by Simon Brett
Charles went back to Hereford Road feeling excited. He had been glad to hear Geoffrey’s watertight alibi because that removed him from the running. And enabled Charles to follow the suspicions which were hardening in his mind. It wasn’t Geoffrey he suspected; it was his wife. He could not forget the tensed-up energy he had felt in Vee’s body as they had danced together. She was a woman capable of anything.
The chain of motivation was simple. Vee’s jealously of Charlotte had started when she was beaten for the role of Nina which she had regarded as hers by right. It had been compounded by the discovery of her husband’s affair with the upstart. That, however, she could have borne; what drove her to murder was the discovery that Charlotte was giving Geoffrey the one thing that their marriage could not – a child.
The opportunity for committing the crime was equally easily explained. Geoffrey had been at such pains to establish his own alibi that he hadn’t thought about his wife’s. While he was upstairs ranting through Leontes, she was assumed to be downstairs watching I. Claudius. So far as Geoffrey was concerned, that was what she was doing. He could presumably hear the television from upstairs.
But a television set conducts a one-way conversation, regardless of whether or not there is anyone watching. Vee, knowing that Geoffrey would get carried away by his performance, had every opportunity to leave the house after the show had started. There was plenty of time for her to have gone up to the Meckens’. Charlotte would have recognised her and let her in. A brief exchange, then Vee had taken Charlotte by surprise and strangled her. Put the body in the coal shed to delay its discovery and a brisk walk home to be back in time for the end of I, Claudius.
It was all conjecture, but it fitted. And, what was more, Charles thought he could prove it.
The proof lay on the table of his bedsitter. For reasons mainly of masochism (to see how much work other actors were getting), Charles always had the Radio Times delivered. Since he had no television and rarely listened to the radio, it was frequently thrown away unread. But on this occasion he felt sure it was going to be useful.
It was the Wednesday that interested him. He thought back to the Wednesday night when he had rung the Winters to get Robert Chubb’s number. He remembered the time. Twenty-five to eleven, because he had looked at his watch after speaking to Kate Venables. And when he had spoken to Geoffrey Winter, there had been a break in their conversation while Vee was given advice on how to adjust the television for a good picture on BBC2.
Charles almost shouted out loud when the Radio Times confirmed his suspicions. At ten o’clock until ten-fifty on BBC2 on Wednesday night there had been a repeat of the Monday’s episode of I, Claudius. Geoffrey Winter would not have been watching it, because he had missed so many of the earlier episodes.
So why should his wife watch the same program for a second time in three days? Unless of course she hadn’t been there to see it the first time.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHARLES HAD CAUSE to be grateful to sour Reggie for forcing him into joining the Breckton Backstagers. As a Social Member, it was quite legitimate for him to be propping up the Back Room bar at a quarter past seven that evening.
There were not many faces he recognized. Robert Chubb gave him the sort of glance most people reserve for windows and a few others offered insincere half-smiles. The only person who greeted him with anything like conviviality was Denis Hobbs, who bought him a large Bell’s. ‘You going to do some show or something down here then, Charles?’
Denis without Mary Hobbs was a refreshing change. He remained hearty, but didn’t seem to have the same obligation to be raucously jovial which he had demonstrated on their previous meeting.
Charles denied that he was likely to break into amateur dramatics. ‘Just a handy bar,’ he explained, hoping that Denis wouldn’t ask why it was handy for someone who lived fifteen miles away.
But Denis was a man without suspicion. He leaned forward to Charles and confided, ‘Exactly the reason I joined. I mean, you can’t turn up the chance of a bar on your doorstep, can you?’
‘So you don’t act?’
Denis erupted with laughter. ‘Me? Bloody hell, I could no sooner act than have a baby. Blimey, me an actor – no, I’m a builder, that’s what I am. Although Mary keeps trying to get me to say I work in the construction industry.’
The mimicry which he put into the last two words suggested that he was not as devoid of acting talent as he had implied. ‘No, the acting bit’s all Mary’s. Very keen she is on all this arty-farty stuff. I tell you,’ he confided like a schoolboy with a dirty story. ‘I’ve been more bored in that theatre next door than a poof in a brothel. Still, Mary enjoys it. Keeps her out of my hair and keeps her off the streets, eh?’ He laughed again robustly. ‘I’m only here for the beer – and I like to look at the scenery. The young female scenery, that is.’ He winked.
They were silent for a few moments. It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence, just a pause of drinking companionship. Then, idly, to make conversation, Charles asked whether there had been any further developments on the burglary.
‘No, not a thing. The police seem to think their best hope is to catch the villains when they try to get rid of the stuff. Apart from that, apparently there’s not much chance. I mean, they’ve been all through the house and they haven’t got any fingerprints or anything to go on.’
‘They left it very tidy?’
‘Oh yes, everything put back, all the doors closed – very neat job.’
‘Nasty thing to happen, though.’
‘Yes. Still, we were insured, so it could have been worse. Mary was a bit cut up about what was taken, sentimental value, all that, but I went out and bought her a load more gear and that seems to have calmed her down a bit.’
At that moment the Winters came in. Perhaps it was what Geoffrey had said in the morning, but they did look very together to Charles. As if they did share the complete relationship which he had described.
Denis Hobbs seemed to be slightly uneasy at their appearance, as if he suddenly had to be on his best behaviour. Mary continually told him what a privilege it was to know such artistic luminaries as the Winters.
Geoffrey did a light take, but greeted Charles cordially. As if by mutual agreement, they did not mention their earlier encounter.
Charles offered them drinks heartily. ‘What’s it to be? I’m just taking advantage of my new membership.’
Geoffrey wasn’t fooled by that, but he made no comment. Charles wondered if the architect knew that he wanted to talk to Vee.
It was possible. Certainly Geoffrey seemed to be keeping his wife at his side to inhibit private conversations. A new thought struck Charles. Maybe Geoffrey had discovered his wife’s crime and was set to defend her against investigation. That could make things difficult. Geoffrey’s was a formidable mind to have in opposition.
But the architect’s protection couldn’t last long. The Winter’s Tale rehearsal started at seven-thirty ‘and he gets furious if you’re late, so I’d better go. Will you be going straight back home, Vee?’
The question was delivered with studied casualness, but Charles could sense the tension beneath it. Vee, either deliberately or not, didn’t take the hint. ‘No, not straight away. I’ll just buy Charles a drink. See you later. Hope it goes well.’
‘Fine.’ Geoffrey went through to the rehearsal room with a cheery wave. Or was it his impression of a cheery wave? Charles was getting paranoid about Geoffrey Winter’s sincerity or lack of it.
He asked for a Bell’s and Vee bought him a large one. Denis and a lot of the others round the bar had left and so, whether Geoffrey wanted it or not, Charles and Vee were alone together.
She commented on her husband’s departure. ‘You know, he almost sounded as if he was jealous.’
‘What, of us?’
Vee shrugged. Charles laughed loudly, as if it was the best joke he had heard for a long time.
Interesting – straight away she put their meeting into a sexual c
ontext, just as she had done at the cast party. Once again he wasn’t interested. And once again he felt she wasn’t really interested either.
He decided that he would have to be a bit more subtle in questioning Vee than he had been with her husband. Better start at an uncontroversial level. ‘What are they rehearsing tonight?’
‘Blocking the first two acts. So I’m not wanted.’
‘Oh, I didn’t even realize you. were in the production. What are you playing?’
‘Perdita. Since yesterday.’ She pronounced it with triumph.
‘You mean it was going to be . . .?’
‘Charlotte, yes. Of course, it’s a terrible way to get a part, but it’s an ill wind . . .’ Her regret was merely formal.
At least she wasn’t disguising her satisfaction at Charlotte’s removal from the scene. She was now back in her position as undisputed queen of the juve leads in the Breckton Backstagers. Charles would have thought she was a bit long in the tooth to be ‘the prettiest low-born lass that ever ran on the greensward’ and a symbol of youthful beauty and regeneration, but now she was the best that Breckton had to offer. If she had killed Charlotte, then the returns were immediate.
Charles knew he had to play her gently. She was highly strung and information would have to be wheedled out of her. He hoped Geoffrey had been discreet and not mentioned their meeting earlier in the day. He did not want her to be on her guard.
Starting with flattery seemed the best approach with someone as self-absorbed as she was. He asked her about her acting career at Breckton, regretting that he had never had the pleasure of seeing her in a production.
She needed no second invitation. He had in his time met a good few professional actors and actresses who assumed that everyone shared their own consuming interest in their theatrical doings, but never one as voluble as Vee Winter. Perhaps living with another king-size ego who also liked to talk about his acting, she didn’t often get the chance to let rip in this way.
He got it all – the early aptitude for mimicry noted by loving parents, the success in elocution exams, the outstanding ability remarked upon by an English teacher, commendations at local festivals, the agonizing decision of the late teens as to whether to try for drama school and take it up professionally, then parental pressure and the final regrettable resolution to deprive the greater public of her talents.
At this point a pause was left for Charles to murmur some suitable insincerity about tragic waste.
‘And then of course I married and decided that it would be wrong for me to do something that would take me away from Geoffrey for long periods of time. He is a complex character and can be a full-time job. I often think it’s as well that we don’t have children, because he needs so much of my attention that they might not get a look-in.’
In this speech Charles could hear two threads of oft-repeated self justification. First, the very common suburban housewife’s explanation of why she never did anything more with her life, how the cares of marriage cut off in its bloom a career of unbelievable promise. In some cases – like, he reflected, that of Charlotte Mecken – it’s true, but in most, where only moderate talent is involved, it’s no more than a comforting fiction.
There was also the second well-rehearsed self-justification, for her childlessness. It was sad that this was felt necessary, but there was a defensive quality to her remarks about Geoffrey’s demands on her time. Ironic to Charles, with his knowledge of the other women among whom Geoffrey spread those needs.
But she gave him a cue to find some purely practical information. ‘You talk about Geoffrey being a full-time job. Do you actually have a real one?’
‘Job? Yes. I teach Speech and Drama at a local private school.’
‘Oh.’
This again seemed to need justification. ‘It’s very close and convenient. I get home for lunch. And of course I think one can give a lot to young minds. If you’ve got an enthusiasm for the theatre, it does communicate and stimulate their interest.’
‘Oh, certainly.’
‘Also the little extra money comes in handy.’
Knowing what he did about Geoffrey’s business affairs, Charles felt sure it did. He would imagine they must have been living more or less exclusively on Vee’s income for some time. Perhaps Geoffrey even conducted his affair with Charlotte on a grant from his wife.
But this digression on Vee’s work did not divert her long from the main subject of her dramatic triumphs. She started to list the shows she had been in through a few more drinks, and Charles’s attention was wavering when he suddenly heard himself being asked back to the house to see some of her scrapbooks.’
Instinctively he said yes, not certain whether scrapbooks were the latest form of etchings as a seduction bait. The more time he could spend with Vee, the more relaxed she became, the easier it was going to be to ask the questions he wanted to.
It might also be useful to get inside the Winters’ house again. If Vee Winter did kill Charlotte, he was going to need some tangible proof of it to convince the police.
Vee made their exit from the Back Room pointed, with loud goodbyes to everyone and messages that she’d see Geoffrey later. Again Charles felt the overtones of sexual intrigue. Vee wanted to be seen leaving with him, possibly to stimulate gossip among the Backbiters. But that was all; she seemed to want the aura of an illicit liaison rather than any illicit action. Or at least that was the impression he got.
He would presumably find out if he was right when they got back to the house.
As they walked back along the path to the main road, Charles looked covertly at his companion. If she had murdered Charlotte as he suspected, then this was the route she must have taken on the Monday night. But her face betrayed nothing.
The air was full of explosions and the sudden screams of rockets. Of course, fireworks. November the Fifth. His birthday. He recalled the old family joke that his mother had been frightened into delivery by a wayward jumping cracker.
On the common the celebrations were under way round the huge bonfire. Presumably there had been an effigy of Guy Fawkes hoisted on top of the pile, but now all was consumed in the tall rippling flags of flame.
To one side of the bonfire, in a roped-off area, some responsible fathers were donating Roman candles and Catherine wheels. Charles knew that this was the new approved policy; for greater safety, families were encouraged to pool their fireworks into this kind of communal party. To him it seemed to take away the excitement and make the exercise rather pointless. Like drinking non-alcoholic beer in motorway service cafés.
And in this case it didn’t even seem to be particularly safe. The leaping flames spat up lumps of burning debris, some of which had landed in a nearby tree and kindled the branches. The conflagration was in danger of getting out of hand.
Still, there were lots of responsible fathers to deal with the problem. Lots of over-insured men in their early forties who no doubt drove Volvos with the side-lights on in the daytime. As Charles and Vee passed, there seemed to be an argument among them as to whether they should call the fire brigade or not.
To his amusement, Charles saw that the organising spirit in the pro-fire brigade lobby was sour Reggie from the Backstagers. Taking his role as professional wet blanket literally this time. He scurried about issuing orders, followed by two small children of one sex or the other whose faces were as sour as their father’s. It was strange to see the niggling committee man in another context.
Vee waved at Reggie, but he didn’t see her. Once again she seemed to be drawing attention to her being with Charles, to set tongues wagging.
A group of over-excited children rushed towards them, involved in some inexplicable, but evidently very funny, game. Vee moved aside to let them pass. As she did so, the flames suddenly threw a spotlight on her face. The expression was one of infinite pain and bitterness.
They walked in silence down the paved path to the main road. There Vee stopped outside an off-licence. ‘No drink in the house, I
’m afraid.’
She selected a cheapish bottle of Italian red wine. Charles insisted on paying for it and she didn’t argue. His new knowledge of the Winters’ financial plight made sense of such details.
As Vee put her key in the front door, they heard the distant siren of a fire engine. Sour Reggie had triumphed. For the firework party-goers the evening’s entertainment was ending.
But, as Vee Winter laid her arm on his shoulder and ushered him into the house, Charles Paris felt that perhaps his evening’s entertainment was only beginning.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHARLES SIPPED HIS wine and tried not to look too downcast when Vee came in loaded with her theatrical memorabilia. Scrapbooks, programs, a box of photographs and – most daunting of all – the cassette recorder that he had seen Geoffrey using. Oh dear, it looked as if he was going to get an Action Replay of her entire dramatic career.
He settled down to be bored out of his mind. Vee, he knew, was inflicting this on him because he was a professional actor. She wanted his commendation, she wanted him to say how impoverished the British theatre had been by her decision to turn her back on it. Maybe she even wanted to gain his praise so that she would compare favourably with those whom he had condemned at the Critics’ Circle.
He found her exhibitionism sad. The fact that she needed this bolstering. It showed that Geoffrey had too simple an interpretation of his wife’s character. Her insecurity spoke in every nervous action. To think that she would not be jealous of another woman was totally wrong.
The overtones of sexuality which she gave to the proceedings also revealed her insecurity. She needed attention, she needed Charles to be aware that the two of them together was a potentially sexual scenario, but he felt that was all she needed. If he had made a pass at her, he would have got a considerate rebuff. She wouldn’t have minded – in fact, she would rather have welcomed it as a boost to her ego and as something else to feel martyred about. She liked to think of herself as a tragic queen, resisting all blandishments from other men, because of her devotion to one man who was not really worthy of her.
