by Simon Brett
‘But there are no cormorants round here. Not for miles,’ James countered.
‘Ah, well, sorry, a mistake. When I say cormorant, I did not mean, er . . .’
‘I don’t think you’d recognize a cormorant if one flew in your face. Or any other bird, come to that. I don’t think you brought your recording equipment and cameras for bird-watching at all. I think you re more interested in the top-secret army research establishment in the pine forest.’
‘No, I –’
‘I think you’re a spy, Professor Weintraub. And I think my father recognized you as such. You may not know it, but my father was Head of British Intelligence during the last war!’
Professor Weintraub looked around the assembled company with panic in his eyes. ‘But I never knew this, I never knew it.’
‘I think my father invited you here to expose you, to show you up for the dirty little spy that you are!’
‘No, it is not true!’
The ensuing pause was ended by Miss Laycock-Manderley with an utterance which, surprisingly and for the first time in the play, was not reminiscent of Cassandra. ‘If we’re looking back to the last war,’ she said with a dryness that James De Meaux envied, ‘we might do worse than investigate Colonel Fripp’s record.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He was in the Signals. One of the top boffins in Communications.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. Best known for his development of a new form of field telephone.’
‘Good heavens!’
‘Where is Colonel Fripp?’ Felicity Kershaw asked suddenly.
‘I don’t know,’ Lady Hilda replied with an elegant but redundant gesture of a silk-clad arm. ‘I haven’t seen him all afternoon.’
‘Nor have I.’
‘No, nor me.’
‘Wilhelmina, have you seen Colonel Fripp this afternoon?’
‘Not since tea, milady. He said he wanted to take a good long look at the Titians in the Long Gallery.’
‘Oh. Well, would you see if he is still there, Wilhelmina?’
‘Yes, milady.’
Wilhelmina moved across to the double doors on the opposite side of the set from the fireplace.
Up in the front row of the Circle, Leslie Blatt’s hand gripped the thigh of the fifteen-year-old he had picked up in the Wimpy Bar. ‘You’ll enjoy this bit,’ he hissed. ‘Give you a real thrill.’
Wilhelmina swung both doors open. Framed in them was the dangling figure of Colonel Fripp.
‘Oh no!’ screamed Lady Hilda, and then, perhaps thinking the play was on radio, ‘It’s Colonel Fripp! He’s hanged himself!’
At this point, to justify James De Meaux’s next line, the body was meant to swing round with its back to the audience. But the body wasn’t behaving at all in the way it had at rehearsal. It was twitching and struggling, but it didn’t turn round.
James de Meaux said his line anyway. ‘Not hanged himself, mater. Not with his hands tied behind his back!’
Colonel Fripp continued to twitch and struggle as the curtain fell on Act Two. There was nothing amateur or unconvincing about the performance he was giving that night. He was giving the performance of his life.
Or perhaps, as the noose tightened around his neck, it would be more appropriate to say for his life.
Chapter Seven
‘THE TROUBLE WAS the rope was too short.’
Nella Lewis seemed quite happy to go through the accident again for Charles although she had presumably had to give her version to the police and other curious members of the company. She wasn’t making a big production of it, just telling helpfully because he asked. She really was a very nice girl, he reflected. And astonishingly pretty. Wasted on Laurie Tichbourne.
But before any lecherous intent could form, the thought of Frances, like a trapped nerve, stopped him. Now that she was presumably off his scene, the thought of her was far more inhibiting to him than it had been when there was a real tie to feel guilty about.
‘But he wasn’t just being supported by the rope, was he, Nella?’
‘Oh, no. Haven’t you ever been hanged, Charles?’
‘No. I’ve been decapitated once or twice, and had unspeakable things done to me in Edward II, but never actually been hanged.’
‘Well, it’s like flying.’
‘Oh, I’ve done that. On the old Kirby wire.’
‘Yes. Well, for hanging you wear the same sort of harness, you know, round the torso and under the crutch, and the wire clips on to the shackle in the same way. And the rope, the noose, is run up the wire into the flies.’
‘Right.’
‘Obviously the important thing is to get the relative tension between the rope and the wire right. It’s got to be the wire that takes the strain, but you can’t have the rope too slack or it sags and any illusion you might be creating is destroyed.’
‘But for poor old Gordon it was the rope that took the strain?’
‘Yes, with the wire slack. I don’t know how it happened. It was a terrible accident.’
‘Yes.’ If that was the right word. ‘When did he get in position? Surely he didn’t dangle there through the entire Act?’
‘No. He’d get there about ten minutes before his appearance . . . I forget what the cue was exactly . . . but then either Rick or I would clip on the wire and arrange the noose for him.’
‘But why didn’t you notice there was something wrong then?’
‘Ah, you see, he stood on a chair for that bit, so both the wire and the rope were slack. He only launched himself off on Kathy’s line, “Wilhelmina, have you seen Colonel Fripp this afternoon?” That was Tony’s idea – he reckoned it was more effective if the body was swinging when the audience saw it.’
‘So Gordon was only being throttled for a few minutes?’
‘Yes, that’s what saved his life – the fact that we were able to get him down so quickly. Mind you, he was lucky he didn’t break his neck when he left the chair. I suppose the wire must have taken a bit of his weight.’
‘Yes. And then the rope just slowly tightened up.’
‘Right.’
‘How is he? Have you heard?’
‘Still in Intensive Care, I gather. Still touch and go.’
‘Hmm.’ Two accidents now. A stabbing which caused no casualty, and a hanging which might have been accidental and which might yet prove fatal. Charles’ mind struggled to detect a pattern to the sequence. And, with gloom worthy of Miss Laycock-Manderley, he wondered whether the sequence had ended or was going to get worse.
‘And you’ve no idea how it happened?’
Nella shrugged. ‘Rick fixed the rope up in the flies. I suppose he could have misjudged the tension, but it’s unlike him. He’s pretty careful about most things.’
‘Yes.’ Rick Harmer, on the other hand, was one of the potential suspects for the stabbing, in the scenario that saw Antony Wensleigh as the intended victim. But the A.S.M. had a motive against the Director; and apparently none against the thespian bank manager.
‘The only idea I’ve had,’ Nella offered hesitantly, ‘came from something Laurie said . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, you saw that review in the Gazette?’
‘Yes.’
‘It upset quite a few people.’
‘Everyone, I should think. Except me.’
Nella smiled deliciously. ‘Well, Laurie was saying how upset Gordon had been about it, and I just wondered whether he . . . shortened the rope himself.’
‘Gordon? Surely he wouldn’t over-react that much. I mean, I know it upset him, but he’s not a suicidal type.’
‘No, I didn’t mean that. I meant that the review said he was unconvincing, and I wondered whether he said to himself, “Unconvincing, huh? Well, I’ll at least make sure the hanging looks convincing.”’
‘And overdid it?’
‘It’s possible. It’s the sort of daft, unprofessional thing he would do.’
Charles jutted out
his lower lip. ‘I suppose you could be right. Pretty violent, that review, wasn’t it?’
‘You can say that again.’
‘And, I gather, not typical.’
‘No. Total change of character. I think the booze must have got to him at last, rotted his brain away.’
Then she blushed, remembering an earlier meeting with Charles and not wanting him to think she was making comparisons.
He smiled to ease the tension. ‘How did Laurie take it?’
She grimaced. ‘Not very well. I’m afraid he’s a bit childish that sort of thing. Threw a bit of a tantrum – said if that’s what people thought of his performance, then he jolly well wasn’t going to go on.’
‘But did, nonetheless.’
‘Yes, I managed to calm him down.’
‘Massaged his ego a little?’
She smiled again, slightly guiltily this time.
‘Things all right between you and Laurie?’
‘Yes,’ she asserted defensively. ‘Well, I mean, yes. He’s very sweet, but . . ., well, you know . . .’
‘Yes. I know.’
‘He really seems to want a mother rather than a girl-friend.’
‘Yes. But you’re quite gone on him?’
She nodded ruefully. ‘And he seems to be pleased about that, but just sort of to take it for granted.
‘Yes.’
‘I’m afraid it’s not at the moment a very dynamic relationship.’
‘I don’t think dynamics are Laurie’s strong point.’
‘No. Oh well, it’s the same old story. A – i.e. me – loves B, B isn’t as keen as A is, and meanwhile A is hassled by the unwanted attentions of C.’
But before the intriguing identity of C could be revealed, Rick Harmer came up. ‘Charles, Donald wants a word. Could you nip up to the office?’
‘Sure. Continue our chat tomorrow, Nella?’
‘Yes. Ooh, no, I won’t be here tomorrow. I’ve got to go to this All-Day Seminar thing in Worcester.’
‘Don’t I know it,’ said Rick bitterly.
‘What’s this?’
Nella explained. ‘It’s something for an Adult Education Institute, I think. A sort of Symposium on the theatre. Tony’s going along to talk, and he’s insisting on taking along a member of the Stage Management to answer questions on that side of it. God knows why he’s chosen me – I’m fairly new to the business.’
‘He’s chosen you,’ said Rick, ‘simply so that I’ll be needed here and won’t be able to have the day free for the recording of my radio pilot.’
‘Oh. Do you really think so?’
‘Yes, I do. Absolutely typical of him. Tony Wensleigh is a real bastard.’
Once again Charles found it difficult to reconcile this description with what he knew of the Artistic Director.
Donald Mason was once again on the phone when Charles arrived in the administrative office. And once again he appeared to be sorting our some cock-up of Tony Wensleigh’s.
‘Look, I’m sorry to go through it again, but I would just like to check I’ve got my facts right, because, you know, if there has been any funny business . . . Yes, thank you. Right. you received the order for the Henry VIII costume on November 10th? Yes, that would tally, because round then we were thinking of organizing a series of medieval banquets in the bar, as a fund-raising exercise. But then we dropped the idea, and the order should have been cancelled. Yes, I remember distinctly reminding the Artistic Director to cancel. Are you sure he didn’t? Hmm. You see, the thing that makes it awkward from my point of view is that when the costume did arrive, he then wore it to a fancy dress party on New Year’s Eve. Yes, and then it was despatched to you on January 2nd. No, no, I’m not blaming you in any way, I just want to get the facts right. You see, it could look – to an outsider – horribly as if he’d just ordered the costume for himself to wear to this party – and slapped the hire charge on to the theatre’s account. So just in case anyone does start to make allegations like that, I have to know exactly what happened. Yes. I mean, I have to protect my Artistic Director. Right. Well, thank you very much indeed. You’ve been most helpful.’
He put the phone down and, with a disarming smile, said, ‘Sorry, Charles. There’s always something.’
‘Don’t worry. You, er, wanted to see me.’ Once again Charles found himself feeling a bit Billy Bunterish.
‘Yes.’ Donald Mason rose from his chair and moved over to look out of the office’s one small window. ‘Our last interview was on a rather unhappy subject . . .’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I think this one’s going to be more cheerful. It’s an ill wind and all that.’
What on earth was he talking about?
‘As you know, Charles, we had a rather nasty accident last night. Poor old Gordon . . . Incidentally, I’ve just been on to the hospital and the prognosis, you’ll be glad to hear, sounds a little more hopeful. But the fact is, Gordon’s going to be out of action for some time, whatever happens.’
‘Oh.’ Was Charles about to be promoted from a stabbed corpse to a hanged corpse?
‘Now Rick Harmer will be taking over from Gordon for the rest of the run of The Message Is Murder.’
No, he wasn’t.
‘Rick’s a very talented boy and can easily age up for the part. But the thing is that Gordon was also playing a small part in Shove It . . .’
So that was it. Charles’ great talents were about to be enlisted in the service of Royston Everett’s mucky writing.
‘As I say, it’s only a small part, but Rick can’t play it, because you can’t do that with make-up.’
There was a slight pause before Charles asked, ‘Er, do what with make-up?’
‘Well, you can manage a face easily, but you can’t make the whole of a young body look like an old body.’
‘Ah. Do you mean this is a nude part?’
‘Yes.’
All right, all right, thought Charles. Now don’t tell me that it’s all absolutely necessary to the plot and will be very tastefully done.
‘You’ll be one of the prostitutes’ clients who are chased out when the police raid the flat.’
‘Oh. Great.’
‘There are a couple of lines. Nothing much. You just have to shout at the policemen.’
‘Oh yes.’ Charles could imagine the sort of thing he’d have to shout.
‘I’d like you to do it, Charles – apart from anything else, to show there are no hard feelings about the other business. I have to tell you that Tony doesn’t want you to have the part, because he thinks you’re unreliable, but I’m prepared to overrule him on this occasion. That is, if you want to do it. It’s another three weeks’ work. What do you say? Will you do it – I mean, that is assuming that you’re not going straight on to another job?’
No one who had been more familiar with Charles Paris’ career would have asked the last question.
The letter had been directed on to the Regent Theatre by Charles’ agent, Maurice Skellern. As soon as he recognized the writing, he felt a little welling of nauseous excitement in his throat. He didn’t want to open it but at the same time knew he had to.
Dear Charles,
I had hoped to hear from you after my last letter, but, since I haven’t, there seemed nothing for it but to write again. I’ve tried ringing Hereford Road a few times, but when I finally got through, one of the Swedes said you were working, though she didn’t know where. I somehow couldn’t bring myself to ring Maurice, so I’ve sent this letter c/o him.
I do want to talk to you, Charles, now more than ever. Nothing has really changed since I last wrote, least of all my state of utter confusion. And though I know that seeing you would only confuse me more, I also know that you are probably the only person I can talk to.
I gather that you spoke to Juliet and have had horrors since that anything she said may have misled you, though I’m not quite clear what she did say and what would constitute misleading information.
Charles, we m
ust not lose touch, now more than ever. Please ring me, or write to me – contact me somehow. I so want to talk to you.
I hope whatever you’re doing is going well, wherever you re doing it. And I hope you’re more positively and consistently happy than I am.
Love, Frances
The letter threw him into a turmoil. Through his scrambled emotions he could identify individually anger, jealousy, pity, regret and even, infuriatingly, a little hope. Though hope for what he was not sure.
The one clear point that emerged was that he should phone Frances as soon as possible.
But, being Charles Paris, he put it off.
Shove It had been a succès de scandale of 1977. The production, much-praised at the Liverpool Playhouse, had transferred to the West End, where the critics, going through one of their self flagellating phases of gosh-we-must-stop-watching-all-these-light-comedies-and-thrillers-and-really-get-down-to-something-a-bit-searing-and-gritty, also praised it extravagantly. With three changes of cast, it ran for two and a half years, then did a national tour for another year, until finally the rights were available for provincial theatres to mount their own productions.
The play, a searingly accurate and unsentimental evocation of the tough area in which Royston Everett grew up, made him enough money to settle in the South of France, where he continued to make a great deal from writing screenplays of films that never got made, and settled down quietly to drink himself to death.
Nothing dates more quickly than yesterday’s sensation, and by the time it reached the Regent Theatre, Rugland Spa, Shove It was more dated than the works of Thomas Shadwell and Colley Cibber. Its power to shock had been weakened by imitations on stage and television, the reliance of its original success on a series of charismatic performances was revealed, and all that remained was a rather shapeless piece, full of long ranting monologues, with a lot of apparently gratuitous bad language and nudity.
The performances that it was getting in Rugland Spa were not charismatic. Nor did they seem to be in tune with the mood of the play.
Certainly Kathy Kitson’s wasn’t. The first morning Charles arrived at rehearsal, she was already arguing with a very patient but pained-looking Tony Wensleigh.
‘I’m sorry, Tony love, but I’m sure the madame of the brothel would wear a beige silk dress with blue flecks.’
