Murder in the Title

by Simon Brett

  The next document of interest was a letter from Herbie Inchbald, dated some three years previously. It spelled out precisely the threat to the site of the Regent Theatre.

  Dear Tony,

  As you know there has been a great deal of toing and froing on the Council recently over the future of the Regent and, both as a Councillor and as Chairman of the Theatre Board, I think it’s up to me to keep you informed of developments.

  As you don’t need telling, the theatre holds a prime position in the Maugham Cross area, the whole of which is badly run down and will at some point require redevelopment. I don’t question that that will have to happen in time, but what I and my supporters on the Council are trying to ensure is that any development plans guarantee the survival of the Regent in its current form. As you have probably gathered, not everyone on the Council agrees with me. Like everything else, it has become a political matter, and we’re spending an awful lot of Council time debating the merits of theatre v. Leisure Centre and God knows what else.

  The issue has become more pressing, because we have now had a definite offer on the whole Maugham Cross area from Schlenter Estates. It is an attractive offer and the majority of the Council favour accepting it and appointing Schlenter Estates as developer. They seem to be well backed and have presented us with convincing plans, demonstrating how they will raise development money from a pension fund, etc. They seem to know what they’re on about.

  And Rugland Spa could use the money. Apart from a guaranteed minimum income from the project, we would also receive a healthy percentage of the gross rents for the completed development, just the sort of financial boost we need in these straitened times. And, of course, we would control the way the development is done, to keep it in tone with the rest of the town centre.

  But Schlenter do want the Regent site as part of their development and I think they’d be prepared to do anything to get it. I’ve already had the soft soap treatment from them, invitations to look round one of their completed projects near Birmingham. I went along, out of curiosity. Most of the day was spent being whisked between expensive restaurants in Rolls-Royces, being fed to the gills with excellent food and champagne (and with a fairly unambiguous offer of a girl at the end of the day if I fancied it). Well, of course, they’d backed the wrong horse with me. I can recognize a bribe a mile off, and am fortunately sufficiently comfortable not even to be tempted. But it does show how important the development is to them, and what they’d be prepared to do to get that site.

  As I say, a lot of the Council would let them have it without a backward thought, so we’re going to have to fight hard to save it.

  I’m sure we’ll succeed. As we discussed, I’ve written to Lord Kitestone asking him to be our patron. His name on our notepaper will give us a lot of respectability. And then we must organize public opinion. I’m sure we can guarantee a good outcry when the proposal to demolish the theatre becomes public, and I’m sure we’ll be able to stop it. Either the development will go ahead, leaving the Regent untouched, or else the whole project will be shelved.

  But, even if the second happens, this has been a grim warning and it’s the kind of thing that’s bound to come up again. It’s down to us to ensure that we maintain such a high standard of theatre at the Regent that no one even dares to suggest closing us.

  Anyway, thought you ought to know the state of play. Rest assured of the continuing support of myself and anyone else on the Council who I can speak for (and pray that there won’t be a disaster at the elections!).

  Yours sincerely,

  Herbie.

  The letter confirmed – if it needed confirming – Councillor Inchbald’s whole-hearted backing for the Regent, but it also defined the reality of the threat to the theatre’s future. And its total reliance on Council support.

  That had been three years before. The Regent was still standing, and the area in which it stood, Charles had noticed, was, by Rugland Spa’s genteel standards, pretty shabby. So presumably the deal with Schlenter Estates had not gone through. But the more run-down the Maugham Cross area became, and the lower the artistic standards of the Regent fell, the greater became the likelihood of another similar offer. An offer which, after recent disasters, the pro-theatre lobby might find difficult to fight off.

  Charles then turned his attention to the stapled sheaf of papers, which turned out to be photocopies of Donald Mason’s c.v. and references when he applied for the post of General Manager at the Regent Theatre just over a year before.

  These made fascinating reading. Charles realized that he knew almost nothing about Donald’s past. Whereas much of actors’ conversations is spent in asking each other where they’ve worked and who with, such questions are rarely addressed to General Managers. Indeed, in many theatres, the cast are hardly aware of the General Manager’s presence.

  Donald Mason had started out in 1970, it appeared, as an estate agent, which, he wrote, ‘taught me the basic skills of administration without in any way stimulating my mind, which was becoming increasingly set on the idea of working in the theatre’. Difficulty in finding an opening in this country had led him to try his luck in Australia, where, starting humbly as an Assistant Front of House Manager, he had risen through various companies, until he reached the status of General Administrator at the Kelly Theatre in Sydney. Wishing to try his luck again in his native country, he had returned to England six months previously and found, like many before him, that experience abroad did not count for as much as it should. But, determined to build up his career again, he had been prepared to go a few rungs back down the ladder, and accepted a job as Assistant Front of House Manager at the Pavilion Theatre, Darlington. It was from there that he was applying for the Rugland Spa job.

  That career history was adequate for the job; what made it exceptional was the quality of the references that accompanied the application. Charles knew that in the theatre a good reference was sometimes a way of getting rid of a member of the administrative staff who didn’t fit in, but that could not explain such unanimity of praise as Donald Mason had received from his Australian employers. Charles didn’t know the antipodean theatrical scene, so the names didn’t mean anything to him, but there was no doubting the enthusiasm of Ralph Johnson of the Theatre Royal, Adelaide, Rich Coleman of the Dominion, Perth, Greg Avon of the Hippodrome, Melbourne, and Jim Vasilis of the Kelly Theatre in Sydney. They all praised Donald Mason’s administrative skill, tact and general flair for the theatre; and they all very much regretted losing him. The letters made impressive reading. Rugland Spa had been lucky to catch Mason at a low point in his career, because he was clearly destined for higher things.

  The final piece of paper from Antony Wensleigh’s file was further confirmation not only of Donald’s suitability for his job, but also for the Artistic Director’s endorsement of the appointment. The duplicated sheet was headed ‘General Manager Applicants’ and dated nearly a year before. There was a list of five names with times half an hour apart, presumably for their final interviews. There were comments beside all the names in Tony’s tiny writing, but against Donald Mason’s were four asterisks, an exclamation mark and the remark, ‘This one by a mile!’

  So, though conflict seemed to have developed between the Artistic Director and the General Manager, there was no question of Tony having had Donald foisted on him. He had supported the new appointment unreservedly.

  If his feelings of persecution were more than fantasy, then the contents of the Artistic Director’s file gave no clue as to the identity of his persecutor.

  There was only the business of play selection, which could perhaps show organized opposition to Tony, and that seemed more likely to be just the workings of innocent philistinism.

  A natural instinct for tidiness made Charles drain the half-bottle of Bell’s. Then he switched out the light and tried to snuggle into the brushed nylon sheets (though snuggling and brushed nylon sheets don’t really go together). The stuff in the file had been interesting, he reflected, b
ut it hadn’t really got him any further in what probably wasn’t even a case.

  ‘There was a phone message for you this morning,’ Mimi announced, as Charles tried not to meet his kipper in the eye. What a hell, he thought, for a fish. Being caught is bad enough. Being kippered adds to the agony. But then to have to suffer the final indignity of being cooked by Mimi . . . it made hanging, drawing and quartering seem humane.

  ‘Who from?’

  Disbelief flooded Mimi’s face, before drenching her words. ‘She said she was your wife.’

  ‘Why on earth didn’t you wake me?’

  ‘Oh, didn’t want to disturb you. I said you were sleeping it off.’

  So that was going to be the regular line, whoever rang while he was asleep. Thank you very much, Mimi just wait and see what I write in your Visitors’ Book. I will. I really will.

  ‘Am I to ring her back?’

  ‘No. She said she’d leave a message.’ Mimi stopped, as if that were all she had to communicate, and started further adulterating her tea with tepid water.

  ‘What was the message?’

  ‘Oh. You want to know?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, you can never be sure. Some of my gentlemen don’t want to hear from their wives, tell Mimi not even to admit they’re here if their wives ring.’ She looked at Charles balefully. ‘You behind on the maintenance?’

  ‘No, I am not. We are not divorced.’

  ‘Oh. Happily together, eh?’

  Charles restrained himself. ‘What was the message?’

  ‘She said she couldn’t make lunch tomorrow.’

  The slap of pain made him realize how much he had been looking forward to seeing Frances. Whatever the situation was, however awkward the meeting, he wanted to see her.

  ‘Oh, well . . .’ he said miserably.

  ‘But . . .’ Mimi took her time, ‘she said could you make it dinner instead? An early dinner. She’s booked for seven-thirty Sunday. If you can’t, ring her between six and seven tonight.’

  Charles felt such a flood of boyish joy at his hope restored that he forgot Mimi’s awfulness. ‘Terrific,’ he said, rising from the table.

  ‘Now you’re not going to leave that lovely kipper, are you?’ demanded Mimi.

  Charles felt guilty about Martha Wensleigh, guilty about the anguished appeal he had seen in her eyes. He felt he should have something for her, but knew he had nothing to give.

  Still, one new idea had come with the morning. It was tiny and undeveloped, but pursuing it would at least give him the illusion of doing something on the widow’s behalf.

  The thought he had had arose from something in Herbie Inchbald’s letter about the proposals to redevelop the Maugham Cross area. The Councillor had made it clear that Schlenter Estates wanted the site very much, and had even tried tentatively to bribe him as a way of getting it. Was it just possible that they had also found a way of putting pressure on Tony Wensleigh, hoping through him to weaken the theatre’s status in the town and make their course easier?

  It was fanciful, but no more fanciful than a great many of the blind alleys Charles had run up in the course of his detective career.

  The trouble was, he knew nothing about the workings of property companies. However, he did have a friend who might be able to help him.

  He phoned from a public call-box, wary of Mimi’s telescopic ears.

  Kate Venables answered. ‘Charles, what a pleasure to hear from you. Not to say a surprise. Look, I must dash – taking one of the kids out for her riding lesson. I think Gerald’s still here – he’s just on his way out to play golf. Just a sec. Lovely to hear you.’ The receiver was put down and Charles heard receding cries of ‘Gerald!’

  Charles could visualize the house in West Dulwich, a beautifully appointed example of 1970s Georgian. Money had been lavished on it like plant food on a Chelsea Flower Show exhibit. Everything was of the best and of the most expensive. Riding lessons for the children, golf for Gerald, facials for Kate – everything perfect, everything money could buy. Occasionally, in reflective moods, Charles tried to imagine just how much money Gerald Venables made but usually gave up early on in disbelief There was the basic profit from the highly successful firm of show business solicitors, but that was now only part of a huge investment income. Gerald was one of the few consistently successful ‘angels’ who actually made a profit from putting money into shows; but he also had stakes in television companies, commercial radio stations and God knew what other lucrative projects.

  The two had met at Oxford and, in spite of the fact that Charles’ annual income probably represented a month’s pocket money for Gerald, had remained friends. Part of the reason for this was Gerald’s fascination with detection and childlike eagerness to get involved in any investigation that Charles initiated.

  That this eagerness remained undiminished was confirmed by his first words when he reached the phone. ‘Charles, are you on a case?’

  ‘Not sure. I might be.’

  ‘You must be. I don’t hear from you from one year’s end to the next, and when I do, it’s always a case. Spill the beans.’

  ‘I’m at Rugland Spa.’

  ‘Ah, taking an early retirement?’

  ‘No. Thing is, the Artistic Director of the local theatre has just committed suicide.’

  ‘But Charles Paris is convinced it was really murder?’

  ‘No, I’m sorry. Nothing so dramatic. Seems no doubt he actually did away with himself. I just want to know why.’

  ‘Ah. And you think I can tell you? You overestimate my powers, I’m afraid. I’m not psychic.’

  ‘I just want you to find out some information for me.’

  ‘Showbiz?’

  ‘No. It’s a bit outside your normal field, but I thought you might be able to root something out. It’s about a property company.’

  Gerald didn’t immediately reject the idea that he might know something. As Charles had suspected, the solicitor’s investments were well diversified.

  ‘Which property company?’

  ‘Schlenter Estates.’

  Gerald made a little whistle through his teeth. ‘The original wide-boys.’

  ‘You mean they’re crooks?’

  The solicitor tutted. ‘You really must learn to moderate your language, Charles. There are laws of slander in this country. Anyway, a crook is someone who has been found guilty of a crime. Schlenter Estates have never been found guilty of anything.’

  ‘But . . .?’

  ‘But nothing. They are now a highly respected company with international interests. They’re even more respectable since they were taken over by Fowler Rose Stillman.’

  ‘They’re big, aren’t they? Even I’ve heard of them.’

  ‘Oh yes. Fowler Rose Stillman are very big. And highly respectable.’

  ‘Then why did you refer to Schlenter as wide-boys?’

  ‘I was being indiscreet.’

  ‘Go on, Gerald, don’t be coy.’

  ‘Well, it’s going back a few years. During the property boom. Round 1970. Then there were a few uncharitable rumours going around about Schlenter. No property companies had a very good reputation round then.’

  ‘Anything specific?’

  ‘On Schlenter? Can’t say off the top of my head. I could check round on the office on Monday, ask a few people, if you like.’

  ‘I’d be very grateful.’

  ‘What do you want exactly?’

  ‘Don’t know, really.’

  ‘That’s helpful.’

  ‘Well, sort of anything about them. Who really owns them, what they do . . . any dirt, certainly.’

  ‘Just that. Uhuh,’ said Gerald with heavy irony. ‘I’ll see what I can do. Where can I contact you?’

  Charles had to give Mimi’s number. It wasn’t private, but at least it wasn’t actually in the Regent.

  ‘I’ll have to ring either before eleven or else considerably later,’ said Gerald. ‘I’ve just remembered I’ve got a clie
nt coming in at eleven. He’s joining the National as an Assistant Director and we’re going through his contract. That’ll mop up lunch – mop up most of the day, actually.’

  ‘I’ll stay in till eleven.’

  ‘Fine. Actually you might know him.’

  ‘Your client?’

  ‘Yes. It’s Bill Walsingham – have you worked with him?’

  ‘You bet. Bloody marvellous director.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh, well, give him my love.’

  ‘Will do.’

  ‘And now I won’t keep you from your golf any longer. Hope to hear from you on Monday.’

  ‘Do my best. Oh, incidentally, Charles, isn’t it good news about Frances?’

  The change of subject was too sudden for Charles. ‘What about her?’

  ‘Well, I mean this new bloke.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘David. Seems an awfully good thing.’

  ‘You’ve met him?’

  ‘Yes. Absolute charmer.’ Charles didn’t say anything. ‘No, I’m so pleased for both of you really. I mean, it’s been obvious for years that you and Frances wasn’t going to work out. Kate and I had hoped it would when you first split up, but . . . And Frances has needed someone. So now you must feel a lot freer.’

  ‘Freer?’ Charles echoed.

  ‘Yes, for all those little actresses, eh? No doubt you’ve got another little cracker on the scene at the moment.’

  ‘No doubt,’ Charles agreed, feeling emptier than he could ever remember.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Message Is Murder was given its two final performances on the Saturday, and then returned to its vault, surely never to rise again.

  Both the matinée and the evening show were subdued, which was hardly surprising, considering the circumstances. The Methuselahs of Rugland Spa clapped politely at the matinée, and a fuller, fractionally younger audience gave exactly the same reaction to the evening show. Charles unbuckled the Waspee belt of his duelling sword for the last time, and vowed to do something unprecedented. He would turn down work. He would tell his agent on the Monday – if anyone else comes offering a part as a dead body, Charles Paris is unavailable.