by Brett, Simon
Neither waited for a reply as they galloped on. ‘Are you still up to your naughty detective things we hear so much about?’
‘Yes, are you?’
‘No, not at the moment. I –’ was all he managed to get out.
‘Another first night. I don’t know . . .’
‘Not as glittering as it should be, is it, Bartlemas . . .?’
‘No, not really glittering, no . . .’
‘So few people dress up for first nights these days . . .’
‘It is disgraceful . . .’
‘Appalling . . .’
‘That lot . . .’ he gestured to a large block of seats full of people in evening dress, ‘have made the effort . . .’
‘Yes, but they’re Micky Banks’s chums . . .’
‘Oh well . . .’
‘At least that generation knows how to behave at a first night . . .’
‘That generation, dear? They’re our generation!’ This witticism reduced both of them to helpless laughter. But not for long enough for Charles or Frances to say anything.
‘Lot of paper in tonight, isn’t there?’ said Bartlemas, looking up to the Circle and Gallery.
‘Lot of paper, yes . . .’
‘Paper?’ Frances managed to query.
‘Free seats, love. Often happens for a first night if it’s not selling . . .’
‘Yes, blocks of tickets sent round the nurses’ homes, that sort of thing . . .’
‘Believe me, love, if you go to as many first nights as we do, you get to recognise them . . .’
‘Recognise individual nurses even . . .’
‘There’s one with a wall-eye and a wart on her nose who I swear goes to more first nights than we do . . .’
This also was apparently a joke. They roared with laughter.
‘Why is there so much paper?’ Charles managed to ask.
‘No publicity, dear . . .’
‘And the theatres out of the way . . .’
‘People’d flood to see Micky Banks . . .’
‘Simply flood . . .’
‘But they’ve got to know where he is . . .’
‘As you say, no publicity . . .’
‘By the way, who’s Dottie with tonight?’
‘Don’t know, but looks such a nice young man . . .’
‘Joy-boy?’
‘Maybe . . .’
‘Oh,’ said Charles. ‘You mean she and Micky don’t . . .’
‘Now you don’t want us telling tales out of school, do you?’
‘Oh, you naughty Charles Paris, you . . .’
They seemed set to continue talking forever, but the auditorium lights began to dim, so they scuttered off, giggling, to find their seats.
Charles and Frances sat down too. And with feelings too complex to itemise, he watched the curtain rise on the first official London performance of The Hooded Owl.
The applause at the interval was very generous. It almost always is on a first night, when the audience tends to be Mums, Dads, husbands, wives, lovers and friends-in-the-business. But, even allowing for that, Charles reckoned they were enjoying it.
Michael Banks was giving a performance of effortless authority. Some of the cognoscenti had recognised why he was wearing the deaf-aid, but for the majority, it just seemed to be part of the character, justified by a couple of new lines.
The performances were all up, with the possible exception of Lesley-Jane Decker, who seemed to be giving a little less than usual. Probably the result of nerves at her first West End opening.
But what also shone through was how good a play The Hooded Owl was. It was very conventional, even old-fashioned, but its tensions built up in just the right way, and it gripped like a strangler’s hand.
Charles looked round to where he knew Malcolm Harris should be, but the seat between the ferret-faced women was empty. The author had taken his advice and was presumably prowling around somewhere. His ferret-faced women looked unamused by his absence.
Charles and Frances joined the exodus to the bar and met another couple coming towards them. The man was unfamiliar, but there was no mistaking the woman with her subsidised red hair.
‘Charles, darling!’
‘Oh. Valerie. I don’t think you know my wife, Frances . . .’
‘But of course I do. We met in Cheltenham.’
‘Did we?’ asked Frances, clueless as to whom she was addressing.
‘Yes, yes, all those years ago.’
‘Oh.’
‘And this . . .’ said Valerie Cass, with no attempt to disguise her contempt, is my husband.’
He was twenty years older than his wife and looked meek and long-suffering. As indeed he would have to be. Either that or divorced. Or dead.
‘Oh God,’ Valerie Cass cooed. ‘I know what you must be feeling, Charles. I feel it myself. Just aching to be up there with them. Only we who have worked in the theatre can understand the ache.’
She raised one hand dramatically to her forehead. She was wearing long evening gloves, indeed seemed to be fully dressed for a ball.
‘Oh, it’s not so bad,’ Charles offered feebly.
‘And I’m so worried about Lesley-Jane,’ she emoted.
‘Why?’
‘The performance just isn’t there.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that. She’s a bit subdued, but she’s –’
‘No, it’s more than that. I know that girl, know her as only a mother can, and I know she’s not well. I think I’d better go backstage and see what’s the matter.’
‘Oh, I don’t think you should,’ her husband interposed mildly. ‘Wait till the end. I’m sure you shouldn’t go round in the middle of a performance. Not the thing at all.’
‘And what . . .’ she withered him with a glance, ‘what do you know about it?’
And she stalked off to the foyer.
Mr. Decker grinned weakly, made a vague gesture with his hand and moved off down the aisle to buy an ice-cream.
The crush in the bar was worse than before the show, but this time Charles was luckier. Lucky to the extent of meeting a friend who had had the foresight to order a bottle of champagne for the interval.
‘Gerald!’
The solicitor looked immaculate as ever, in perfectly-tailored evening dress. His wife Kate also looked perfect. She and Frances fell on each other. They hadn’t met for years. Used to be great friends, before Charles walked out. Used to go around as a foursome. Guilt was added to the turmoil of Charles’s feelings.
Gerald fought to the bar for a couple more glasses and generously shared the bottle.
‘Doing any detective work, Charles?’ He had helped the actor on one or two cases and found an enthusiasm for investigation which he could never muster for his extremely lucrative solicitor’s practice.
‘No,’ Charles replied with satisfaction. It was pleasant not to have the complexities of crime on his mind for a change.
‘Pity.’
‘But why are you here, Gerald? Got money in it?’
Gerald was quite a frequent ‘angel’, though he kept his investments very secret, and winced at Charles’s question. ‘No, in a sense I’m here under false pretences. I was coming because a client was involved as a backer, but he’s no longer involved and . . .’
‘Bobby Anscombe?’
‘Right.’
‘Yes. I gather he had an “artistic disagreement” with Paul Lexington.’
‘“Artistic disagreement” – my foot! You should have seen the contract Lexington tried to get him to sign.’
Charles was glad to have his surmise confirmed. ‘Yes, I shouldn’t think anyone steals a march on Bobby Anscombe.’
‘Or me, Charles. Or me.’
Just as he was returning to his seat, Charles met Malcolm Harris rushing up the aisle. The author had reported in to his ferret-faced women, but was now off again.
‘I should think you’re pleased, aren’t you?’ asked Charles genially.
‘Pleased?’ hissed the schoolmaster. ‘That
bastard Banks is just making nonsense of it.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean he’s cutting great chunks. Big speeches – just because he doesn’t like them, just cutting them out.’
‘But, Malcolm, he’s not making the cuts. They were made yesterday for –’
But the author was already out of earshot.
Oh dear. Another black mark for Paul Lexington’s liaison and diplomacy.
The audience settled quickly after the interval and was soon once more caught up in the mounting dramatic tension of The Hooded Owl. Charles found himself swept along too. He realised that the cuts forced on the production had in fact helped it. By trimming down the first act, they kept the pace going, and the second act benefited.
And Michael Banks was growing in stature by the minute. Once again, Charles was aware of Alex Household’s contribution to the performance. With him timing the lines, the star could concentrate just on the emotional truth of his acting, and the result was very powerful.
The Hooded Owl speech approached, and Charles felt the excitement building inside him. As ever, it would be the climax; this time the climax of one of the finest performances he had ever witnessed.
The scene of father and daughter in the bedroom began. Lesley-Jane was still low-key, but it did not seem to matter. It almost helped. The pallor of her acting threw into relief the power of Michael’s.
‘But, Father,’ she said, ‘you will never be forgotten.’
‘Oh yes. Oh yes, I will.’
They stood facing each other. Maybe, over her shoulder, he could see his faithful feed in the wings. Probably not. He was too deeply into the part to see anything outside the stage.
The silence was so total that the auditorium might have been empty.
‘Three generations of us have lived in this house. Three generations have passed through this room, slept here, argued here, made love here, even died here. And the only marks of their passage have been obliterated by the next generation. New wallpaper, new furniture, new window frames . . . the past is forgotten. Gone with no record. Unless you believe in some supernatural being, taking notes of our progress. A God, maybe – or, if you’d rather, a Hooded Owl . . .”
As he mentioned the bird, he turned his back on Lesley-Jane to look at it in the glass case. Every eye in the audience followed him.
‘Why not? This stuffed bird has always been in the room. Imagine it had perception, a memory to retain our follies. Oh Lord!’
Something had gone wrong. The audience did not know yet, but Charles, so familiar with the script, knew.
Slowly Michael Banks wheeled round. He looked puzzled, and seemed to be looking beyond Lesley-Jane into the wings.
‘No,’ he said. ‘No, put it down. You mustn’t do that to me. You daren’t. Please. Please I –’
There was a gunshot. Michael Banks clutched at his chest and slowly tottered to his knees. Lesley-Jane turned to look into the wings, and screamed.
The tableau was held for a moment, and the curtain swiftly fell.
The audience didn’t know. Still they weren’t sure. Was this a bizarre new twist of the plot? What had happened? The darkened auditorium was filled with muttering.
Then the house-lights came up. The curtain twitched and the Company Manager, Wallas Ward, resplendent in midnight blue dinner jacket, appeared through the centre.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, I regret to have to inform you that, due to an accident to Mr. Banks, we will be unable to continue the performance.’
He did not say that the accident which had befallen Mr. Banks was death by shooting.
And he did not say that, even if they’d wished to finish the play with his understudy, they couldn’t, because Alex Household had run out of the theatre immediately after the shooting.
CHAPTER TEN
CHARLES GOT round to the Stage Door as quickly as he could. Frances followed silently. One of her good qualities was the ability to keep quiet when there was nothing appropriate to say.
They were there before the rush. There were a few people milling around, but not yet the main surge of puzzled well-wishers, police, press and sensation-seekers.
Charles found the Stage Doorman, who was already regaling a little circle of cast with what he had seen. The murder had only occurred ten minutes before, but the old man already saw himself in the role of vital witness, and was polishing the phrases in a story which he would tell many times.
‘I heard the shot over the loudspeaker. I knew there was something wrong. I’ve heard that play so many times in the past few days, I knew the lines wasn’t right. Mind you, then I didn’t know it was a shot. Could’ve been something falling over on-stage, or a light-bulb blowing but something inside me knew it was serious. I felt like a cold hand on my heart . . .’ he paused dramatically, relishing the metaphor which he then spoiled by mixing it, ‘. . . as if someone had walked over my grave.
‘Next thing I knew Mr. Household was rushing past me out of the door. It was so quick. I didn’t have time to stop him,’ he said, suggesting that under any other circumstances he would have downed the suspect with a flying tackle. ‘Not, of course, that I realised what he’d done then. I didn’t know he’d just shot Mr. Banks.’
‘Are you sure he had?’ asked Charles.
‘Well, of course he had.’
‘I mean, was the gun in his hand?’
‘No,’ the old man was forced to concede, ‘but –’
‘Was he wearing a jacket?’
‘I think so. I didn’t notice. It was very quick, like I said.’ The old man sounded testy. Charles’s questions were spoiling his narrative flow.
‘Wait here a minute, Frances.’ He went through to the Green Room, hoping that he’d find Alex’s jacket still hanging there, with the gun still cold in its pocket, with all five shots still unfired.
Alex was a prickly person, an unbalanced person, sometimes an infuriating person, but Charles didn’t want to think of him as a murderer.
Various members of the cast were lolling about the Green Room, in various stages of shell-shock. George Birkitt was looking distinctly peeved, aware that Michael Banks had upstaged him in a way that was quite unanswerable. In a corner Malcolm Harris slumped on a chair, pale and whimpering.
The coat-hook was empty. Exonerating Alex wasn’t going to be that easy. And was exonerating him appropriate anyway? All the evidence so far pointed to the fact that he had done the killing.
Charles wandered through the door on to the stage, and found even more evidence. Clinching evidence.
Backstage the overhead working light gleamed on something metal that lay discarded by the door. Charles recognised it instantly.
It was the Smith and Wesson Chiefs Special revolver that he had first seen in the Number One dressing room of the Prince’s Theatre, Taunton.
He knelt down and, so as to avoid leaving fingerprints, felt the barrel with the back of his hand.
It was warm.
Depression flooded through him like fatigue. He didn’t quite know why he’d hoped that Alex could be cleared of the murder, but the confirmation of his friend’s guilt sapped him of all energy.
He left the gun where it was. The police would find it soon enough. Back at the Stage Door, Frances looked at him and, instantly reading his emotional state, took his hand.
‘Shall we go?’
‘I don’t know. I feel I should stay around, try and find out what’s happened and . . .’
But the decision was made for him. The police had arrived while he had been on stage, and a uniformed constable was now clearing the growing crowd round the Stage Door.
‘All right, if you could move along, please. There’s nothing to see, and we’ve got a lot to do, so we’d be very grateful if you could just go home. Come on, move along, please.’
He came face to face with Charles and Frances. ‘On your way, please. On your way. Unless you’re connected with the show, could you go home, please.’
‘I’m a member
of the cast,’ said Charles.
‘Oh. Were you backstage during the show?’
‘No, actually I was in the auditorium.’
‘Well, in that case, could you go home, please. You’ll hear anything there is to hear in the morning.’
Not only excluded from performing, the understudy was not even to be allowed to take part in the murder investigation.
‘Come along,’ said Frances. ‘Come home with me.’
Back at the house in Muswell Hill, they went upstairs and stood on the landing. ‘I think the spare room, Charles,’ she said.
He nodded. She hadn’t said it unkindly, and, in the state he was in, it seemed appropriate. And, in spite of it, he felt closer to her than he had for months.
The tensions of the week had taken their toll and he slept instantly. He had no dreams. But when he woke at quarter past six, his mind was full of ugly images, of Alex trembling, of the gun, and, most of all, of the expression of bewilderment and betrayal on Michael Banks’s face as he clutched at his chest and sank to the ground.
To frighten off these visions, and because further sleep was out of the question, he went downstairs to make some tea. It was strange being in the kitchen of the house they had shared. He was aware of the parts of it that remained unchanged and equally of the innovations. Nothing could he view without emotion. He saw Frances had bought a dishwasher. Yes, time was precious. She was a busy lady these days.
And she wanted to sell the house. That thought disturbed him almost more than the events of the previous night.
The kettle boiled. He warmed the pot, instinctively found the tea in the caddy Frances’s Auntie Pamela had given them as a wedding present, and brewed up. He arranged two mugs and a milk-bottle on a tray with the pot, and took them upstairs.
The door was ajar, and he pushed it gently open. Frances was still asleep. She lay firmly in the middle of their double bed, as he supposed she must do every night. In repose her face looked relaxed, but the fine network of wrinkles round the eyes showed her age.
He felt great warmth for her. Not desire at that moment, just warmth. He must never lose touch with her.
He put the tray down on the dressing table, and the noise woke her. She started, unaccustomed to anyone else in the house, but when she saw him, she smiled blearily.
