understood. ‘But the life you have taken,’ he said gently, ‘was not that of Michael Banks. Was it?’

The girl shook her head tearfully.

‘No, the life you have taken is the life of your baby. You had an abortion today, didn’t you?’

She nodded.

‘Which is why you passed out. Why you are in this state now.’

‘No!’ screamed Valerie Cass. ‘No, you didn’t!’ Lesley-Jane looked at her mother. The tears were receding and there was a hardness in her eyes.

But Valerie refused to believe their message. ‘It’s a woman’s sacred duty to bear children. That’s what we were put here for.’

‘Listen, Mummy.’ Lesley-Jane had control of herself again and spoke evenly. ‘The child effectively had no father.’

‘But it would have had you. And me.’

‘I didn’t want it. I got pregnant because you spent all my life filling my head with romantic ideas rather than giving me any practical advice. If I had had the baby, I would never have been able to pick up my career again.’

‘But as I said, I would have looked after it.’

‘What?’ hissed Lesley-Jane. ‘And turned it into another confused, neurotic mess like me?’

‘But, darling, suppose I had done the same when I was expecting you? Suppose I had had an abortion?’

Lesley-Jane looked at her mother without any trace of affection. ‘It would have been the best thing you could ever have done for me. Someone like you is not qualified to bring up children.’

Valerie Cass sank back into a chair as if she had been slapped. There was no resistance left in her, just a void of pain.

Charles said what he had to say, softly but firmly.

‘What you did after you heard about your daughter’s pregnancy was hardly rational. You went down towards the stage, vowing revenge on her . . . her what? . . . seducer? You looked for him in the Green Room, but found only his jacket. In its pocket you found the gun.

‘You went into the wings on the O.P. side of the stage to shoot Alex Household. He saw you coming and begged for mercy, not realising that his words were being transmitted and repeated by Michael Banks on stage. At the moment you fired the gun, Alex dodged, and Michael was killed.

‘Alex rushed off. You left the stage, abandoning the gun as you went. Then I should think you came up here, and that was probably the first time you realised what had happened. Also the first time you realised how unlikely your crime was ever to be discovered. No one had seen you, you were wearing gloves so there were no fingerprints on the gun, and Alex Household’s flight looked like an admission of guilt.

‘If he had never been found, you’d have got away with it. But I spoke to Alex today, and he confirmed what I’ve just described to you.’

‘He’s alive?’ asked Lesley-Jane softly.

‘Yes, he’s alive.’

There was a long silence. Then Valerie Cass looked at Charles. There was a new glow of resolution in her eyes, and he feared she was about to deny everything. If she did, he didn’t know what he would do; he had not a shred of evidence.

But no.

‘Very well,’ she announced. ‘I admit it. I killed Michael Banks.’ She spoke boldly, like Charlotte Corday, like Joan of Arc. Charles understood what had caused her new surge of spirit.

Valerie Cass had found a new role to play. It was the one she had been rehearsing for all her life – that of martyr.

DURING THE ensuing week,
The Hooded Owl
seemed to be gaining momentum. The audiences were growing almost imperceptibly, and the word-of-mouth was good. One or two of the national papers, feeling guilty about the show’s first night, sent second-string critics along for a second look, and their reports were, on the whole, favourable.

The performances gained in strength. On the Thursday, Lesley-Jane Decker came back into the cast. After the abortion and her mother’s arrest, she seemed to have matured. She approached her work with a new single-mindedness, and acted better than ever.

Charles Paris got better, too. On the Tuesday night, as an experiment, without telling anyone (least of all Wallas Ward), he had a word with the A.S.M. before the show, and asked him not to feed the lines until absolutely necessary. To Charles’s amazement, he managed to get through the whole show without a single prompt. The constant repetition had fixed the lines indelibly in his mind.

The loss of this crutch did not, as he had feared, diminish his confidence. Instead, it made him feel more relaxed, stronger, more in control. And he knew this improvement was reflected in his acting.

He also came to rely less on drink. He had proved he could give a performance without it, and, though it frightened him to remove another support, he dared another night without his customary stimulus. To his surprise, he found his head was clearer, his concentration better, and his nerves no worse. He repeated the experiment on subsequent nights, and felt better for it. He’d still wind down with a couple of large Bell’s, but he got out of the habit of drinking before the show.