Murder in the Title

by Simon Brett

  The end of the show left everyone in limbo. A director had still not been appointed to rescue Shove It, so that production’s future remained uncertain, and some members of the company were not sure whether they should be doing a full goodbye routine or if they’d all meet up again for rehearsals the following week.

  A subdued little party went for a subdued little celebration at The Happy Friend Chinese Restaurant and Takeaway. Mr Pang welcomed them with his usual impassive smile.

  There was little conviviality around the table. Laurie Tichbourne sat beside Nella, looking at her soulfully. A stranger might have seen this as evidence of a love too deep for words, but Charles recognized the plight of someone who just couldn’t think of anything to say.

  Cherry Robson was there with her factory-owner, though they were in the middle of some complicated row or negotiation. Half-way through the meal, he stormed out and, after two minutes of truculent deliberation, Cherry followed. She wasn’t going to let all that money get away so easily.

  Leslie Blatt, no doubt to the relief of the females present, was not there.

  Rick Harmer and Gay Milner sat either side of Charles, apparently talking to him, but in fact engaged in long individual monologues. Rick was going on about how successful he was going to be, how almost certain he was to get this major television role, apart from getting this television sit com series to write, and how he wasn’t really sure whether his agent had big enough ideas for him. What did Charles think?

  Gay Milner was talking about sexual relationships and their relevance to their political context. Most of what she said was direct quotation from the director of Scrag End of Neck at the Bus Depot, who appeared to have found a new rationale for that oldest of masculine pursuits – how to get sex without responsibility. It was very important that sexual relationships remained egalitarian, Gay quoted. There was, after all, capitalism in sex as well as other forms of property-owning. It was important that relationships should not be limited by the use of glib emotive buzz-words like ‘love’. What did Charles think?

  Since he had no thoughts at all on what either of them was talking about, he said nothing, but that did not deter them from continuing to circle round their subjects right through the meal.

  At the end Mr Pang was once again asked what Ice Creams (Various) he had, and once again he said Vanilla.

  The Sunday was a twitchy day for Charles. He would have liked to wake very late, but Mimi decided to hoover the landing outside his bedroom at eight o’clock. She seemed to have some in-built monitor which made her hyper-sensitive to her gentlemen’s desires; she must have done, otherwise she couldn’t so consistently have ensured that they were frustrated.

  When she finished hoovering, Charles turned over, still with a good chance of going back to sleep. He achieved this, but after five minutes was woken by a knock on the door and ordered down for what Mimi had the nerve to call an omelette.

  He got out as soon as possible and was faced with the prospect of a day to kill in Rugland Spa, a day when the pubs didn’t open till twelve or the cinemas till three. At least, thanks to Shove It rehearsals, he hadn’t seen either of the films that had started on the Thursday. But did he really want to go to Bambi? Or She Lost Her Swedish Knickers, come to that? (He wondered idly whether Mrs Feller spent her spare time picketing the cinema or whether she’d given it up as a bad job.)

  The day stretched ahead, one of those awful sagging Sundays in rep. In the old days, he remembered, they had been rare. Sundays had meant tech runs and Dress Rehearsals for a Monday opening. But Equity had tightened up the regulations, now there were overtime rates for Sunday working and as a result few theatres did it. Shows opened now on Wednesday, and usually ran two-and-a-half weeks. The old manic days of weekly rep were gone.

  He trudged round the streets of Rugland Spa. Anything of interest the town had to offer (and there wasn’t much) he had already seen. He felt mournful and self-pitying.

  And he knew that part of the reason was the evening that lay ahead. His mind vacillated between desperately wanting to see her and blind panic. At times he contemplated not turning up at all at the hotel. It might be simpler that way.

  The day passed somehow (Bambi was actually much better than he’d remembered it), but he still found himself at the Rugland Spa Hotel half an hour too early. But by then his feet were so tired, he couldn’t face another aimless circuit of the town. Anyway, at seven o’clock he would be able to get a drink and he felt he was going to need a couple of stiff Bell’s to set him up for the evening.

  The Rugland Spa Hotel had been built in the days when the spa meant something, when people actually ventured out to Herefordshire to take the waters, when the town was, if not a wildly fashionable resort, at least an active one.

  But health fads change and the people who in the nineteenth century might have taken courses of baths were, in the 1980s, jogging, cramming themselves with vegetable fibre or listening in the privacy of their own homes to their biorhythms. And anyone so cranky as actually to want to take the waters would have been frustrated. The baths complex had fallen into disrepair, been declared unsafe in the 1950s, and ten years later been demolished and supplanted by a supermarket.

  But the hotel had remained. The site, on the way out of the town towards Ludlow, had been chosen for its proximity to the baths, but a supermarket didn’t attract guests in the same way. The hotel was no longer independently run, but had been taken over by one of the smaller chains, who were having a hard job to keep it going. It was built on too grand a scale. A few elderly people liked to stay there, occasional families were lured out from the cities by offers of ‘Bargain Breaks’, some resolute foreigners ‘doing Britain’ might end up there, but there was no continuity of trade. Businessmen and travellers in the area seemed to prefer the anonymous uniformity of the new motel the other side of town, with its colour television, in-house video and ‘conference facilities’.

  The hotel’s exterior reflected its declining popularity. Its former splendour carried an almost shamefaced air. The name stuck boldly on the fascia in large metal letters, had tarnished and the ‘L’ dangled diagonally. Creeper threatened to swallow up whole wings and the paintwork on the finely-shaped windows was cracked and stained.

  It was, thought Charles, as he entered the apologetic portico, another site suitable for development.

  He had checked in the car-park for Frances’ yellow Renault, but there was no sign of it, so he went straight through to what was called ‘The Kitestone Bar’.

  At seven o’clock on a Sunday it was almost uninhabited. Any trade they did get on Sundays tended to be lunchtimes; there were still local farmers and wealthy sons of retired parents who believed in bringing family parties out for ‘Roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, the full works’. But the evening trade was very slack.

  There was only one other customer, sitting in a bay window, so Charles had no difficulty in engaging the attention of the adolescent barman. That young man, looking, in a red braided jacket too big for him, like a pen in an envelope, had a bit of difficulty in locating the Bell’s whisky, but compensated for this by pouring out a huge measure and charging for a single.

  The evening was pleasant, so Charles wandered over to the window. As he sat down, he realized that he recognized the bar’s other customer.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said, moving across to her, ‘but its Mrs Inchbald, isn’t it?’

  The pudgy face looked up at him. ‘Oh . . . er . . . We met at the theatre, didn’t we?’

  ‘Charles Paris.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Do you mind if I join you? I’m waiting for my wife,’ he added quickly, lest she should think his intentions anything but honourable. No doubt even so fat a lady as Velma Inchbald regarded herself as a potential target for a predatory male.

  ‘Oh, do, please.’ The slight exaggeration in her speech, and the wide gesture which accompanied it suggested that the pink gin in front of her was not the first she had had that day.

&
nbsp; ‘Herbie,’ she explained, ‘is up in London.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘A weekend conference, related to his business,’ she said importantly.

  ‘Road haulage?’

  She looked a little put out to have her husband’s business so precisely defined, but conceded that this was so. And she quickly regained any social ground that might have been lost by saying, ‘Of course, it’s so simple now when Herbie goes up to town, because he stays at his club. All the other delegates are stuck in these awful hotels, but he spends the night in comfort at Blake’s.’

  ‘Very nice indeed.’

  ‘Oh yes. He meets such interesting people there, you know.’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘The sort of people who he mixes with naturally. The sort of people he should have been mixing with all his life, but, you know, the demands of the business have kept his social circle . . . parochial until now.’

  ‘And he’ll be back tomorrow, will he?’

  ‘Very late this evening.’

  They were silent. Charles looked out of the window. The view was magnificent, rolling hills shading away towards the distant mountains of Wales. The only building in sight was a huge square mansion about two miles away, set on a hill-top, dominating the entire landscape.

  Velma Inchbald must have followed his gaze, because she identified the mansion. ‘Onscombe House. But you probably knew that.’

  ‘No, I didn’t, actually.’

  ‘Willie Kitestone’s place.’

  ‘Oh.’ He sensed that Velma wanted him to ask further about this familiarity. ‘You mean Lord Kitestone?’ he asked, with a sufficiency of awe in his tone.

  A smile irradiated her fat features. He had said the right thing. ‘Yes. Willie and Herbie are such good friends. You know, it’s what I said about Herbie mixing with more interesting people. I mean, he hasn’t got all the education and that, he’s made his own way, but Herbie really is a member of Nature’s aristocracy. He and Willie have such respect for each other. It was Willie who put him up for Blake’s, you know.’

  So that was one little mystery explained. ‘Lord Kitestone’s the Patron of the theatre, isn’t he?’ asked Charles.

  ‘Yes. That was one of Herbie’s brainwaves. The Regent was being threatened at the time and Herbie thought, let’s get the biggest name in the area on our side, so he wrote to Willie. That’s really how they got to know each other.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘And they got on like a house on fire from the start. Oh, we’re quite often invited up to Onscombe, you know.’

  Charles made suitably impressed noises.

  ‘Such a generous man, Willie. I mean, I don’t think he’s that well off . . . Well, obviously he is by our standards, but not for someone keeping up an establishment like that. No, I’m sure there were rumours some years back that he was going to have to sell Onscombe. But you’d never know it. He is such a generous entertainer. Do you know, he let us borrow his villa in Corsica last summer . . .?’

  ‘Really?’ Had that been some sort of bribe, Charles wondered, though he couldn’t for the life of him imagine why Lord Kitestone should want to bribe Herbie Inchbald. Some question of planning permission, perhaps?

  But such speculation was dashed by Velma’s next words. ‘Of course. Herbie insisted we pay him rent. Never take anything for nothing, Herbie wouldn’t. Sometimes I think he’s over-scrupulous about that sort of thing. But he always says to me, “No, Velma, someone in my position can’t be too careful. Local Councillors are constantly under public scrutiny, and even a simple little goodwill gesture can be easily misinterpreted. No, Velma, I never accept something for nothing.”’

  Years of living with him had enabled her so to take on her husband’s intonations that it sounded as if Herbie himself was speaking.

  Charles said, ‘Good principle’ or some other vague cliché.

  And then he noticed Frances standing in the doorway of the bar. ‘Oh, er, Mrs Inchbald, would you excuse me? My wife’s arrived.’

  Velma shifted her bulk in the chair as if to suggest that Frances might come across and join them, but Charles, unworried by his rudeness, said, ‘No, I’m sorry, but I need to see her on her own.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure I wasn’t wanting to . . .’

  ‘I haven’t seen her for a long time,’ said Charles, as he walked across the room.

  Somehow they both wanted to be outside, so before they had a drink, they took a turn round the hotel garden. This showed the same neglect as the rest of the premises. The straight lines of its formal design were shaggy with weeds. The gravel of the paths rose up in uneven hillocks. The white painted trellis of an arbour had collapsed in a tangle of lathes. Dandelions and plantain broke up the surface of the croquet lawn.

  It was getting dark. They walked hand in hand. He could feel on her thumb the familiar scar a kitchen-knife had made once when they were together.

  ‘I’m sorry I had to change the arrangement,’ Frances said rather formally. ‘About lunch. I thought I’d be free all day, but .something came up.’

  ‘David?’ Charles was determined not to avoid the name.

  She nodded. ‘I thought he’d be tied up with his family all day, but then his wife got invited out to lunch and he was free and he expected me to be free, and I couldn’t tell him where I was going and . . . God, it’s so complicated.’

  ‘He doesn’t know you’re here now?’

  She shook her head. ‘But I had to see you. Now it means I’ve got a three-hour drive back in the small hours. Never mind.’ She stopped and looked at him. ‘I am just so confused, Charles. I’ve never been in this situation before.’

  ‘You mean, having an affair with someone married?’

  ‘Well, no, I haven’t done that, I agree. I had no idea how complicated it was . . . all the times you can phone, times you can’t phone, meeting in places you won’t meet anyone you know . . . I don’t know how people manage.’

  ‘They do. Always have.’

  She caught the additional meaning in his words and grinned at him ruefully. ‘Of course. You know all about it, Charles.’

  ‘Not all. A little. Maybe I should give you a few tips.’

  Frances laughed out loud. They put their arms around each other and kissed.

  ‘It’s not just that that’s complicated,’ Frances giggled. ‘He also seems to be jealous of you.’

  ‘I suppose that’s flattering.’

  ‘Maybe. But it means I daren’t even talk about you. And then I start feeling guilty towards you – though God knows I have no need to. And then . . . God, I don’t know . . .’ She gestured at herself pitifully. ‘And see the result – one totally mixed-up mess.’

  They looked into each other’s eyes in the growing dusk. Each saw pain, and confusion, and resignation, and a spark of humour.

  ‘Frances,’ Charles asked gently, ‘is he the real thing?’

  ‘David?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She looked away. ‘I don’t know. Just don’t know. When it started, it was just so . . . unexpected. I was carried along. Yes, it was wonderful, but sort of unreal. Then I started to feel confused. Now . . . I don’t know. So much of the relationship is intrigue, the times we spend together are so rushed . . . we don’t seem to be together for long enough to judge whether it’s actually working or not.’

  ‘A lot of affairs survive for a very long time on that sort of excitement.’

  ‘Maybe. I’m not sure that my nerves are up to it.’

  It was odd talking to Frances about her having an affair. He felt very close to her. The fact that there was another man she slept with did not seem relevant. It was something that he could appreciate intellectually, but not imaginatively. It did not make any difference to the warmth there was between them.

  ‘Perhaps,’ he suggested sagely, ‘you should employ me as a consultant on how to conduct an illicit affair . . .’

  ‘Why, Charles? What’s your success-rate like?’

  ‘Aby
smal,’ he confessed.

  And Frances laughed again, a clear relaxed laugh.

  As the meal progressed, they both knew what was going to happen, but it was over coffee and Armagnac that Charles actually put it into words.

  ‘I want you, Frances.’

  ‘I know. I want you too, Charles.’

  ‘I wouldn’t recommend my digs. They are guarded by something that Hercules ought to have mopped up as one of his labours.’

  ‘Ah. So . . .?’

  ‘They don’t appear to be overbooked here. I’ll go and see.’ Charles rose from the table. ‘What name shall I say – Mr and Mrs Smith?’

  ‘You may joke, Charles, but I feel as if I’m doing something utterly criminal.’

  ‘Why? We are married.’

  ‘I know,’ said Frances. And it was not said in a tone of unqualified approval.

  It was good. They needed each other, they knew each other, they wanted each other, and it was good.

  Nothing was solved. Nothing was sorted out. Nothing was said about anything relevant, no plans, no intentions for the future, no discussion of what would happen to Frances and David, no demands that Charles would give up other women, nothing.

  Nothing but their pleasure in being together at that moment.

  Frances had to leave at five to make it back to town for a day’s headmistressing. A night-porter (the adolescent from the bar the night before) was roused to let her out.

  It was cold out on the gravel of the car park. Both felt tired and a little shocked by what had happened.

  They stood by the yellow Renault. Frances’ face looked drained as Charles kissed her, this time without passion.

  ‘We’ll see each other again,’ he murmured, as usual supplying no place, no date.

  ‘Yes.’

  She sighed deeply and got into the car. She wound down the window and said to him without resentment, just as a statement of fact, ‘Thank you, Charles Paris. I think you’ve just ruined my life again.’