by Simon Brett
But that was not what had happened. In the event, when he declared his passion, she had laughed at him. He couldn’t tolerate that. Other people might find out, they might laugh at him too.
So it was only logical that Sally Luther would have to die.
He’d always been fascinated by poisons. Indeed, his school nickname ‘Benzo’ had been based on an illicit experiment he’d done in the chemistry lab with nitro-benzene. Mind you, he told his interrogators proudly, he’d used atropine from belladonna when he’d poisoned Sally’s cat.
He’d used the mercuric chloride in powder form in the Indian restaurant, surreptitiously shaking some over one of the Chicken Dupiazas in the confusion of the food’s arrival. The fact that he had poisoned the wrong person he regarded as an inconvenience rather than a tragedy.
Then he had employed the same poison in solution to inject Sally Luther and adulterate the Bell’s whisky. The reason for his turning his murderous attentions to Charles Paris, it emerged, was due to another misunderstanding. It happened when, a few days previously, Charles had raised the subject of Sally Luther’s death in the dressing room caravan. To defuse a potential confrontation with Vasile Bogdan, he had quoted from Twelfth Night: “‘Now Mercury endue thee with leasing, for thou speakest well of fools!”’
Benzo Ritter had taken this reference to ‘Mercury’ as evidence that Charles knew the poison he was using, and that had led him to doctor the half-bottle of Bell’s. The boy had been extremely irritated that Charles Paris survived that attempt.
At no stage during his questioning and subsequent trial did Benzo Ritter demonstrate any feelings of guilt or remorse.
At the trial, psychological reports ruled him to be insane, and he was committed to a secure institution.
Benzo Ritter’s absence made little difference to the Asphodel production of Twelfth Night. A new Second Officer was found and the play set off from Great Wensham on its triumphant tour.
Charles Paris did not enjoy the experience. His performance moved a little closer to what Alexandru Radulescu wanted, but Charles felt uncomfortable eternally marooned between two stools. He still longed to play Sir Toby Belch as Shakespeare had intended the part to be played, but didn’t think he was likely ever to get another chance. As Moira Handley had said in a different context, the moment had passed.
Charles didn’t really feel part of the tour. His resistance to the communal hero worship of Alexandru Radulescu isolated him. John B. Murgatroyd had been his closest ally in the company, and though the invalid made a full recovery from his poisoning, he did not rejoin the show. As Twelfth Night criss-crossed the United Kingdom – with a diversion to the Czech Republic – Charles Paris felt marginalised and lonely.
Alexandru Radulescu did not return to Romania, but stayed on to impose his personality and perversity on more classic English texts. He continued to be hailed as a genius, until one day a new enfant terrible took the British theatre by the scruff of its neck, and the Radulescu style seemed suddenly meretricious and old hat.
Russ Lavery’s career went from strength to strength. He managed to combine television popularity with serious critical respect for his theatre work. And the British public adored him even more after his much-publicised battle with heroin addiction.
Julian Roxborough-Smith added another artistic directorship to his portfolio. He was appointed to run the West Bartleigh Festival and thereafter, in his usual dilettante fashion, spent his time rebooking the same artistes for all three festivals. Since he still acted as agent for many of these artistes, he made rather a good living.
And Moira Handley, needless to say, continued to do all the work.
Gavin Scholes’ cancer required surgery, granting him his lifelong wish of being able to talk about ‘my operation’. It was followed by a course of radiotherapy, which seemed to work. He apparently made a complete recovery, though, as he kept telling his new wife – and anyone else incautious enough to listen – ‘it might just be a temporary remission.’
Charles Paris had intended to ring Frances during the tour, but somehow didn’t get round to it.
Back in London it was nearly December and cold. Unequal to the upheaval of finding somewhere new, Charles had agreed with his landlord to continue at Hereford Road, paying the exorbitantly increased rent. The conversion from bedsitter to studio flat had managed to keep the essential features of the original space – in other words, its total lack of charm.
There wasn’t any work around either. He’d spoken to Maurice Skellern, who’d once again said that things were ‘very quiet’. Charles watched what was left of the money he’d made from Twelfth Night slowly dwindle. He signed on again at the Lisson Grove DSS.
After a week of mooching round his bedsitter – no, studio flat – he finally rang Frances. And he found she had exciting news.
‘I’m doing an exchange programme with a school in the States.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘My deputy stands in as headmistress, an American teacher comes over to my school and I go and teach in California for a year.’
‘Oh. When does this happen?’ Charles asked bleakly.
‘Starts in January.’
‘How was it arranged?’
‘Through an American friend.’
‘The one you met at the international teachers’ conference?’
‘That’s right.’
‘What, so he’ll be over here while you’re there, will he?’
‘No, it’s another member of staff I’m swapping with. My friend will be in California,’ Frances replied crushingly.
And once again it seemed inconceivable that things had ever gone well for Charles Paris.
