by Simon Brett
Charles dived into the hessian tunnel which led to the stage. It seemed even narrower and clammier than it had before.
He skidded to the wing area and almost cannoned into Sally Luther, dressed in her soggy Cesario costume. Her blond wig dangled in tendrils like overcooked pasta.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry, Sally.’
‘Where the hell have you been?’
‘Got delayed.’ He popped his head out on to the stage and shouted, ‘Sorry, Alex! I’m here now!’ then smartly popped back in before the director could start bawling him out.
Sally Luther moved on to the stage and shouted, ‘Can I get back to my dressing room now he’s here, Alex?’
‘No.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake! We’ve already been doing this scene for half an hour.’
‘Sally, I’m sorry, but we need the bridge between the scenes, because we’ve got to do the lighting change and move the chairs. We’ll have to go back on the end of your scene. Take it from “O time, thou must untangle this . . .” Oh, just a minute –’ He had been interrupted by the lighting designer. ‘No, we’ve just got to reset a couple of lanterns. Could be five minutes. Nobody leave the stage . . . And that includes you, Charles Paris, you unprofessional bastard!’
Charles was stung by the words. To be called unprofessional is the worst insult any actor can receive – particularly when he knows the aspersion is justified. He shrunk into the wings against the damp hessian, as Sally Luther and Chad Pearson came off stage to join him.
‘I wouldn’t get too close to that if I was you,’ the actress advised.
‘Mm?’
‘There’s a holly bush or something behind it. I was standing there a minute ago and I got quite a nasty prick through the hessian. Just in the fleshy bit of my thigh – really stung.’
‘Oh. Right. Thanks.’ Charles moved further away from the screening, and saw that he was now directly in view of half the audience (assuming that the Chailey Ferrars Twelfth Night ever did have an audience, an idea which at that moment seemed a laughable fantasy). ‘Tight on sight-lines, isn’t it?’ Charles observed as he shrank back into the wings.
‘OK, we’re set!’ Alexandru Radulescu’s voice bawled out from the darkness. ‘Back to “O time, thou must untangle . . .”, Sally. And make sure you’re ready for your cue, Charles bloody Paris!’
Sally Luther ventured back into the downpour to complete her soliloquy at the end of Act Two, Scene Two.
“O, time, thou must untangle this, not I!
It is too hard a knot for me t’untie.”’
Shaking her head wearily – and to the sound of doleful sitar music – she moved off into the wings where Sir Toby Belch and Sir Andrew Aguecheek waited. Charles had always thought it a clumsy bit of blocking from Alexandru Radulescu to have her exit the same way they were about to come on, but he didn’t think this was the moment to raise the point.
‘Thank God for that,’ Sally Luther muttered as she passed. ‘I’m not in the next scene.’ And she hurried off towards the ‘dressing rooms’.
Charles Paris and Chad Pearson made their entrance and then had to wait in the rain for further adjustment of the lights. The Twelfth Night tech wound on its weary course. At the current rate of progress, Charles reckoned they’d be lucky to finish before four in the morning.
And a wicked, but unsuppressible thought inside him conjectured what kind of response a knock on the Portakabin door at four in the morning might get.
In the event, he never found out. The tech was not allowed to run its full course.
In the middle of Act Two, Scene Four, Orsino had just asked ‘Cesario’, ‘And what’s her history?’
Sally Luther replied,
‘“A blank, my lord. She never told her love,
But let concealment like a worm i ‘the bud
Feed on her –”’
Suddenly she clutched at her throat and started gagging. She fell down on to the wet stage.
After what seemed an age, an ambulance made it across the muddy grounds of Chailey Ferrars to pick up the invalid and take her to the local hospital.
And on the next morning’s radio and television news bulletins it was announced that Sally Luther was dead.
Chapter Seventeen
THE TECH HAD ended in chaos with less than a third of the play rehearsed, so it was no surprise to have a company call for ten o’clock the following morning, the Tuesday, the day Twelfth Night was due to open. Very few in the cast expected that opening to happen as scheduled.
Charles Paris had gone back to his digs and slept little. (Somehow, in the circumstances, knocking on the door of Moira’s Portakabin had seemed inappropriate.) He made a point of getting back to Chailey Ferrars early in the morning.
The weather had miraculously changed. As if Sally Luther’s death had been some ritual sacrifice to propitiate the rain gods, the Tuesday dawned bright and clear. Underfoot remained muddy, but the growing warmth of the sun promised to dry out the sodden field.
Moira’s prodigious organisational skills were paying off. As Charles arrived at nine-thirty, groups of men were bolting together the metal structure of a raked auditorium. Women and boys were unloading stacks of chairs from a drop-side truck. Already the front few rows were fixed in position. So the audience would have seats to sit on that evening – though whether there would be a show for them to watch was more doubtful.
At the back of the auditorium stood two Land Rovers towing large caravans with the name ‘Saniserve’ printed on their sides. Moira had sorted that out too. Not only would the audience have seats to sit on, they would also be able to relieve themselves. There was nothing to stop the first night performance from going ahead – except its lack of a central character.
Charles Paris knew exactly what he needed to do. He went straight up on to the stage to the wings through which he had exited and entered the night before. In the daylight the tented area looked untidy and amateur. The hessian drapes hung damply down, but already, where the beams of the sun caught them, a thin steam was beginning to rise.
Charles tried to remember Sally’s exact words. Something about being careful, not standing too close to the drapes . . . About a holly bush . . . About feeling something prick through . . . Something stinging her upper thigh . . .
He probed gingerly along the soggy fabric hanging, but could feel nothing pressing through from behind. He went backstage to check. The hessian screen, shabbier from this side and supported on irregularly angled tent-poles, stood proud from the surrounding trees and shrubs. There was no holly bush for Sally Luther to have leant against.
Which meant that if something had punctured her skin, it must have been pushed through the drape from the other side. And Charles Paris didn’t find it fanciful to think that something might have been a syringe.
This was serious now. Gavin Scholes could possibly have been struck down by a genuine illness. John B. Murgatroyd’s attack might just conceivably have been accidental food poisoning. But Sally Luther was dead, and it seemed very likely that she had been murdered.
Charles kicked himself for not taking action earlier. If he’d voiced his suspicions, the poor girl’s death might have been averted.
On the other hand, the familiar question arose of who he should have voiced his suspicions to. Previous experience had taught Charles that the police have a distinctly sceptical attitude to intimations of murder – particularly when they come from members of the theatrical profession. That all actors are self-dramatising and effete – and probably gay – seemed to be an enduring conviction amongst the British constabulary.
He would need unanswerably solid proof of wrongdoing before he could take his accusations to the proper authorities. And at the moment he had no proof at all, only vague suspicions and a few, inadequately connected, links of logic.
There was also his position in the company to consider. Charles Paris was already unpopular enough, without starting to spray around accusations of murder. He needed to be extraordi
narily certain of his facts before he challenged anyone. A misplaced allegation of serious criminality from one cast member to another could prove to be a very inauspicious opening to a three-month tour.
There was of course a strong chance that if Sally Luther had been murdered the police would soon be on to the case. A death as sudden as hers must inevitably demand a post-mortem, and if its finding showed she had been injected with poison, then the Twelfth Night company would quickly be swamped by inquisitive police officers.
But if, for some reason, that didn’t happen . . . Charles had to find out more.
The Great Wensham Festival officials had turned out in force for the ten o’clock call on stage at Chailey Ferrars. The Festival Director was there, along with Moira Handley and Pauline Monkton. Asphodel’s accountant was also present, flanked by Alexandru Radulescu, the lighting designer and the assistant director.
Alexandru was the most overtly irritated by Julian Roxborough-Smith’s long-winded oration, tapping his hand crossly against his knee, anxious to be active.
‘. . . a terrible tragedy of the kind which I am glad to say is unprecedented in the history of the Great Wensham Festival. On behalf of the Festival Society – and of course of our sponsors – I will be sending appropriate condolences to Miss Luther’s family.’
The company, in the front rows of audience seating, were as impatient as their Director. They wanted to know what decisions had been made, and they wanted to know as soon as possible. All were twitchy. Only Talya Northcott looked serene, as her mind formulated the dream that was about to come true. ‘UNDERSTUDY RISES TO TRAGIC CHALLENGE – A STAR IS BORN!’ Mummy would really enjoy telling her friends about that. The scrapbook would fill up very quickly.
‘One point I should mention,’ Julian Roxborough-Smith ground on, ‘is that there are always people who feed on and try to benefit from disaster – I refer of course to the press – and it’s not impossible that, after what’s happened. Great Wensham will become the target of the tabloid hacks. The Chailey Ferrars staff will be doing their best to keep these scavengers out, but in the event that any of you are approached by journalists, I would ask you to say nothing, just address all enquiries through the festival’s press officer . . .’
Pauline Monkton squirmed at the thought of more limelight and responsibility.
‘. . . who I am sure is better qualified to handle such enquiries than you are.’
The panic in the press officer’s eyes cast doubt on the truth of this assertion. ‘We’ve had lots of calls already, Julian,’ she whispered breathlessly, ‘and I really don’t know what to say to them. I think, if I just leave the answerphone on then they’ll probably stop ringing after a time.’
Annoyance tugged at the corner of the Festival Director’s mouth, but he was too professional to give his press officer a public dressing-down for wimpishness and general incompetence, so moved smoothly on.
‘If, on the other hand, you are approached by the police – and I don’t at this stage know whether there is likely to be any form of police investigation – I would obviously rely on you all to co-operate fully.’
‘However . . .’ He sighed and adjusted his floppy bow-tie ‘. . . with every setback – even one so terrible and shocking as this – the question that must follow on from any tragedy is: “Where do we go from here?” I’ve just come from a meeting with your director and . . .’ He clearly didn’t know the name of the person to whom he gestured . . . this gentleman from Asphodel Productions, at which meeting we discussed the various options that are open to us.
‘While I support in principle the old adage that “the show must go on,” I am sure that you will all agree the show should only go on if the performance is of a standard that will not do discredit to your own high professional standards. Now in this instance a variety of potential scenarios offer themselves to us if we –’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, get on with it!’ Alexandru Radulescu’s patience was exhausted. ‘We’re incredibly pushed for time, and you’re just wasting more of it with all this long-winded crap!’
Julian Roxborough-Smith was so unused to anyone speaking to him like this that he could only gape and straighten his bow-tie. Charles noticed that her boss’s discomfiture brought an irrepressible grin to Moira’s lips. She’d enjoy seeing that kind of thing happen more often.
The Asphodel representative suavely interceded to cover up Alexandru’s rudeness. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Roxborough-Smith, we’re all obviously under a lot of stress.’
The Festival Director was still too shocked to do more than mouth back, so the accountant slid quickly on, ‘And Alex does of course have a point. Time is of the essence, so I think, if it’s all right with you . . .’ He didn’t give Julian Roxborough-Smith time to say whether it was or it wasn’t ‘. . . I should hand straight over to our Director, so that he can put forward to the cast his proposed solution to the current crisis: a solution which – in keeping with most things Alex does – is extremely radical.’
Charles groaned inwardly, as the small figure of the director stepped forward. The black eyes gleamed with fanatical zeal.
‘Friends, fellow-workers, fellow-artistes,’ Alexandru Radulescu began. ‘In no way do I wish to diminish what has happened. It is a terrible thing. Sally was one of us – we have lost her. At the proper time we will mourn her properly. But for now my priority must be Twelfth Night.’
Why suddenly? Charles’s cynical mind couldn’t help supplying the question. It never has been before.
‘This is not just my priority – it is our priority. And it is a priority which Sally – of all people – would have respected. The show, as Julian has said, must go on. The question is how soon it goes on. My proposal is that we open tonight as scheduled.’
A collective gasp of astonishment rose from the company. They were all troupers, but surely what their director was suggesting was impossible.
Talya Northcott voiced the communal objection. As understudy to Viola, she had more reason than most to be anxious. ‘But, Alex, we just haven’t got time. I mean, I know the lines all right, but I’d have to go through all the blocking and –’
‘Besides,’ the lighting designer chipped in, ‘we haven’t done the tech on the second two-thirds of the show. We’ve only got the roughest kind of plotting done for that.’
‘You can continue plotting as we rehearse,’ Alexandru announced magisterially.
‘But look, that’ll be daylight. We won’t be able to judge how the –’
‘That is what we will do.’
He did not raise his voice, but the words were a testament to the strength of the little man’s personality. The lighting designer was silent as his director repeated, ‘We will open tonight, as scheduled.’
‘But don’t you think that shows a lack of respect for Sally’s memory – as if we don’t think her death’s important?’
This latest objection, from Benzo Ritter, was slapped down as firmly as the others. ‘I do not think so. She was an actress. She would understand. Tonight’s performance will not be a disrespect to Sally Luther – it will be a tribute to Sally Luther.’
Alexandru Radulescu knew he had everyone’s attention and he played his scene to the full. ‘As I say, we will open tonight, as scheduled . . .’ He turned to Talya Northcott ‘. . . But I am sorry, my dear, you will not be playing Viola.’
Like Julian Roxborough-Smith before her, the girl was stunned into silence. She too mouthed hopelessly. Charles felt sure she had already been on the phone to Mummy about her big break, and Mummy had already rung round all her family and friends. Some embarrassing calling back was going to be necessary.
‘I have said before,’ Alexandru continued, ‘that what some people regard as problems, I see as positive creative opportunities. All through rehearsal we have been saying that Twelfth Night is Shakespeare’s exploration of the potentialities of human sexuality . . .’
Charles’s knee-jerk reaction – ‘No, it isn’t!’ – once again remain
ed unspoken.
‘. . . . and a solution to our current problem which extends the range of this exploration occurred to me very early this morning. It will need some revised blocking towards the end of the play, but this is not insuperable. You see . . .’ He turned again to the stricken Talya. ‘. . . we already have someone in the company who is fully rehearsed in the part of Viola. Yes, my friends, we will open Twelfth Night tonight with the parts of Sebastian and Viola both being played by Russ Lavery!’
There was another gasp from the company, which quickly gave way to delighted applause. Charles Paris looked round the semicircle of faces to gauge reactions. Apart from Talya Northcott, who could not suppress her tears, Benzo Ritter seemed to be the only one downcast by the news, presumably because he still thought it betokened disrespect to his lost idol.
Vasile Bogdan and Tottie Roundwood were ecstatic in their appreciation for another stroke of Radulescu genius. Chad Pearson shook his head, chuckling at the audacity of the solution.
And on the face of Russ Lavery was an expression of unambiguous triumph.
Chapter Eighteen
THE REST OF the day was a tribute to the organisational skills of Alexandru Radulescu. He started by rehearsing Act Five, the only moment in the play where Viola and Sebastian, brother and sister, are both on stage at the same time.
He must have been up all night devising the blocking for this confrontation. Inevitably it involved the use of a double. Talya Northcott, who had been cast for her physical likeness to the compact Sally Luther, was awarded this role (the nearest she was ever going to get to playing Viola), but all the lines were to be spoken by Russ Lavery. Mummy and the large party of family and friends she had conscripted for the first night, were due for a disappointment.
In Alexandru’s revised blocking, by ingenious use of the entrances and exits, by a lot of crossing behind the emblematic trees of the simple set, Viola and Sebastian appeared, reappeared and changed roles as in some elaborate conjuring trick.
