Murder Unprompted: A Charles Paris Murder Mystery

by Brett, Simon

  ‘Charles. Good gracious. A cup of tea in bed. I can’t think when you last did that for me.’

  ‘When you were pregnant with Juliet, maybe.’

  ‘Probably.’

  He poured the tea. He felt slightly awkward, as though he were in a strange woman’s room. He passed a mug to her and she propped herself up on the pillows to accept it.

  ‘You feeling better this morning, Charles?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  ‘You looked terrible last night.’

  ‘Yes, I felt it. Thank you for salvaging me.’

  ‘Any time.’

  They were silent. There was still a restraint between them. Frances moved over positively to switch on the radio. ‘See what’s happening in the world,’ she said breezily.

  ‘Hmm.’ Radio Four murmured earnestly from the speaker. ‘Are you still thinking of selling the house?’ Charles blurted out.

  ‘Yes. It’s with the agents.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Mind you, they say the market’s pretty slack at the moment. And the trouble is I’m only here in the evenings to show people around. So I think it may take some time.’

  ‘Yes.’ This information made Charles feel disproportionately cheerful, as though he had suddenly been reprieved from something.

  He became aware that the radio was talking about Michael Banks. Someone was giving an appreciation of his career. They must have worked fast to get it together, Charles thought. A busy night for them.

  And no doubt a busy night of police questioning for The Hooded Owl company at the Variety Theatre. A lot must have been happening while he had slept.

  The appreciation of Michael Banks was made up of interviews with his friends in the business. It was remarkable how many eminent names had allowed themselves to be woken up in the middle of the night to talk about him. And remarkable with what unanimity of love they spoke.

  But, as Charles knew, Michael Banks had been a person who inspired love. For the first time since the shooting, Charles felt, not shock, but a sense of the tragic waste of his death.

  For Alex he felt nothing but pity. The killing had not been a rational act; when he did it, Alex Household had been mentally ill. Charles felt guilty for not having recognised the seriousness of the actor’s state. Maybe he could have done something to avert the tragedy.

  ‘But what of the show?’ asked the radio presenter. ‘Needless to say, no reviews of The Hooded Owl have appeared in the papers today, but from all accounts the play was being very well received when the tragedy occurred. But surely Michael Banks’s death must end the run before it had even started. Apparently not, according to the show’s producer, Paul Lexington.’

  Paul’s familiar voice came on, tired but as confident as ever.‘No. Of course, we are all shattered by what has occurred, but we are professionals. It is our job to entertain the public and that is what we will continue to do. Don’t worry, the show will go on.’

  ‘How soon?’

  ‘Tonight. There will be a performance of The Hooded Owl tonight.’

  ‘Tonight? But can you replace Michael Banks at that sort of notice?’

  ‘Yes, we can.’

  ‘But I understood . . .’ The interviewer picked his way carefully around the sub judice laws. ‘I understood that Mr. Banks’s understudy is . . . nott available.’

  ‘That is true. The part will be taken by another member of the company.’

  ‘May I ask his name?’

  ‘Certainly. His name is Charles Paris.’

  ‘Who?’ asked the interviewer.

  ‘WHO?’ echoed Charles Paris.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THE NERVES on the first night at Taunton had been bad; so had the understudy nerves of the first night at the Variety; but they were nothing to the sheer blind terror that attended Charles Paris as he waited to go on stage in the role in which Michael Banks’s career had been so tragically cut short the night before.

  Charles had not really believed it would happen. After hearing his name on the radio, he had thought it must be just bravado on Paul Lexington’s part, the young producer falling into cliché, insisting that the show must go on when all logic showed it was impossible. He must have been interviewed during the night of panic following the murder; in the rational light of dawn he would recognise that his words had been just heroics.

  Charles had so convinced himself of this that he didn’t ring in to the production office until ten-thirty, deliberately giving the producer time to sober up his intoxicated imagination.

  ‘Charles!’ said Paul Lexington’s voice. ‘Where the hell have you been? I’ve been ringing your number for hours.’

  ‘Ah. Well, I didn’t actually spend the night at home.’

  ‘Well, now you have rung, get in here as quickly as you can. Where are you?’

  ‘Muswell Hill.’

  ‘Get a cab and charge it.’

  ‘But what’s the hurry?’ asked Charles, deliberately obtuse.

  ‘You’re going on tonight playing the father.’

  Charles took a deep breath, mustering the arguments he had prepared. ‘Paul, I don’t know if you have realised this yet, but I am not the understudy to the part of the father. I am understudying George Birkitt, who, when I last saw him, was looking as fit as a flea.’

  ‘Charles, this is an emergency! It’s not the time to argue about the small print of your contract. I’ll sort out the extra money with your agent.’

  ‘That is not what I’m arguing about. If I could play the part of the father for you tonight, I would be happy to oblige. But the point you seem to have missed is that I don’t know the lines.’

  ‘Nor did Michael Banks.’

  ‘No, but . . . Good Lord, you don’t mean . . .?’

  But that was exactly what Paul Lexington did mean. If Michael Banks could get through the part having his lines relayed to him by radio, then so. the Producer’s reasoning ran, could any other actor. And since Charles knew the production so well, he’d be able to remember the moves and . . .

  Anyway, the show had to go on that night. Paul had given public undertakings on national radio and television that it would. His boast would also be in the later editions of the evening papers. It was a God-given publicity opportunity.

  Charles was prepared to contest the definition of ‘God-given’ under the circumstances, but Paul didn’t give him time. ‘Find that cab and be here ten minutes ago!’ he ordered before putting the phone down.

  It was a strange day, most of which Charles walked through in a dream. What remained of the morning was to be spent acclimatising himself to the deaf-aid receiver and learning how to pace himself with the A.S.M. who was going to feed the lines.

  That was agony. Charles kept remembering what Micky Banks had gone through at the same stage, and often, like his predecessor, was ready to throw in the towel and say it was impossible. His mind wasn’t up to speaking one line while listening to another, and at the same time trying to remember the next move. His familiarity with his own original part didn’t help either. In the scenes where the father talked to the character now played by George Birkitt, he kept hearing the father’s line in his ear, mistaking it for his cue, and coming in with George’s line. There seemed no prospect of his ever getting the technique.

  He bashed away at it with the A.S.M. solidly from eleven-fifteen, when he arrived at the theatre, until half past two, without any break for lunch or the drink he desperately craved. The rest of the cast were called for three to do a complete rehearsal of all the scenes he was in.

  And, suddenly, just as had happened to Michael Banks, at the eleventh hour the rhythm started to come. Partly it was familiarity with the lines after three hours of going through them, but also it was a kind of relaxation that came with the acceptance of disaster. This is never going to work, Charles was thinking, so what is the point of worrying about it? With that thought came relief, and with relief sufficient detachment for him to split his mind, to let one part concentrate on
hearing the lines, and the other on performing. The only sensation he could equate it with was that remoteness that comes during a long run, when the lines of the play get delivered every night, but the actor’s mind is miles away, thinking about anything but the performance he is giving.

  The rest of the company was wonderfully supportive. They all looked shattered after the shock and lack of sleep of the night before, but they all worked for him, recognising his need as only professional actors can. The only one who was less than whole-hearted in his support was George Birkitt, whose mind seemed to be on something else (no doubt whether his billing would be affected by Michael Banks’s demise, and whether it was really appropriate for him to stay in the show and play a smaller part than Charles Paris).

  But all the others demonstrated the unshakeable freemasonry of actors in a crisis. They were all very sharp and attentive, prepared to go back over scenes or lines as often as was required, patient when Charles lost the line, encouraging when he got a flow of dialogue working.

  Through his haze, Charles realised that it wasn’t just the crisis that made them so deferential; it was the part he was now playing, too. Willy-nilly, he was now the star of The Hooded Owl, and the rest of the cast were giving him a taste of the treatment afforded to stars. It was something Charles Paris had never before experienced, and it felt very strange.

  And so, like a grotesque dream, the hours passed. The ‘half’ came. Charles made himself up for the new role, and dressed in the new costume. Fortunately, the latter was really new. Apart from the fact that Michael Banks had been bigger than he was, the dead man’s clothes were still being examined by the police. Which was a relief to his replacement.

  As he was preparing, all the company came in with good wishes and pledges of support. Paul Lexington exhorted him to do his best. The house was full, he said. As he thought, all the publicity had paid off.

  The young Producer looked buoyant. Charles wasn’t too distracted to have the thought that Michael Banks’s replacement must have considerably reduced the running costs of the production.

  Then came the reassuringly calm voice of the Stage Manager over the loudspeaker. ‘Beginners, Act One, please. All the best, everyone.’

  Charles rose from his seat and walked out of the dressing room. As he closed the door, he noticed for the first time that there was a star on it. The dream continued during the performance, but its nightmare quality receded. Once the sheer terror subsided and Charles realised both that he wasn’t going to pass out and that he could manage the lines, he even began to enjoy it. He had forgotten the pleasure of playing a major part in a good play in the West End. (Well, to be honest with himself, he had to admit that ‘forgotten’ wasn’t the right word. But he did enjoy the unfamiliar experience.)

  The performance was not without mishap. He did lose the lines on more than one occasion and threshed around helplessly through pauses that seemed eternal, until the A.S.M.’s quiet voice in his ear managed to get him back on to the right track. But these moments did not seem to lose the play’s tension. The concentration of the cast was so strong that the mood was well maintained.

  The audience kept up their concentration too. They all knew what had happened the previous night and, from Wallas Ward’s announcement before the curtain rose, they knew that Charles had stepped in at very short notice. They didn’t know about the device of the hearing-aid, but that was a point in Charles’s favour; it made his feat of getting through the part even more remarkable. As he stood on the stage he felt pouring out from the audience that most British of reflexes: the will for the underdog to win.

  He spent the interval just sitting in his dressing room, gathering his strength for the next act. People came in and out, but he didn’t really notice them or their words of encouragement.

  In the second act, he felt the power of Malcolm Harris’s writing, and felt his own performance rise to the rhythms of the play.

  The scene with Lesley-Jane started. Everyone knew the climax was approaching. Lesley-Jane looked strained and peaky and her performance was once again subdued. The audience was silent, waiting. They seemed to know when the tragedy of the previous night had occurred, and had maybe come to the theatre in such numbers in the vague hope that they might get a repeat showing.

  This thought came into Charles’s already overcrowded mind, and he found himself looking off into the wings, whence the fatal shot had come.

  He was surprised how little he could see. The brightness of the light on stage made it difficult for him to focus, and a large spot, positioned to give the illusion of daylight from a window of the set, left the recesses of the wings in obscurity. Charles could not even see the A.S.M. who was reading his lines, though he knew the youth would be keeping him in view to watch for signs of difficulty. To be seen from the stage on the O.P. side, a person would have to stand very close to the edge of the set.

  Lesley-Jane Decker had seen someone or something in the wings the previous night and it had made her scream. He felt sure of that. It wasn’t the sight of Michael Banks falling that had set her off. She had looked off-stage and then screamed.

  Charles decided he must talk to her when the opportunity arose.

  But the thoughts of detection were fatal to his concentration. He lost the line again and, though he tried to disguise the lapse with a dramatic move, he feared he had broken the tension of the scene.

  But it was a good scene and, by the time he got to the Hooded Owl speech, he was back on course. He felt very emotional, caught up in his own acting and awareness of the speech’s significance from the night before. The emotion and power built through the lines.

  As he turned to face the glass case, he felt every eye in the theatre on him.

  ‘. . . This stuffed bird has always been in the room. Imagine it had perception, a memory to retain our follies. Oh God, the weakness that these walls have witnessed! And this bird has lived through it all, has seen it all, impassively, in silence.’

  He reached for the case and took it in both hands.

  ‘Well, I’m not going to be spied on any longer!’

  He dashed the Hooded Owl down on to the middle of the stage, where it shattered satisfyingly.

  In the audience no one breathed. He had them exactly where every actor who ever lived wants his public, watching his every movement, letting him dictate their lives for a little moment.

  He knew the speech had worked.

  Probably it was because of what had happened in the play at that point on the previous night.

  But was perhaps a little part of its success, he dared to hope, because he had done it rather well?

  It was only when he got back to the star dressing room after the performance that Charles fully took in its luxurious appointments. It was wallpapered in a pleasing pattern and the chairs were painted gold with red velvet seats. There was an attractive screen in one corner. On the make-up table was that incredible rarity backstage – a telephone. And, as if that wasn’t enough, the dressing room turned out to be two rooms. Through a door was another little compartment, with a bed and a fridge.

  Charles kept looking round for the room’s occupant. He still couldn’t believe it was him.

  Members of cast rushed in and out, throwing their arms round him effusively. It wasn’t what usually happened to him after a performance. To his fury, he found he was crying.

  Paul Lexington came in. ‘Terrific, Charles. Really bloody marvellous!’ And he thrust a brown paper parcel into his hands.

  It felt like a bottle. It was a bottle. And a better bottle than he had dared hope. A large bottle of Bell’s whisky.

  Charles realised that he had previously underestimated the young Producer’s sensitivity.

  ‘You like one now, Paul?’

  ‘No, thanks. Look, I’ve booked us all into the Italian place round the corner. Sort of thank you. See you there as soon as you can make it.’

  ‘Terrific. Thank you.’ Charles poured himself a large slug of whisky and downed it. It
didn’t touch anything till his stomach, whence it sent out radiance.

  Then he noticed that there was an envelope on his make-up table. Addressed ‘Charles Paris’, he was sure it hadn’t been there at the interval.

  He tore the envelope open, his mind full of various pleasing conjectures. The letter lived up to none of them, though its contents were not unpleasing.

  The notepaper was headed with a Knightsbridge address.

  Dear Charles,

  I gather that you are taking over tonight from poor Micky. Just wanted to drop you a note to say break a leg and all those other theatrical clichés. You are very brave to step into the breach.

  Be nice to see you some time. If you’d like to meet up for a drink or something, do give me a call on the above number.

  All the best for tonight, Dottie

  Try as he might, he could not read the letter without feeling sexual overtones. Just as when she had spoken to him, the invitation seemed overt. And, in the heightened mood brought on by the success of his performance, it was an invitation he felt inclined to take up.

  On the other hand, it was strange . . . If he was reading it right, it was hardly the behaviour of a recently widowed woman, particularly one who had lost her husband in such dramatic circumstances. Even if they lived apart, surely . . . Perhaps he was fantasising.

  He looked at it again, searching for another reading. He found one, but didn’t like it, because it hinged on the word ‘brave’. Micky Banks had been shot dead on stage. Might his successor be ‘brave’ because he was laying himself open to the same fate . . .?

  There was a tap at the door. ‘Come in.’

  He saw Frances in the mirror. With an instinctive and depressingly familiar reflex, he pushed Dottie’s letter under a towel and turned to greet his wife.

  ‘Good God. Were you out front?’

  She nodded. ‘Charles, you were wonderful.’

  Her arms were round his neck and her lips against his. Unwelcome tears threatened again to expose him for a big softie.

  ‘Oh, Frances.’

  ‘Charles.’