by Simon Brett
It was of course possible that the director did not share this assessment of his contribution to the triumph of Roses In Winter. The theatre is a profession which attracts outsize egos, and Boy Trubshawe might have found Mariana’s reference to him too dismissive.
To follow up this thought, Charles went the next day to the London Library, a haven of Victorian quiet in St James’s Square, and climbed up to the Biography section. He wasn’t exactly sure what he was looking for, but as soon as he saw a book entitled Boy—The Star-maker, he knew that he had found it.
It was a show-business autobiography of the late thirties, and it showed all the vices of the genre. Here the names dropped with the subtlety of a pile-driver, an additional dullness given by the unfamiliarity of many of them, vogue names of show-business parvenus who didn’t last the distance.
But Boy Trubshawe was not content only to drop names; he also felt it a duty to chronicle his own part in developing the careers of the famous. There was no humour in the “Star-maker” of the title; Boy Trubshawe appeared genuinely to believe that all of those he mentioned owed their eminence exclusively to his favour.
There was a whole chapter on Mariana Lythgoe. The director described how he had spotted her talent, how he had nurtured it, how he had sat back to watch it flower. Ostentatiously, he did not ask for praise, but the reader was left in no doubt that Mariana Lythgoe “owed it all to him”.
The account, at least in its emphasis, did not tally with her own.
Charles Paris decided that Boy Trubshawe deserved a visit. “I am a trifle jette laggé,” announced the director, over-emphasizing the unattractive franglais coining. “Just back from the States. New York. Staying with a chum.”
He then went on to name one of the British actors who had made a recent conquest of Broadway. Habits of name-dropping died hard. What was more, the tone implied that Boy’s relationship with the actor was very, very close. Meeting the octogenarian director in the flesh did nothing to dispel the impression his autobiography had made on Charles. Boy Trubshawe was a particularly unpleasant example of the bitchy theatrical queen. He knew everyone, but could allow no one to be mentioned without some snide aside.
The neat little Chelsea flat, all velvet chairs and fine porcelain, fitted its owner’s appearance. He wore a blue blazer, grey flannels, cream silk shirt with, at the neck, a roguishly-knotted Indian print scarf.
Charles didn’t feel he was going to enjoy the ensuing interview, so reckoned there was nothing to be gained by subtlety. “I’ve come to talk about Mariana.”
“Dear Mariana,” Boy Trubshawe cooed. “The grande dame of the English stage.” Then, inevitably, he added the diminishing qualification. “In ambition, if not in deed. How sad for the poor darling that the Queen never has coughed anything up for her in the Birthday Honours. Dear Mariana thinks of herself as a Dame—how sad that she’s been passed over.”
Charles pressed on. “You know that Mariana’s just written an autobiography?”
“Well, I had heard, yes. Writing books now—what will the little minx think of next?”
“Have you read the book?”
Boy Trubshawe widened his eyes coquettishly. “Now why should I do a thing like that? I mean, I’m delighted for Mariana that she’s managed to persuade some publisher that she’s marketable. Good for her, splendid effort . . . but what possible interest could her little book have for me?”
“You worked together a lot. I thought it might have a bit of nostalgic appeal.”
“Now, my dear, just because Mariana lives in the past, there’s no need to suppose that I do too. I know exactly what I did for Mariana’s career—I don’t need books to tell me that.”
“What did you do for her then?”
“Simply shaped her whole life. She had nothing before she met me. Oh, talent, yes . . . a modicum of talent. It was I who taught her how to husband that modicum. And she followed my advice so well that people even started to believe that she was rather good.”
He smiled ingratiatingly, apparently expecting some reaction of amusement. Presumably, in his usual circle, his sallies of bitchery were greeted with gales of laughter. But Charles knew too many people in the theatre whose malice passed as wit, and determinedly withheld even a sycophantic smile.
“Were you in New York for Hallowe’en?” he asked abruptly.
Boy Trubshawe was thrown by the change of tack. “Well, yes. Yes, I was,” he stuttered.
“Shops full of seasonal decorations?”
“Yes.”
“Pumpkins . . . witches . . .?”
“Yes.” He still looked bewildered.
“Skeletons . . .?”
The old man’s face coloured with petulance. “What is this? What are you talking about?”
“Someone,” said Charles fiercely, “is making Mariana’s life misery. And I’m trying to find out who it is.”
“But surely you don’t suspect . . .” The blotched but manicured hands flopped on to Boy’s chest in a gesture of identification. “. . . moi?”
If Charles could be said to have a usual method of investigation, it would have to be described as “tentative” or “indirect”, but on this occasion he broke away from type. Boy Trubshawe was annoying him, and Charles saw no reason to hide the fact.
“You have a reputation as a somewhat insensitive practical joker, Mr Trubshawe. I want to know if you’ve been practising this habit on Mariana recently?”
The eyes widened in mock-innocence. “And why should I do that?”
“Because in her book she didn’t accord you the kind of praise and thanks which you seem to feel to be your due.”
“No, she certainly didn’t!” the old man snapped, making a nonsense of his earlier denial of having read Mariana’s book. Then he let out an unattractive little snigger. “So someone’s been playing nasty tricks on Mariana?”
“Yes. Someone broke into her flat sometime the day before yesterday and planted a particularly nasty—”
Charles was stopped by Boy’s limply upraised hand. “Don’t look at me, chum. Can’t say I’m sorry to hear about the old duck’s discomfiture . . . but I only got back from the States in the wee small hours yesterday.”
And the director smiled smugly.
“I didn’t take to Boy, certainly. He’s a nasty bit of work.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that, Charles.”
“Come on, Mariana. He is. Bitchy and horrible. You don’t owe him any loyalty.”
“Well . . .” She looked pained at the idea of having to think ill of anyone.
“But he has got an alibi. Well, I haven’t checked it, but if he says he came back on a certain flight . . .”
“Oh yes, you have to believe him.”
“So we’re back to trying to think of someone else with a grudge against you. Having read your book—which, incidentally, I enjoyed very much—” Mariana coloured daintily at the compliment “—I can’t imagine there’s anyone else you’ve offended.”
“I hope not.”
Charles rubbed his chin reflectively. It was the morning after his encounter with Boy Trubshawe. A watery November sun trickled into the room where they drank coffee.
“So we have to think of people who might have some other motive . . . Hmm. What about this girl in the revival of Roses In Winter?”
“Sandy Drake?”
“That’s the one. Must be pretty galling for her to have these constant, unflattering comparisons with you.”
“Do you really think . . .?”
Charles shrugged. “Possible. I mean, if she were unbalanced or . . . I haven’t met her. Have you?”
Mariana shook her head.
“Well, I could ask around. I’m sure I’ve got friends who’ve worked with her at some point.”
“Doesn’t really sound very likely that . . .”
“No. Well, look, let’s think of the obvious motive. Inheritance. Who’s your heir?”
“Oh, surely that couldn’t be . . . I mean, I haven’t
got any money. Nothing to leave.”
“Do you own this flat?”
“Yes, but . . .”
“At today’s prices that’s worth having. Then there’ll be royalties from the book and a few other things. You’d be surprised how much you’re worth, Mariana.”
The old lady gave a little dismissive smile. “Would you like some more coffee, Charles?”
“You haven’t told me.”
“What?” She turned an expression of self-conscious innocence on him.
“Who inherits.”
“Oh, well, I’m sure there wouldn’t be any reason to—”
“Who?”
“My nephew. Dick.” She followed this admission up quickly. “But I’m sure he’d never—”
“Do you see a lot of him?”
“No. Not a great deal. But when we do meet, he’s always perfectly friendly.”
“Is he well off?”
“Well, he’s . . . You know, it’s difficult when you’re making your way in the theatre. At first there are a few years when . . . I’m sure he’s doing fine now.”
“Perhaps I ought to go and have a word with him.”
“Oh, no, Charles, no.” She sounded horrified. “No, there’s no need for that. It would be terribly embarrassing.”
“Perhaps so. I just feel I should be doing something for you. Some sort of investigation. There are so few leads to follow up and Dick at least has a kind of motive to get rid of you.”
“It’s all right, Charles. Don’t feel you have to do anything.”
“But if I don’t, all we can do is sit and wait for something else to happen.”
“Then perhaps that’s what we’d better do.” She flashed her famous smile at him. “And let’s look on the bright side. It’s quite possible that nothing else will happen.”
The subject was left and they chatted for another hour about Mariana’s book and some of the productions in which she had starred. Charles, even after more than thirty not very successful years in the theatre, remained incorrigibly stage-struck and enjoyed the conversation. But at twelve, in spite of Mariana’s offer of lunch, he felt he should go.
“I’ll see you downstairs.”
“Oh, don’t worry.”
“I have to go down just to see if there’s any post. Not that there ever is much except bills these days. Most of the people who might have written to me are long dead.”
“Maybe today,” said Charles jovially, “will be your lucky day. Maybe today you will receive something totally unexpected.”
He was right. She did.
Fortunately she opened the package down in the hall while he was still there.
The note read: “WON’T BE LONG NOW, MARIANA.”
With it was an audio cassette.
“You will not escape my vengeance. I have sworn to destroy you and that oath will be fulfilled. You may try to escape, but all attempts will be in vain. As surely as if by a court of law, your death sentence has been pronounced.”
A click sounded on the tape, then a slight hiss as it ran on. Charles left it for a few moments before switching off.
It was a male voice, fairly young, full, well-articulated, slightly theatrical perhaps.
He looked across at the old actress’s haunted face.
“Do you recognize it, Mariana?”
“No,” she whispered, with an appalled shake of her head. “No, I don’t.”
Charles knew she was lying, but no amount of persuasion could elicit the truth from her.
He rang the BBC from the payphone at the bedsitter and asked for Mark Lear’s office.
“Charles. How are you? Hey, you remember that actress who was in the play we did with Mariana Lythgoe—the one with purple hair? Well, let me tell you she is the most amazing—”
“Mark, listen. I want you to identify a voice for me.”
“What?”
“You know the radio scene. I’ve got a recording of a voice that sounds to me like someone who’s done a lot of radio. I’m going to play it on the cassette down the phone and I want you to tell me if you recognize it.”
“What is this?”
“Just listen, Mark. Please.”
Charles held the portable cassette to the receiver and pressed the start button.
“You will not escape my vengeance. I have sworn—”
“Of course I recognize it.”
Charles stopped the machine.
“Who?”
“I should recognize it. I only produced him in—”
“WHO?”
“Dick Lythgoe. As I say, I was the producer on—”
But Charles wasn’t in the mood for showbiz recollections.
“Thank you, Mark.”
Charles got the name of Dick Lythgoe’s agent through the actor’s directory, Spotlight. As he was doing so, he looked at the actor’s photograph. There was a family resemblance to Mariana, but in her nephew the sharp outlines of her famous face were blurred, the eyes were set more closely together and the mouth showed a slight droop of petulance.
The agent told Charles that his client was not currently working, thinking at that stage the inquiry came from a potential employer. But when Charles said it was a personal matter and asked for Dick Lythgoe’s address, he got no further information. Though it was annoying, Charles couldn’t object to this. He hoped his own agent would show similar discretion in the same circumstances (though he didn’t feel total confidence that his would).
However, a few calls to friends in the business soon elicited an address for Dick Lythgoe in Kilburn, which was within walking distance of Charles’s bedsitter.
It was a house divided into flats. Blue paint had flaked off the frontage, leaving a mottled effect. There was a tangle of wires and doorbells by the front door, but none of the stained cards offered the name “Lythgoe”. Charles stepped back and looked through the rusted railings to the separate basement entrance. He walked down the worn steps, picking his way over polythene bags of rubbish which had been dumped there.
Dick Lythgoe’s surroundings suggested that he could certainly use an inheritance.
The fourth ring at the doorbell brought him to the door. His face looked crumpled, as if he had just woken up. It also showed that Dick Lythgoe’s Spotlight photograph had been taken some years before. And those years had not been kind to its subject. His hairline had retreated, leaving only a couple of ineffectual tufts on top, and the skin around the eyes had pouched up. Dick Lythgoe was no longer going to impress Casting Directors as a Juvenile Lead.
“What do you want?” he asked truculently.
“I want to talk about Mariana.”
A spasm of anger twisted the face. “Oh God, story of my bloody life! It’s all anyone ever wants to talk about. My bloody aunt. I should have changed my name before I went into the bloody theatre!”
“Then why didn’t you?” asked Charles.
The lower lip trembled, then decided not to answer. The silence was quite as expressive as words. Dick Lythgoe had clung to his famous name for shrewd business reasons; without it he might have had even less success.
“Anyway, what do you want? Are you another bloody journalist? Because let me tell you before you start, I don’t talk about my dear auntie for free. If you want more heart-warming insights into the private life of the First Lady of Yesterday’s Theatre, you’re going to have to find fifty quid. At least.”
“I’m not a journalist,” said Charles. “I am just a friend of your aunt’s.”
Dick Lythgoe looked him up and down with an insolent smile. “Have to admire the old girl’s resilience, don’t you?”
Charles ignored the innuendo. Like Boy Trubshawe, the actor was making him uncharacteristically angry. “Someone is conducting a campaign of persecution against Mariana and I’m going to find out who it is.”
“Campaign of persecution?”
“Yes. And I have some pretty strong evidence of who’s doing it. I think you’d better let me come inside.”
&n
bsp; Dick Lythgoe gaped at this sudden assertiveness, but drew aside to admit the older man.
The flat inside was a tip. Dirty plates, glasses and encrusted coffee-cups perched on every available surface. There was a smell of damp from the house, compounded by a human staleness. Charles wanted to throw open every window in the place.
“Sorry about the mess,” Dick Lythgoe mumbled. “My girlfriend walked out a few weeks back.” He slumped on top of a pile of grubby shirts draped over an armchair. “Now what is this?”
“Your aunt has received a series of threatening phone-calls and anonymous letters. An unpleasant practical joke has been played on her. Today she received this tape.”
Charles had the portable recorder set up in readiness and pressed the start button.
Dick Lythgoe sat in silence while the message ran through.
“Now,” demanded Charles as it ended, “do you deny that that is your voice?”
“No,” the actor replied, again with his insolent smile. “I don’t deny it.”
Charles poured another slug of Bell’s whisky into Mark Lear’s glass and, topping up his own, went across to sit on his bed. “And there’s no doubt that’s where the speech came from?”
“None at all. As Dick said, it was part of a Saturday Night Theatre he recorded for me last year. I was about to tell you that when you rang off this morning.”
“Oh, damn. When was the play broadcast?”
“January of this year.”
“So somebody must have got hold of the tape and—”
“They wouldn’t need to do that. Just record it off air.”
“Yes. If they did, it implies a degree of long-distance planning.”
“Mm. And, I would have thought, rules Dick out of your suspicions.”
“I suppose so.”
“Come on, he’s not going to send a threat like that that’s so easily identifiable. It took you less than a day to find out where it came from.”
Charles nodded ruefully. “Mind you, he wasn’t to know Mariana had talked to anyone about what was happening. He may have thought that she would keep it to herself, then listen to the tape when it arrived and drop dead of a heart-attack on the spot . . .?”
