by Simon Brett
With regard to murder, Charles still had nothing. Nothing but a strong conviction.
The note was not enough. He had been alone when he witnessed Donald pocketing it. Maybe forensic tests could prove it had been written a few weeks earlier than it was supposed to have been, but Charles didn’t reckon much on his chances of persuading the police to get to the point of forensic tests.
No, he was stymied again. Lots of suspicion – no proof.
He felt furious. He looked at his watch. Still not half-past six. Frank Walby would probably still be in the pub. Back to Plan A for the evening. Get hideously smashed.
He stood there for one last moment in the props store.
Vividly his mind played back his last encounter with Tony Wensleigh.
The man had straightened the pile of breastplates and . . . something else. A string or something. He had tucked a string behind the grandfather clock.
Charles moved towards it. He couldn’t see anything.
He shifted the clock round and light spilled into the spaces behind.
It wasn’t a string. It was a wire.
A thin grey wire.
One end led down to a ventilation brick in the wall to the administrative office.
The other led up into the back of the grandfather clock where the movement had once been, but where now nestled a portable cassette recorder.
The ‘Play’ button and the ‘Record’ button were both pressed down. But when Charles cancelled them and tried to rewind, nothing happened. The batteries had been allowed to run down. No one had ever switched it off.
The man who switched it on had not lived to switch it off.
Metaphors, Charles reflected wryly, do also have literal meanings, as he recalled Martha Wensleigh’s report of her husband’s words on the evening of his death:
‘He said he’d finally sorted it out. He said it had all been very confusing, but he was getting there. Soon he’d have it all taped and the pressure would be off.’
Nella was still in the Green Room.
‘Is there a cassette recorder anywhere in the building?’ Charles asked, panting after his rush down the ladder.
She looked surprised. ‘Yes, there’s one we sometimes use for playing in sound effects at outside rehearsals.’
‘Can I use it?’
The Green Room, he decided, was too public; the wrong person might walk in; so he took the recorder to the Number One dressing room, which had a door which locked.
‘You come and listen, Nella. I want a witness.’
‘What is all this?’
But she was intrigued and followed him into the dressing room. He locked the door and put the cassette in the player. He switched on.
After the leader of the tape ran through, there was the sound of distant voices. “Do you recognize it? asked Charles.
The pretty A.S.M. shook her head and craned forward to listen more acutely.
‘You should recognize it. You’ve heard it enough times. It’s the second Act of The Message Is Murder.’
‘Oh yes.’
‘As heard from the props store above the stage. Which is excellent, because it gives a time reference.’
‘But why is –’
‘Ssh!’
Much closer than the voices, there was the sound of a door opening.
‘Tony! What have you been doing in there?’
The voice was unmistakably that of Donald Mason.
‘I’ve just been looking at some very interesting papers.’
‘Oh. Interesting to whom?’
‘Interesting to the Board, certainly. As they will find out when they see them tomorrow evening.’
‘You still haven’t said what you are referring to.’
‘I’m referring to all the letters of mine you’ve filched, as part of your campaign to get me out of this job.’
‘Ah.’ The monosyllable was uttered with the same infuriating coolness that Charles had suffered that afternoon.
‘I don’t know why you want to do it. I don’t know whether it’s me you’re trying to destroy or the theatre, but I tell you, Donald, you won’t succeed. Oh, you nearly got me. I nearly cracked. You did it very well, confusing me, making me unsure what I had done, what I hadn’t done, getting me so that I didn’t trust my own judgement. Yes, you nearly succeeded. But now the tables are turned. I am going to shoot you down in flames, Donald Mason. You’ll never get another job in any theatre in the country after I’ve finished showing you up.’
There was a short laugh from Mason. ‘I’ll survive that. I don’t want another job in any theatre in the country. All right, you go to the Board, Tony. Tell your tales out of school by all means. What do you think’ll happen?’
‘You’ll get the sack.’
‘Possibly. And what will happen to the Regent? Just another example of shaky management, internal bickering. So I took a few letters – I don’t call that a major crime.”
‘And what do you call attempted murder?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ The bantering tone was abruptly gone from Mason’s voice.
‘I was checking something in the Wardrobe store the Wednesday before last. Between the matinée and the evening show. I saw you adjusting the rope for Gordon’s hanging.’
There was a grunt from the General Manager, as if he had been winded and the Artistic Director went on. ‘It never occurred to me what you were doing, or I would have gone and undone it. When Gordon was injured I still couldn’t believe it. But now, Donald, I’m beginning to realize just how cold-blooded you are.’
‘You don’t plan to tell the Board about the hanging, surely?’
‘Oh yes, I do. Though I think I might tell the Police first.’
There was a sudden sound of movement, then a scuffle, then Tony’s voice, very tense, saying, ‘Keep back.’
‘Oh, a gun. How convenient.’ The tone of grim banter was back. ‘If it had to come to this, I had planned to use a syringe. But a gun with your fingerprints on it – even better.’
‘Keep away, Donald! I’m not afraid to use this.’
‘Oh, but you are, Tony. Just let me get my gloves on and –’
‘I will use it!’
‘No. You haven’t got it in you, Tony. It’s not in your nature. You’re just like everyone else – too full of the milk of human kindness to be properly efficient. Unlike ME!’
The last word was the cue for another assault. There was a tussle, then silence. When Tony’s voice was heard again, it sounded very frail.
‘No, Donald. You mustn’t. You can’t.’
‘Sorry. You’ve left me no alternative.’
The bang was hideously loud, but unfortunately it was not loud enough to cover the liquid gurgle from Antony Wensleigh, nor the thump of what remained of his head hitting the desk.
Charles Paris looked up at Nella. Her eyes were full of tears.
This was no time for another amateur confrontation. This time he had strong enough evidence to take to the police.
Their initial scepticism vanished when they heard the tape. They accompanied Charles to the Regent Theatre and looked with interest as he showed them the cassette recorded and the cache of papers.
Later that evening, Donald Mason, rising property developer and the most efficient General Manager the Regent had ever had, was arrested at his flat and charged with the murder of Antony Wensleigh.
Chapter Twenty
‘. . . BUT EVERYTHING was passed on and subtly distorted by Donald,’ said Nella, slightly breathlessly. She looked sensational, her colour heightened by the wine and excitement. ‘I mean, do you remember Symposium thing I had to go to with Tony . . . you know, the thing that meant Rick couldn’t go to his radio recording . . . well, we all assumed that was just Tony being awkward, but it wasn’t. Tony told me when we were there. Donald had accepted on his behalf and Donald had nominated me to go with him.’
‘Poor old Tony. He just wouldn’t stand up for himself. It took him a long time to a
ccept that anyone would be capable of that kind of deceit.’
‘I know. Did you talk to his wife – widow, I mean?’
‘Yes, I rang her before I came here.’
‘How did she sound?’
‘Pretty terrible. But she was pleased when I told her. I mean, nothing’s going to bring Tony back, but at least his name had been cleared from any suspicion.’
‘Yes.’
There was a peaceful lull in their conversation. They were now the only customers in the Happy Friend Chinese Restaurant and Takeaway. Those people in Rugland Spa daring enough to eat Chinese food were certainly not daring enough to do so after eleven o’clock in the evening.
Charles sighed. ‘Thank God we got him. I thought he’d get away with it all. And what he was doing was so easy. The old “Divide and rule” principle. And there can’t be many places where it’s easier to foster division than a provincial rep.’
Nella smiled. She really was very pretty.
Charles tried not to look at her too lustfully as he continued, ‘So he carefully built up a general atmosphere of distrust, then staged the odd accident to keep the situation on the boil. Like poor old Gordon’s hanging – bound to lead to more demands for an enquiry. And all the time he was just trying to put the theatre out of business. The sad thing is . . .’ He took a rueful sip of wine. ‘he’s probably succeeded.’
‘You think the Regent’ll close?’
‘I can’t see it avoiding it this time.’
‘But surely Schlenter Estates won’t get the development?’
‘Don’t see why not.’
‘But once their connection with Donald is shown . . . I mean, he’ll be a convicted murderer and . . .’
‘I’ll lay any money you care to mention that the connection could never be proved. People in a company like Schlenter are very canny – and particularly when they’ve got Carker Glyde behind them. No, if there ever were an investigation, it would be proved that Donald Mason was acting off his own bat.’
‘They’d just drop him like that?’
‘You bet. They’d show the same qualities of loyalty as he did.’
Nella looked pensive. She was young, perhaps she still nursed some illusions about how the commercial world worked.
‘Do you fancy a sweet, Nella?’
‘Wonder what he’s got.’
‘Mr Pang!’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘What have you got in the way of Ice Creams (Various)?’
‘Today, sir,’ Mr Pang announced with a huge conspiratorial grin, ‘we have Vanilla.’
Through their laughter Charles and Nella agreed that they’d both have one. As the giggles subsided, Charles said thoughtfully, ‘One thing I still haven’t worked out.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Going back to the second night of The Message Is Murder . . . the night when I got so disgracefully pissed . . .’
‘I remember.’
‘Well, somebody tried to stab me through the flat at the back of the cupboard and I never –’ He looked at Nella. She was blushing deeply. ‘You?’
She nodded. ‘I’ve felt awful about it ever since.’
‘Well . . . What had I done?’
‘It wasn’t aimed at you, you fool.’
‘Then who did you think was in there?’
‘No, I knew you were in there. Listen, if you remember, I was on the book that night, actually stage-managing the show, which meant I had to sit at the desk and couldn’t move about much. And someone took advantage of that.’
‘Leslie Blatt?’
‘Got it in one. He kept sneaking up behind me and making the most disgusting suggestions. And then touching me up and . . . ugh. Eventually I got so furious, I just jumped up and chased him with the sword. I really wanted to kill him. I lunged at him.’
‘And he moved out of the way?’
She nodded shamefacedly. ‘Yes. I felt terrible when I realized what I’d done. I thought I’d killed you for sure.’
Charles grinned. ‘Well, you didn’t.’
‘No. Thank God.’
‘Must he pretty ghastly,’ he said casually, ‘for a young girl, being touched up by older men.’
She turned her astonishingly beautiful face to him and gave a little shy grin. ‘Depends on the older man.’
Charles Paris looked at her hand lying on the table. Nice hand – small, but strong. No rings, nails a bit grubby from making props all day.
His hand moved forward and hovered over hers . . .
Charles’ prognostication for the future of the theatre proved too pessimistic. The new offer from Schlenter Estates had its predictable effect in the Council Chamber, and it seemed that the Regent would finally be demolished as part of the Maugham Cross redevelopment scheme.
But local support came from an unlikely source. Mrs Feller, seeing there was a cause to champion, marshalled her Hats and, after a well-orchestrated sequence of banner-waving demonstrations and letters in the Rugland Spa Gazette & Observer (backed up by fighting leaders from Frank Walby), the Council decision was rescinded. Councillor Davenport was furious, and Councillor Inchbald was delighted.
The Arts Council, too, decided to give the theatre another chance. Given the fact that there would be a new Artistic Director and General Manager, the Regent got its grant. And the Council agreed to match it.
Herbie Inchbald remained as Chairman of the The-ettah Board. But Lord Kitestone also remained as the Regent’s patron; and the Maugham Cross area got increasingly run down; one day it would have to be developed. So the theatre’s ultimate future remained uncertain.
But, in the manner of provincial theatres, from crisis to crisis, the Regent continued to totter on.
Incidentally, those who care about that sort of thing would feel cheated not to be informed that the suicide of Miss Laycock-Manderley in Act Three of The Message Is Murder was a blind. She Did It.
