by Simon Brett
‘No.’
‘I didn’t know you knew him.’
‘I didn’t.’ He sipped the coffee. It wasn’t what he needed. His body felt dangerously unstable and bilious. ‘Juliet, could you get me a drop of whisky?’
‘At this time in the morning? Daddy’-with all the awe of a television documentary-are you an alcoholic?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it. Where does liking a drink stop and being an alcoholic start?’
‘I should think it starts when you need a hair of the dog the next morning.’ Juliet italicised the unfamiliar phrase.
‘Well, I do need one now.’
‘I don’t know whether I should-’
‘Oh, get it!’ he snapped impatiently. As Juliet scurried shocked to the cocktail cabinet, Charles asked himself whether he was in fact an alcoholic. On balance, he decided he probably wasn’t. He could do without drink. But he wouldn’t like to have to. It was an old joke-a teetotaller knows every morning when he wakes up that that’s the best he’s going to feel all day. Drink at least offers some prospect of things improving.
He felt Juliet’s shocked eyes on him as he poured whisky into his coffee and drank it gratefully. It made him feel more stable, but desperately tired. Waves of relief washed over him. Steen had died of a heart attack. Thoughts of murder had been prompted only by the events of the previous week and the melodramatic circumstances of the discovery of the body. All the contradictory details evaporated. Charles believed what he wanted to believe. The pressure was off. ‘Juliet love, what’s the time?’
‘Twenty past ten.’
‘Look, I think I’ll go back to bed for a bit.’
‘But you must have something to eat.’ Frances’ eternal cry.
‘When have you got to go to work?’
‘Have to leave quarter to two.’
‘Wake me at half-past twelve. Then I’ll have something to eat. I promise.’
It wasn’t until after lunch and Juliet’s departure that Charles remembered about Jacqui, still lying low at Hereford Road. The public announcement of Steen’s death had sapped the urgency out of him and yesterday’s imperatives no longer mattered. Jacqui was just the frayed end of an otherwise completed pattern and it was with reluctance that he dialled his own number.
Jacqui answered. All of the Swedish girls must be out at their various Swedish employments. Her voice was guarded, but not panic-stricken. ‘Charles? I wondered when you were going to ring. I was just about to leave.’
‘Jacqui, I’ve got some bad news…’
‘It’s all right. I heard. On Open House.’
‘What?’
‘The radio.’
‘Ah. Well, I’m sorry.’
‘Thank you.’ There was a pause, and Charles could feel how fiercely she was controlling her emotions.
‘Jacqui, I’m afraid I never got the photos to him.’
‘That hardly matters now, does it? Nothing much matters now.’
‘Jacqui…’
‘I’ll be all right.’
‘Yes. I suppose that’s the end of it, isn’t it?’
‘I wouldn’t count on that.’
‘What do you mean?’ Charles had an unpleasant feeling he was about to sacrifice his recently-won calm.
‘Do you think he died of a heart attack, Charles?’
‘Yes.’
There was a grunt from the other end of the line, a sound between exasperation and despair. ‘Charles, I can’t talk about it now. I’m too
… I’ll talk when-’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘Yes, if I feel OK. Come round when you… Evening. Eight or
…’
‘OK. I’ll be there. Archer Street. You’ll be all right now?’
‘Like hell.’ The phone went dead.
Before Charles left the house in Pangbourne, he took the envelope of photographs out of his inside pocket and looked at them. With Steen’s death they had changed. Already they had the air of curios or souvenirs-oddities from another age. The erotic quality had drained from them and they seemed like sepia prints in an album of someone else’s relations. Mildly interesting, but ultimately irrelevant.
He looked around for somewhere to destroy them. The trouble with architect-designed houses on estates is that they have nothing like an open fire. The central heating was fired by oil. (Miles had already spoken gloomily of the inevitable price rises which the Middle East situation must precipitate. As he said portentously, ‘You know, Pop, the days of cheap fuel are over.’) The cooker was electric. There was no convenient stove to consume the evidence.
Charles took a giant box of matches from the kitchen and went out into the garden. The forty-foot long area was neatly organised. A potting shed of conspicuous new timber, a patio area protected by a screen of latticework bricks, a path of very sane crazy paving winding diagonally across the lawn, a meticulous row of cloches. Only the winter shagginess of the grass gave any hint of rampant nature or humanity.
It had started to rain. Big heavy drops that were cold as they fell, penetrating, on his head and shoulders. In the far corner of the garden Charles saw what he was looking for. Neatly screened by another low wall of lattice-work bricks were a compost heap, bound in by wooden slats, and an empty metal incinerator. He lit the photographs one by one and let the flimsy black rectangles of ash drop into the bin. Finally he burnt the envelope, then stirred the dampening fragments into a black unrecognisable mash.
X
Second Act Beginners
The obituary appeared in The Times the next day, Tuesday 11th December.
MR MARIUS STEEN
Impresario and Showman
Mr Marius Steen, CBE. the impresario, died on Sunday. He was 68. Born in Warsaw in 1905, his full name was Marius Ladislas Steniatowski, but he shortened it for convenience when his parents came to England in 1921. His father was a tailor and for some years the young Steen helped him in his business. But already the attraction of entertainment was strong; Steen spent most of his limited pocket-money on tickets for the music hall and in 1923 launched himself as Mario, the Melodic Whistler. In spite of changes in name and act, he was never a success as a performer, but became increasingly interested in the business of promotion and management. The first act he managed was Herbert and his Horrible Dogs in 1924.
Soon he was progressing from individual acts to the presentation of complete shows. Though he started with wrestling and all-girl revues, by 1930 he was presenting variety bills at music halls all over the country. Through the Thirties he centralised his activities on London and, in 1935, had his first major success with the spectacular revue Go With The Girls. None of these early productions had a great deal to recommend them artistically, but Steen always maintained that success must be measured by public reaction alone. And by that criterion his shows were highly successful.
Steen continued presenting revues, with an increasing reliance on scripted comedy rather than just dancing girls, until the outbreak of war. Then he moved into the cinema and, with his customary unflagging energy, set up a series of films in keeping with the jingoistic spirit of the times. Of these the most memorable was Brothers in Battledress, directed by William Hankin.
After the war Marius Steen continued to put on shows and gradually he forsook revue for musicals and light comedies. What’s in the Box? was one of the greatest successes of 1953, and in 1960 Steen’s purchase of the King’s Theatre off Shaftesbury Avenue heralded a string of commercial triumphs, including One Thing After Another, which ran for three years, and, currently, Sex of One and Haifa Dozen of the Other.
Steen maintained his interest in the cinema and put money into many ventures including the highly successful Steenway Productions, which make horror films. He was also a major shareholder in three commercial television companies, and was at the time of his death interesting himself in the production of programmes for network on the new commercial radio station.
Marius Steen was often criticised for his heal
thy disrespect for ‘Art’ and there are many stories of this supposed philistinism which he loved to tell against himself. (On first hearing of Michelangelo, he is reputed to have asked ‘Michael who?’ His alleged description of opera as ‘fat gits singing’ is probably apocryphal.) He was a forthright man who made enemies, but was loved and respected by his friends. He had no hobbies, maintaining that if a person needed hobbies, then there was something wrong with his work. He divided his time between his houses in London and Streatley and a villa in the South of France. In 1969 he was awarded the CBE for services to the theatre.
Marius Steen married Rose Whittle in 1934. She died in 1949 and he never remarried. He leaves a son.
Charles was impressed. It was quite an achievement for anyone in the theatre to command that many column inches in The Times. The obituary seemed like a washing of the body. It cleaned Steen up. The existence of the photographs, all the sordid aspects of the man’s life were rinsed away by the formalised prose. The Western ritual of death was observed-the obligation to remember the most dignified image of the deceased. Like those ghastly American mausoleums where the embalmed corpse is presented at its best, dressed and smiling, prior to burial. But Charles had a nagging feeling that, however Marius Steen was tarted up in death, his corpse would not lie down.
Charles arrived at the Archer Street flat with a two-litre bottle of Valpolicella from Oddbins and a determination to be very slow on the uptake in any discussion of Steen’s death. Jacqui looked ghastly when she opened the door. Her face was pale and her eyes were puffy red slits.
‘Are you all right?’
‘I will be, Charles. I’ll just sit down for a moment.’
‘Can I get you a drink?’
‘No. It’d make me sick. But help yourself.’
The events of the last few days had made Charles forget about Jacqui’s flat being done over, but inside it the evidence was all too clear. She had obviously made some attempt to tidy up. There were two cardboard boxes in the middle of the room full of bits of glass and torn clothes. But the curtains were still hanging shredded from their rails, and the bed smelt of oil from the smashed lamp. The little room looked sad and crippled.
He didn’t make any comment, but found an unbroken glass and filled it with Valpolicella. ‘Do you want to go out to eat, Jacqui?’
‘No, I couldn’t.’
‘Hmm.’ The silence was obtrusive. Feebly he repeated himself. ‘Do you feel all right?’
‘Charles, the bloke I loved and whose kid I’ve got has just been murdered.’
‘I’m sorry.’ He stolidly avoided reacting to the word ‘murdered’. Jacqui softened. ‘I’ll get you some food later. When I can face it.’
‘Don’t worry about that. Not particularly hungry.’
‘No.’ Again they were conscious of the silence. Then Jacqui burst out. ‘He always was a little sod.’
Charles was genuinely amazed. ‘Who?’
‘Nigel.’
‘Nigel Steen?’
‘Well, who else?’
‘Why do you suddenly bring him in?’
‘Because he killed Marius, that’s why.’
This new direction of thought was too sudden for Charles to take in. Deliberately, he slowed down. ‘What on earth do you mean? You haven’t got any reason for saying that.’
‘Of course I have. Who else stood to get anything out of Marius’ death?’
‘I don’t know. I would have thought Nigel was doing all right anyway. He didn’t need to murder anyone. Presumably he’d have got everything when his father went. He only had to wait.’
‘He’s greedy. Anyway, things may have changed. Maybe he had to move fast.’
‘What do you mean?’ Charles asked patiently, determined to humour her through this crazy new idea.
‘Marius was thinking of changing his will in favour of me and the baby.’
‘Oh yes.’ Charles tried to sound believing, but failed.
‘Yes, he bloody was. He was even talking about us getting married.’
‘When was this?’
‘First in the South of France. Then when I told him about the baby he was more definite. He said he’d felt awful about the abortion last time, and he wanted to keep this one and marry me and start again.’
‘And cut Nigel out of the will?’
‘I suppose so.’
It didn’t sound very plausible. Even if Steen had ever had such intentions, the events of the last week made it clear that he had changed his mind. And the whole idea of remarriage and disowning Nigel was the sort of novelette situation that would appeal to Jacqui. Still, he couldn’t be completely brutal with her. ‘Why didn’t you mention this before?’
‘It was a secret. Between Marius and me. It was all going to be secret. Even when we married it was going to be a secret for a bit. But now he’s dead…’ She broke down.
Charles calmed her and forced her to drink a little wine. But when she was composed again, he felt he had to be cruel. If Steen had been murdered (and he had no cause to believe that that was the case), then it was something to do with the Sweets and the blackmailing business. It was dangerous for Jacqui to go around blaming his son. She was quite capable of going to the police and making accusations which, since she hadn’t a shred of evidence, could only lead to trouble. This nonsense had to be stopped.
‘If what you say is true, how do you explain Steen’s behaviour during the past week? Hardly the actions of a devoted husband-to-be.’
He could see from her face that that really hurt, and also that it was something she hadn’t been able to work out satisfactorily for herself. ‘Well, Nigel kept him from me. Marius went off to Berkshire-where he didn’t want to be disturbed. He’d often do that,’ she added defensively, ‘go off with a great pile of scripts, looking for his next show. And then Nigel left all those messages for me.’
‘And he sent the note?’
‘Yes.’
‘Pity I burnt it. We could have got the handwriting analysed,’ he said sceptically.
‘That note’s just the sort of thing the little sod would do.’
‘Jacqui, why, if Nigel had decided to kill his father anyway, did he bother to give the impression you were out of favour?’
‘So that, when he’d done it, nobody would believe me when I said about us getting married. They’d think we’d had a quarrel.’
It was ingenious, but Charles didn’t feel very inclined to accept the reasoning. ‘All right then, when did Nigel do the murder?’
‘Sunday evening. When he says he found the body.’
‘How do you know he found the body? It wasn’t in the papers.’
‘I rang Morrison. He told me.’
‘Who’s Morrison?’
‘Sort of odd-job man at Orme Gardens. He was meant to be the chauffeur, but Marius liked driving himself. I rang Morrison and he told me Nigel had driven down to Streatley and found the body dead in bed at about quarter past eleven on Sunday night. Well, Marius never went to bed before one, so I don’t believe that for a start.’
‘I think you may have to believe it.’ Charles told her about his movements on the Sunday night, concluding, ‘… so it must have been the arrival of Nigel’s car that made me run out of the place.’
‘And you are sure Marius was dead?’
‘Quite sure. He was cold. He had been dead some time.’
‘Perhaps Nigel had come earlier and killed him and then arranged to come back and find the body.’
‘I hate to sound like a detective, but there was a puddle outside the front gate and only one new set of tyre-marks between the Saturday night and the Sunday night. They must have been Steen coming back on the Saturday. I know he did come back because of the new tape on the Ansaphone.’
‘Perhaps Nigel killed him on the Saturday night.’ Jacqui was desperate to hang on to her theory, but she could feel it slipping away. Charles shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Jacqui, but you must face the facts. Marius had a history of heart trouble-yo
u say he’d had a minor attack before you went to France in the summer. He was a man of 68-worked hard all his life-never made any concessions to age. Is it surprising that he should die a natural death from a heart attack? Apart from anything else, if there were suspicious circumstances, the doctor wouldn’t have signed a certificate. So far as we know there’s been no suspicion of foul play.’
‘The doctor must have been in league with Nigel,’ Jacqui insisted truculently.
‘If there was any mark on the body, the undertaker would notice.’
‘There are poisons which don’t leave any trace.’
‘Jacqui, my love’ — he deliberately sounded patronising. Having chosen the role of the infinitely reasonable older man, he was determined to stick to it-you have read too many detective stories.’
That finally silenced her. She sat still for a full five minutes, then stood up brusquely. ‘I’ll get you some food.’
It was another of Jacqui’s frozen meals. This time fish steaks with still-frozen centres and bright slivers of French beans. Charles consumed most of the Valpolicella and tried to steer the conversation away from anything to do with Marius Steen. It was difficult. Small talk kept erupting into some new accusation or burst of crying from Jacqui. Charles found it a strain and was relieved when the meal was over and he felt he could decently leave. ‘You get to bed, Jacqui. You look absolutely knackered. I’d better be off.’
‘Yes. Charles.’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you mind staying?’
‘No. OK.’ He lied. She obviously needed him, and so the awkwardness must be prolonged.
‘I don’t mean… you know…’ she said feebly, and the waif-like expression on her strained face made it difficult to grasp immediately what she did mean. Then he realised she was referring to sex. It seemed incongruous in relation to the events of the last week.
