by Simon Brett
‘About Warnock’s death?’
‘Yes.’
‘That it was an accident.’
‘That’s a relief.’ She relaxed for a moment before a new thought struck her. ‘Unless, as I say, they reckon Norman’s responsible for that accident.’
‘They didn’t imply that. They seem to reckon Warnock just broke into the storeroom and was so pissed he tore all the pipes down. I don’t think any of the joints were loose or anything.’
‘Good.’ She looked at Charles as if he had somehow demanded an explanation. ‘Like I say, big insurance claim we could really do without. Always bloody hard-up. Why I didn’t pick a husband who was going to make a few bob I don’t know. And now we’ve got Stewart’s school fees to find . . .’
‘How’s Stewart taking it, being out of the play? Is he very upset?’
‘He’ll survive,’ Sandra Phipps replied briskly, putting an end to the subject.
‘Have you had to talk to the police . . .?’ Charles ventured.
‘Yes. I think they’re working through everyone who was in the bar last night.’
Just as I am, he thought. Oh, the pointlessness of being an amateur sleuth, always limping a few steps behind the professionals. No doubt Detective Inspector Dowling and his acolytes already knew everything. They knew the death had been murder and they knew who had done it.
That made him feel uncomfortable. He still felt exposed as a potential suspect. He took a swig from his drink, but tomato juice didn’t soothe him the way whisky would have done.
Once again, he came back to the conclusion that to clear his name he must pursue his own investigations. ‘So did the police ask when you left the bar last night?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘And when Norman left?’
She looked at him suspiciously. ‘You’re as bad as they are. Everyone’s so bloody suspicious.’
He tried to shift her mood with a platitude. ‘I’m afraid that’s what happens when something like a murder occurs.’
‘Yes. Yes. Suppose you’re right.’
‘And I suppose you were able to put their minds at rest . . .?’
Again she looked up sharply. ‘Yes, I was. Norman and I left together. Soon as he’d locked up the bar.’
‘You drove home?’
‘We walked. Only live the other side of the park. Always walk when we’re both going to leave at the same time. If I’m going to be on my own I take the car. Nasty types around that park.’
‘Yes. Oh well, at least you were able to put Detective Inspector Dowling’s mind at rest.’
‘Oh, sure. Mind you, he’s a nosy bugger.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, it wasn’t just when did we leave. It was when did we get home, what did we do when we got home. Did we both stay at home all night?’
‘I suppose that’s because you live so near the theatre . . .’
‘You mean they reckon one of us could have nipped back in the middle of the night?’
Charles shrugged. Even so far into his hangover, he was reminded that shrugging was a bad idea. ‘Presumably they have to check everything.’
‘Yes, well, fortunately . . .’ Sandra Phipps leant close. Charles could smell the pungency of her musky perfume. ‘I was able to give them chapter and verse. Embarrassing, isn’t it, to have to describe your sex-life to the police?’
‘Oh,’ said Charles, mildly embarrassed himself.
‘Thing is,’ she went on coarsely, ‘when Norman wants a bit, he really wants a bit. Amazing I ever get any sleep. At it till three o’clock last night he was.’ There was a note of reluctant pride in her voice.
Charles felt a little shocked. He had got used to Sandra loading her every remark with sexual innuendo, but to hear her talking so glibly about the real thing was unsettling. It also put a whole new light on to her relationship with Norman. However much she diminished and dismissed him in public, it was clear from her words that he was the dominant partner in their sexual relationship. Once again, Charles was brought up against the immovable fact that it is impossible to see inside another couple’s marriage.
‘Ah,’ he said. This didn’t really seem an adequate reaction to what she had just said, but he couldn’t think of anything else.
Sandra laughed raucously. ‘As I say, dead embarrassing to have to tell that kind of thing to the police.’ But she didn’t sound embarrassed. She enjoyed talking about it, particularly, Charles realised, to strangers. He was being used, just as the police had been, to give her some kind of thrill.
‘Anyway,’ she concluded, ‘at least that let us off the hook as far as any police enquiries go.’
As she spoke, she looked up and a flicker of anxiety crossed her face. Norman was walking towards her.
He nodded to Charles. ‘No problem,’ he said quietly to his wife.
‘They’re not worried about negligence?’
Norman Phipps paused almost imperceptibly, then shook his head. ‘No, they reckon everything was secure. Anything that was done, Warnock Belvedere did to himself.’
Sandra looked relieved. She had been genuinely worried about the threat to their livelihood.
Without further words, Norman went across to the bar to relieve the spotty youth. Charles couldn’t help his eyes from following the Bar Manager, fascinated by this new dimension, this new identity of Norman Phipps, Superstud.
But at least, he reflected, that rules out both of the Phippses. If they left the bar together at half-past eleven, and were then erotically engaged till three in the morning, there was no way that either of them could have arranged the death of Warnock Belvedere.
Chapter Twelve
ON THE WEDNESDAY of the second week’s rehearsal, the new Duncan was quickly integrated into the production. It was a painless process. He was a quick-learning old pro and, though he lacked the stage presence of his late predecessor in the role, he also lacked Warnock’s other, less endearing qualities, and no one in the company regretted the exchange.
The whole of the Thursday was spent on Act Five, which involved almost everyone. To swell the battle scenes, Gavin had enlisted even the three Witches and Lady Macduff, who he hoped, under sufficiently large helmets, would pass for members of Macbeth’s or Malcolm’s armies. Since the new Duncan did not share Warnock Belvedere’s fastidiousness about doubling, he was also conscripted.
In fact, the only members of the company who would not be disguising themselves as Birnham Wood or dashing around the theatre with strange battle-cries were Macduff’s Son and Lady Macbeth. This was just as well for the sake of the former’s schooling and the sake of the latter’s stamina.
The intensity which Felicia Chatterton put into her acting was beginning to take its toll. She looked exhausted when she came in to the Wednesday’s rehearsal, her wonderful blue eyes smudged around with tiredness, and she kept stretching as if she were in pain from her back. Charles wondered whether the problem was one of pacing, if she was trying to cram into three-and-a-half weeks’ rehearsal the mental processes of five or six weeks.
She also seemed to have distanced herself from her confidant, Russ Lavery. It had been noticeable on the Tuesday that they did not sit together in the auditorium during rehearsal, and that they did not eat together upstairs in the bar at lunchtime.
Charles wondered what had happened between them. The obvious cause of the estrangement – or the one that he would find most obvious – was that Russ had finally had enough of Felicia’s wittering on and was taking a rest. But that didn’t fit in with the doleful expression on his face or the way his eyes followed her every movement. There seemed to have been some actual rift, and Felicia seemed to have been its initiator.
Charles decided he must try to find out what had happened. After all, both Russ and Felicia had been in the bar on the Monday evening. Both were therefore potential suspects for Warnock Belvedere’s murder.
So on the Thursday, while Felicia was, it was hoped, having a much-needed rest, Charles determined tha
t he would get a private word with Russ Lavery.
It was easier to make the determination than to achieve it. The battle scenes proved to be very demanding, and the entire cast was kept rushing round the theatre, with little opportunity for casual conversation, let alone pertinent interrogation.
Gavin’s approach to the battles was as traditional as his approach to the Apparition Scene and the rest of the play. Rather than recognising the numerical limitations of his cast and opting for some form of stylised action, he went determinedly for spectacle. He wanted to fill the stage with soldiers, to vie with the splendours of Hollywood in his presentation of warfare.
This, though an admirable intention, was difficult to achieve with two armies which, even allowing for the conscription of Lady Macduff and the Witches, not to mention sudden changes of allegiance by Charles Paris, still only totalled sixteen.
‘Don’t worry,’ Gavin kept saying, ‘we’ll fill the stage with soldiers.’
The company, all trying to take up as much space as possible, looked at the large areas of emptiness around them, and could perhaps be forgiven for doubting their Director’s word.
‘It’ll be all right,’ Gavin went on. ‘It’s there in the text, after all. They cut down the branches of Bimham Wood to “shadow the numbers of their host”, so that the enemy can’t count precisely how many there are. They just give an impression of great numbers. That’s exactly what we’ll do.’
‘But,’ John B. Murgatroyd, who was holding up a mop (a rehearsal prop to represent a Birnham branch) objected, ‘what happens when we our “leavy screens throw down, and show like those we are”? Isn’t there a bit of a danger the audience might laugh?’
‘I don’t see why. I mean, we’re not pretending you’re the whole army. Just a sort of vanguard, you know, with the leaders up the front.’
‘Well, how did we get cut off from the rest of the army?’ John B. persisted. ‘And aren’t we going to be a bit exposed if Macbeth sends his army out after us?’
‘Hmm . . .’ Gavin looked pensive.
‘Anyway, whoever heard of an army whose leaders were at the front?’
‘Well, what are you suggesting as an alternative, John B.?’ asked Gavin, seduced into the notion that the actor was raising serious points about his production.
‘Suppose we kept on carrying our “leavy screens” right to the end . . .? Then the audience still wouldn’t be able to count us.’
‘Ye-es . . . but then we’d have to cut the lines about throwing down the “leavy screens”. The Schools Matinees wouldn’t like that.’
‘But it’d help Macbeth’s motivation if we kept the branches. Then it would seem as if Birnham Wood was still marching towards him.’
For a moment Gavin accepted the logic of this. Then he saw the objection. ‘But how could you fight if you were still holding your bits of wood?’
‘We could hit the enemy with them,’ suggested John B., who was beginning to have difficulty controlling the tremor of laughter in his voice.
‘Hmm . . .’
‘And we could have a new battle cry.’ The actor brandished his mop as he shouted, ‘Join Malcolm’s Army! It’s the best! We have branches everywhere!’
This line, and the company laughter that attended it, finally made the director realise that he was being sent up. So he had a little tantrum and bawled John B. Murgatroyd out.
But it was the only breakdown of discipline in a hard-working day. And, whether the cast thought Gavin’s method of presenting the battle-scenes was effective or not, by the end of rehearsal they all knew exactly the effects he wanted and how they were to be achieved.
By six o’clock Charles Paris felt physically very tired. For a man in his fifties, whose only gesture towards keeping fit was occasionally watching athletics on television, all that rushing up and down stairs, round the back of the stage and through the auditorium had taken its toll.
He felt in anguished need of a restorative pint or two. But he restrained himself. He was determined to stick with the new regime. Till . . . Till when . . .? He didn’t know, but in a strange way his abstinence had become tied in with the murder. He wouldn’t have a drink until he knew who had killed Warnock Belvedere.
Good heavens, now he really did have an incentive to solve the case.
Maybe, he thought, my brain will work better unfogged by alcohol. But there didn’t seem much evidence of it. His mind still circled round the same handful of fixed facts, without making those intuitive leaps which he hoped for. Maybe, he thought cynically, it’s all nonsense about such stimulants slowing you down. Perhaps I should go the whole hog, like Sherlock Holmes, and take up cocaine?
He ran through the possible advantages that not drinking gave him. His pledge was now sixty-seven hours old, and it was time for an assessment.
Well, for a start he hadn’t got a hangover . . .
Second, he was sleeping better. On both the Tuesday and the Wednesday nights he had slept deeply, not even having to get up for his customary three-thirty pee.
And then . . . Well, presumably he was saving money.
And he was probably helping his long-term health prospects.
And, um . . .
No, that seemed to be all the advantages.
What was there to be said on the other side?
Well, he missed it desperately. Not in an agonised, physical way – he really didn’t think he was chemically dependent – but he just missed the reassurance of a glass in his hand and the comforting warmth of whisky burning down his throat.
He also missed the punctuation of his day. For almost all his life he been attuned to the soothing diurnal rhythms of opening times and closing times. Without them he felt disoriented and dispossessed.
He missed the conviviality of getting drunk at the same pace as other people. He missed the communal element of drinking. In fact, not drinking took away the central pivot of his social life.
Also, further experiments with grapefruit juice, cherryade, Tizer and other highly-priced and highly-sweetened fluids had reinforced his opinion that all other forms of beverage, except for tea and coffee, tasted absolutely vile.
It really was becoming very important that he found out quickly who had murdered Warnock Belvedere.
Russ Lavery had the advantage of one of the biggest of the Pinero’s dressing rooms, which was set on the corner of the building and therefore had a splendid view out over towards Salisbury Plain.
He also had the disadvantage that the dressing room was rather full. As well as Fleance/Young Siward, it housed Malcolm, Donalbain/Seyton, Mentieth and Caithness/Second Murderer. Since all of these were doubling various messengers, attendants, apparitions and soldiers, the dressing room was going to be even fuller after the costumes had been issued.
When Charles slipped in at the end of the Thursday rehearsal, Russ was sitting somewhat gloomily over in a corner of the dressing room by the window. Mentieth and Caithness/Second Murderer were packing their day’s belongings into shoulder bags and talking in that loud, flamboyant manner of young actors which could be gay or could be just theatrical.
They seemed to be ignoring Russ and, as they left the room, nodding at Charles, they pointedly did not say goodbye to the younger actor.
‘Wonder if we could have a word . . .?’ said Charles. He hadn’t yet worked out how he was going to play the scene, so his opening gambit wasn’t particularly original.
But at least Russ responded. ‘Sure.’ He moved a chair to make space for his visitor.
‘You don’t look your most cheery,’ said Charles, stating no more than the truth. Close to, Russ looked like a vulnerable fourteen-year-old, his eyes moist as if on the verge of tears.
‘No,’ he concurred.
‘What is it? Anything you can talk about?’
‘Not really.’
‘You didn’t seem to be getting a lot of support from Mentieth and Caithness.’
‘No.’
Charles felt a sudden insight. ‘They being to
ugh on you because you’re new in the business?’
‘You could say that.’ The expression in the boy’s eyes told Charles that his guess had been correct.
‘I’m afraid that happens. A couple of years out of drama school and they think they know everything.’
‘And that nobody else knows anything,’ Russ said bitterly.
‘They’re getting at you?’
The boy nodded.
‘What, saying that the stuff you’ve done in drama school doesn’t count for anything? That you don’t know a thing about professional theatre?’
‘All that. And then when I tell them things, they think I’m showing off.’
‘What sort of things?’
‘Well, like about my agent . . .’
‘Ah.’
‘I mean, you know, I just mentioned that Robbie Patrick saw me in an end of term show and signed me up, and they think I’m bragging about it.’
‘He’s a very good agent.’
‘I know.’
‘I mean, it really is good that he signed you up.’
‘Yes, I know it is. But they seem to think I go on about it too much. I don’t mean to.’
‘They’re just jealous. Who are their agents?’
Russ mentioned a couple of names.
‘Oh well, they certainly are jealous,’ said Charles encouragingly. ‘Those two are way down the league.’
‘Yes, so I’ve heard.’ Russ managed a weak smile. ‘Almost as bad as being with Maurice Skellern.’
‘Oh?’ said Charles casually. ‘Do you know any of Maurice Skellern’s clients?’
‘No. I’ve only heard the name.’
‘In what context?’
‘Oh, just as a joke, you know. He’s proverbial as the worst agent in the business.’
‘Ah.’ Charles decided they might perhaps not pursue this topic further. ‘So, basically, the others in the dressing room are making you aware of your junior status?’
Russ nodded his head, plunged back into gloom.
‘Just saying unpleasant things, or are they doing things too?’
‘What do you mean?’
