Situation Tragedy

by Simon Brett

  Outside in the street, where the apparatus of filming had mostly been cleared up, he met Jay Lewis, looking young and waif-like in the moonlight.

  ‘Have you been through the grilling too?’

  She nodded. ‘Not very nice. Poor Robin.’

  ‘Has Aurelia gone?’

  ‘Yes. I organised a car for her about an hour ago. She looked exhausted. I’m just waiting for mine to come.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Actually, Charles, you’re Bayswaterish, aren’t you? I’m Notting Hill. You could share the cab.’

  ‘Great. If you’re sure that’s okay.’

  She was. In the cab she still seemed waif-like, so it was only kind for him to put his arm round her. On the journey, with the predictable interruptions to give directions to the driver, who appeared never to have driven in London before, a degree of intimacy was established.

  They arrived outside her flat first. She didn’t seem keen to leave him. ‘My flat-mate’s away. I don’t really like to go in on my own. After what happened to Robin.’

  Charles, ever the obliging gentleman, dismissed the cab. As they climbed up the stairs, he said, ‘About your flatmate, you know I said I wanted to pick her brains on Film Research . . .’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘I wonder if you’d mind asking her about a movie Aurelia did with her husband. Late Thirties, I should think. Called Death Takes a Short Cut.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of it.’

  ‘Nor have I, sweetie. That’s why I’m asking.’

  ‘Hock-A. I’ll ask her.’

  Jay Lewis opened the door of her flat. Once she had closed it, she came into Charles’s arms.

  In bed he disentangled himself lazily. ‘Very nice indeed.’

  ‘Really. You mean it?’

  ‘Certainly do.’

  She sighed. ‘There’s so much to learn.’

  ‘As a PA?’

  ‘Yes, and . . .’

  ‘And sex?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Well, I think you have a natural aptitude for it.’

  ‘Good.’ She snuggled into his shoulder. ‘You know. Ernie Franklyn Junior says a PA should really be prepared to sleep with anyone.’

  ‘Oh, does he?’ said Charles Paris. ‘Thank you very much.’

  West End Television Ltd,

  W.E.T. House,

  235–9 Lisson Avenue,

  London NW1 3PQ.

  6th July, 1979.

  Dear Charles,

  I enclose some revised pages for the beginning of Part Two of this week’s script. As we lost last night’s filming and are working so close to time, Bob and I have decided it’ll be simpler to do a rewrite and replace the exterior scene with a new scene in the hall. I turned to Willy and Sam who, at incredibly short notice, have come up with the enclosed, which I think is terrific and well up to the standard of the other scripts I’m getting from them for later episodes. I think we really are on to a very exciting series!

  On a slightly sadder note, I heard this morning that Dob’s little dog, Cocky, died during the night. As you know, she doted on him and is bound to be very upset. I’m sending this letter to you by taxi to ensure that you get it before going to rehearsal on Saturday. Do be gentle with Dob.

  Once again, many thanks for all your hard work on the series. See you at the Crew Run on Monday.

  With the warmest good wishes,

  Yours sincerely,

  Peter

  PETER Lipscombe

  Producer The Strutters

  The detective part of Charles’s mind was in confusion. Every time he got near a theory which linked the deaths around The Strutters, something new came along to break it up. On the Thursday night he had been convinced that Dame Aurelia Howarth had arranged the murders of Sadie Wainwright, Scott Newton and Rod Tisdale, because she had gone slightly dotty and was convinced that they all meant harm to her precious little dog.

  But, even as he had reached that conclusion, another death had occurred, a death in which Aurelia could not possibly have had any hand. He was getting rather sick of providing alibis for his main suspects.

  And now, to add to the confusion, Cocky had died. So any motivation the dog might have provided for Aurelia was gone. If any more deaths happened, there would have to be another reason for them. Just as there had to be another reason for Robin Laughton’s death.

  Again Charles was struck by the random nature of all the deaths, except for Rod Tisdale’s. If anyone did unlock the wheels of the huge light and push it over, they can’t have had Robin Laughton as a specific target. There was no guarantee that the Floor Manager would be standing in the right place at the right time (or, from his own point of view, the wrong place at the wrong time). Like Scott Newton’s death, the latest accident seemed a random act of sabotage. There was no guarantee that the light would hit anyone, and certainly no guarantee that it would kill anyone it did hit.

  So he was back to indiscriminate violence against the whole series. And the only person to whom he could attribute a motive for that was currently sunning himself in Sardinia and maybe waiting for a well-publicised kidnap.

  Maybe it was all just coincidence, after all. Maybe, as the condescending detective-sergeant had said, someone had quoted from Macbeth in the dressing room, and The Strutters was just a bad luck show.

  And yet he felt he was missing something. There was something he had heard recently that was important, something that he should have been able to relate to the sequence of deaths. But he couldn’t for the life of him remember what it was.

  The final recording of the first batch of The Strutters on 17th July went well. The cast was relaxed and the tested old formula of the What’ll the Neighbours Say? script about the political meeting pleased the studio audience.

  ‘Rod Tisdale – what a great writer!’ Peter Lipscombe was heard to observe in the bar between buying drinks for people. ‘What a terrific talent! Tonight’s episode just said it all – still experimenting, never content, always looking for new avenues in the comedic field. What a loss he’ll be. You know, I reckon, if someone brought out a book of his scripts, he’d really get the recognition he deserves. He’d be up there with the Sheridans and the Wildes and the Shaws, no question. But of course no publisher would ever do it, no publisher would have the imagination to do it.’

  Willy and Sam Tennison, the archpriest and priestess of the arch, were also there, and, while agreeing absolutely, but absolutely with what Peter said about Rod, who really had been a terrific writer and such a good chum, they had been delighted with the way their little scene had gone, promised well for the future, didn’t it, darling, oh yes, darling, really promising, darling, whole show going to be such fun, wasn’t it, darling, yes, darling.

  The cast was animated, too. They were lifted by the audience’s reception of the show, but, more than that, they had the prospect of a couple of weeks’ rest after the hectic pace of the recent schedule. In fact, given extra filming days and an early read-through, the break was only going to be nine days, but that was better than nothing and they were all looking forward to it.

  George Birkitt put his complaints to one side and, with the prospect of no new lines to forget for a few days, was jovially expansive. Even Dob Howarth seemed to be bearing up pretty well after her loss. She and the grinning Barton stood in the bar like royalty, accepting the servile tributes of its inmates.

  Only once did her gracious exterior crack and emotion threaten. Romney Kirkstall was there, as ever, and eventually engaged the attention of his idol. ‘Dob,’ he said, ‘I was terribly upset to hear what happened.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She inclined her head and very deliberately changed the subject. ‘It’ll be good to have a few days’ rest. Imagine the luxury of the occasional breakfast in bed.’

  But her fan persisted. ‘Cocky meant a lot to me as well as to you. Anyone who’s important to you is important to those of us who hold you dear.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She was polite, but wanted the
subject dropped.

  ‘So I’ve made you a small tribute.’ Romney Kirkstall reached into his duffle bag and produced a large cross, made from silver cardboard and decorated with sprays of silver tinsel. In the centre of it was a colour photograph of Cocky under a fur-clad arm, cut out of some magazine.

  ‘It says on it,’ Romney Kirkstall continued inexorably, “To Cocky, for many years a dear friend and companion”.’

  Tears glistened in Aurelia’s huge blurred blue eyes. ‘Yes, darling, it’s very sweet of you, but –’

  ‘And I’ve written a poem that goes with it. I do occasionally write poems,’ Romney Kirkstall admitted modestly. ‘It goes:

  Ah, Cocky, though you’re far away,

  I dream of dancing with you still.

  In stead of a Good Boy chocolate drop,

  How sad you ate death’s bitter pill.’

  A deep sob broke Aurelia’s customary self-restraint, but her fan did not seem to notice the effect his tribute was having. ‘I hope you noticed I got in the reference to I Dream of Dancing. I was rather pleased with that. And I remembered that Cocky used to like those Good Boy chocolate drops.’

  ‘Yes,’ Aurelia managed to say, but she was suffering intensely. ‘Barton,’ she hissed, ‘get rid of him.’

  The angular blazered skeleton moved forward with surprising speed and took a firm hold on Kirkstall’s sports-jacketed arm. ‘Look here, old boy,’ he said with a ghastly grin as he steered the fan away, ‘little lady’s a bit upset. Want to talk to you about the team the selectors are putting up for the Oval. A bit rummy, to my way of thinking.’

  The language was still bizarre and dislocated, but the actions were very positive. When it came to defending his wife, Barton Rivers was a daunting figure.

  Charles Paris was left with Aurelia.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, dabbing at her eyes with a lace handkerchief. ‘It’s just it’s so recent. I had managed to put the poor darling out of my mind, and then to have him going on and on about it . . . He’s a dear boy, but . . .’

  ‘I understand. Can I get you a drink or . . .’

  ‘No, I’ll be fine in a second. I just . . .’ She sobbed again.

  The gentlemanly thing to do would have been to start a new inoffensive subject, but Charles couldn’t leave the little dog’s death yet. Romney Kirkstall’s inept rhyme had started a new train of thought. Suppose Cocky’s death had been another in the sequence of apparent accidents . . . Suppose he had been poisoned by someone who wanted to get at Aurelia . . . It opened up a whole new range of motivations.

  ‘Dob,’ he began. He used the pet name to increase their intimacy. ‘Dob, we are all very upset to hear about Cocky’s death.’

  ‘Thank you, darling. I just want to forget about it, please.’

  ‘Of course.’ He’d have to be direct. ‘I’m sorry, I have to ask. Did you think there was anything strange about it?’

  ‘Strange?’

  ‘You don’t think he could have been poisoned?’

  Shock registered on her face, but very swiftly understanding followed. ‘I see what you mean, darling. Another of these unfortunate . . . évènements . . .?

  Charles nodded.

  ‘No, darling. He was just a very sick boy. The vet had said he hadn’t long. No, he just . . . slipped away in the night.’ A sob broke her voice.

  ‘I’m sorry. I had to ask.’

  ‘Of course. I understand.’ She took his hand between both of hers. ‘And I do appreciate what you’re doing for us. There have been too many deaths. They must stop. I’m sure they’re just accidents, but, if there is a sequence, if there is a solution, then I’m sure you’re the one to find it.’

  And she gave him the full beam of those wonderful eyes.

  Charles reeled. He was flattered that she seemed to know about his hobby of detection, but he felt much more than that. He felt inspired by her confidence. Here now was a lady in whose honour to pursue his knightly quest. He understood more than ever before why princes had courted her, and young men toasted her, why husbands had dreamed of her while they made love to their wives, and why young soldiers had marched to their deaths with her image imprinted on their minds.

  He returned the pressure of her hand. From now on he was determined to solve the accumulating mysteries. For her.

  She and her husband left soon after and Charles went across to comfort Romney Kirkstall, who stood forlorn in the bar, drinkless as ever, his duffle bag dangling ineffectually from his hand.

  ‘Do you think she didn’t like it?’

  ‘I think it was just the wrong moment, that’s all. It made her think about the dog too much.’

  ‘Mmm. I mean, I have done her things before. You know, cards and so on. And poems too. She’s always liked them before.’

  ‘And I’m sure she’d have liked this one, but it was just too soon after the event.’

  He mulled that over. ‘Yes, I suppose so. I could post it to her.’

  ‘I’d leave it a week or two, if I were you.’

  ‘Yes.’

  The little man seemed downcast, so Charles tried to make conversation. ‘What do you do, Romney?’

  ‘Do? I collect stuff about Dob.’

  ‘Yes, I know that, but what job do you do?’

  ‘I don’t have a job. I came into a bit of money when my mother died, so I gave up my job. I just do the collection now.’

  ‘Oh, I see. And are you going to use all the material to write a book about her?’

  ‘Oh, no, I couldn’t write a book. It’s just an interest, you know,’ Romney Kirkstall replied in a voice which suggested that the only thing strange about the conversation was Charles’s need to ask the question.

  ‘So you spend your days collecting?’

  ‘Yes, looking around for stuff a lot of the time. I’m a lot younger than her, you see, I’m only forty-three, so I wasn’t around to collect programmes and things at the time. But I go around junk stalls and book shops. It’s an interest,’ he repeated.

  Only forty-three. Charles was surprised. Romney Kirkstall could have been any age, but forty-three seemed very young to have developed this kind of obsession. Maybe, Charles reflected, it was a sign of his own age. When the loonies start looking young.

  ‘Actually,’ Romney Kirkstall continued, ‘I thought of you today.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I was looking for some stuff in a bookshop in the Charing Cross Road – a place Barton Rivers recommended to me, actually – and I came across that book you were talking about.’

  ‘What book?’

  ‘Well, you were talking about the film, but it had the same title. Death Takes A Short Cut.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘They’d got a copy of it there. I looked at it, but it hadn’t got anything to do with Dob, so I put it back. But, since you asked about it, I thought you might be interested.’

  ‘I am. Thank you. Who was the author?’

  ‘R. Q. Wilberforce. Didn’t mean anything to me. You heard of him?’

  Charles grimaced. ‘It’s vaguely familiar. Think he could have been one of those Thirties detective story writers, like E. R. Punshon or Freeman Wills Croft.’

  ‘Never heard of them either,’ confessed Romney Kirkstall.

  ‘Well, if you could give me the name of the bookshop . . .’

  Romney supplied it. ‘I must go,’ he said. Then he hesitated, as if to impart some vital piece of information. ‘Do you know why I was called Romney?’ he asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘My mother named me after Romney Brent. Friend of Noel Coward’s.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Yes.’ Romney Kirkstall turned tail and scuttered out.

  Jay Lewis was still in the bar and seemed to be looking his way. He sidled up to her and whispered, ‘What does Ernie Franklyn Junior say about PAs sleeping with the same person twice?’

  ‘Oh, he says that’s all right. He says it’s inevitable that relationships develop.’

  ‘Oh,
does he? That’s very nice of him.’

  Charles thought he would like to meet Ernie Franklyn Junior one day, and smash his teeth in. Or perhaps set a posse of indignant PAs on him to revenge his unflattering generalisations. Charles’s previous experience of PAs had taught him (by the unquestionable empirical method of trying to get off with them) that their inclination towards promiscuity was no greater than that of other women. They weren’t all as gullible as Jay Lewis.

  But he couldn’t really complain, as he seemed currently to be a beneficiary of the Ernie Franklyn Junior teaching. He was in no position to argue.

  Nor, for the first hour after they got back to Jay’s flat, was he in a position to think much either. But he was in some nice positions that didn’t involve too much thinking.

  There came a lull and they lay back on the pillows.

  ‘You’re just using me for experience, aren’t you, Jay?’

  ‘Yes. Ernie Fr –’

  ‘Sure, sure.’

  ‘You don’t mind, do you?’

  ‘Why should I mind?’

  ‘You know,’ she said slowly, ‘I may be coming off The Strutters.’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘They need an extra PA on Wragg and Bowen.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘I’ll see if I can get it. Learn more on a big variety show.’

  They turned the light out and dozed.

  ‘Oh, by the way . . .’ Jay said suddenly.

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘I did ask my flatmate about that film you mentioned and she found out about it.’

  ‘What did she find out?’

  Was this going to be important? Was this going to be the key that unlocked the Chinese box of mysteries?

  Apparently not.

  ‘It never got made,’ said Jay.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘No, it was all set up in 1939. They started, did a couple of days’ filming, then war was declared and the whole production was cancelled.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Charles Paris, and went to sleep.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  West End Television Ltd,

  W.E.T. House,

  235–9 Lisson Avenue,