by Simon Brett
Table of Contents
Cover
The Charles Paris Mystery Series
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Part I: London
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Part II: Leeds
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Part III: Bristol
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Part IV: Brighton
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Part V: First Night
Chapter Eighteen
The Charles Paris Mystery Series
CAST, IN ORDER OF DISAPPEARANCE
SO MUCH BLOOD
STAR TRAP
AN AMATEUR CORPSE
A COMEDIAN DIES
THE DEAD SIDE OF THE MIKE
SITUATION TRAGEDY
MURDER UNPROMPTED
MURDER IN THE TITLE
NOT DEAD, ONLY RESTING
DEAD GIVEAWAY
WHAT BLOODY MAN IS THAT?
A SERIES OF MURDERS
CORPORATE BODIES
A RECONSTRUCTED CORPSE
SICKEN AND SO DIE
DEAD ROOM FARCE
STAR TRAP
A Charles Paris Mystery
Simon Brett
This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
This title first published in Great Britain in 1977
by Victor Gollancz
eBook edition first published in 2011 by Severn Select an imprint
of Severn House Publishers Limited
Copyright © 1975 Simon Brett.
All rights reserved.
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
A CIP catalogue record for this title
is available from the British Library.
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0002-0 (epub)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being
described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this
publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons
is purely coincidental.
This eBook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland
To MY PARENTS, WITH THANKS
FOR ALL THAT EDUCATION
And with special thanks to
Bill and Chris,
who know all about it
PART I
London
CHAPTER ONE
‘ACTUALLY,’ SAID GERALD Venables, after a sip from his wine glass, ‘there’s a bit more to it than that.’
‘Ah,’ said Charles Paris. ‘I thought there might be.’
Gerald took a long pause and twiddled the stem of his wine glass. Charles wondered what the catch would be. Gerald was a good friend but was unlikely to be offering him a job from purely altruistic motives. And if it were just a gesture of goodwill, he wouldn’t have made it over lunch at Martinez.
‘In fact,’ the solicitor picked out his words like a philatelist handling stamps, ‘there may be something rather odd going on in this show.’
‘Odd?’
‘Well, as you know, a West End musical is a very large financial undertaking and with any large financial undertaking there are probably as many people who wish it to fall as succeed. And the . . . people whom I represent are very anxious that this particular show should succeed.’
‘You mean you’ve got money in it?’ Charles knew this would make Gerald bridle. Though well known in theatrical circles as a speculator, the solicitor would never admit to his involvement.
‘One of the people whom I represent,’ came the frosty professional reply, ‘has a considerable financial stake in the venture. It is on his behalf that I am approaching you.’
Charles winked. Gerald deflated, smiled and moved the conversation away from money. ‘Listen, Charles, the reason that we want you in the show is that we need an investigator on the spot to keep an eye open for anything untoward.’
‘I see.’
‘And, of course’ (remembering that even as cynical an actor as Charles Paris had his professional pride) ‘because you would be absolutely ideal for the part.’
Charles inclined his head graciously and looked up for more information.
‘You see, Charles, the reason I thought of you was because of that business in Edinburgh that you sorted out . . . the murder of that boy – what was his name – Marinello?’
‘Something like that. I’m flattered, Gerald, but I think to say I sorted it out is a slight exaggeration. I was there . . .’
‘It comes to the same thing. And then there was the Marius Steen business.’
‘Again I would hardly say that I . . .’
‘Don’t worry what you think. I think you can do the job required and I’m asking you. I mean, it may be that there’s nothing to investigate. In that case think of it just as an acting job. After the tour, you’d have a contract for nine months in the West End, you’d be pretty well paid – it’s not a bad offer, is it?’
‘No.’
‘And you haven’t got anything else major coming up at the moment, have you?’
As an actor, Charles replied instinctively, ‘Well, there are one or two things I’m considering, which may possibly . . .’ Then he decided there was no point in trying to impress Gerald. ‘No, nothing major.’ Or why not be completely honest? ‘Nothing minor either, as it happens. And I had a somewhat uncharitable letter from the Inland Revenue this morning.’
‘So you’ll take the job?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘That’s terrific.’ Gerald punctuated the agreement by refilling their wine glasses. He seemed relieved, which amazed Charles. Surely he never thought the offer might be refused. Or perhaps, from his position of extreme opulence, Gerald was unaware of the general scarcity of acting work at a time when theatres were paring down the size of their permanent companies, when big cast plays were no longer being written or produced and when even the BBC was making cutbacks in its programme hours. Nor was he probably aware of the precarious system of final demands and delaying letters by which Charles conducted his financial affairs.
‘What about a sweet?’ Gerald airily summoned the waiter with a well-tailored gesture and, as often before, Charles was impressed and amused by his friend’s smoothness. He did not envy it, he had long ago decided that certain sorts of success did not interest him, but it was still entertaining to see a successful man at work. Everything about Gerald was right – the beautifully cut charcoal grey pin-striped suit, the residual tan from an August spent with his family in their villa in Corsica, the silver hair cut just long enough to be trendy, the chunky gold ring and identity bracelet, the almost imperceptible aura of expensive after-shave. Charles was always amazed by people who could live like figures in glossy magazines and by people who wanted to. For him the basic challenge of getting from day to day more than occupied his time.
The sweets were sorted out and they both tucked into monster slices of strawberry g�
�teau. Charles wiped a stray blob of cream from the side of his mouth and asked, ‘What’s been happening, Gerald?’
‘In the show, you mean?’
‘Yes. There must be something strange for you to go to these lengths to get me involved.’
‘Yes. Two things have happened. They may both have been accidents, and they may be completely unconnected, but it’s just possible that someone’s trying to sabotage the whole venture.’
‘What were the “accidents”?’
‘The first came on the second day of rehearsal. There was a guy called Frederick Wooland who was rehearsal pianist for the show. As he was on the way to the Welsh Dragon Club where they’re rehearsing, he was shot at.’
‘Shot at? You mean someone tried to kill him?’
‘No, not really. It was only an air rifle. He just got a pellet in his hand. Not very serious except that he won’t be able to play for a couple of weeks and they’ve had to find a new rehearsal pianist.’
‘Usually if you hear of someone being shot at with an air rifle, it’s just kids fooling about.’
‘Yes, I agree. That may well he what it was in this case. It’s a fairly rough area down there.’
‘Where is the Welsh Dragon Club?’
‘Elephant and Castle.’
‘Hmm. Presumably the pianist didn’t see who shot at him?’
‘No. First thing he knew was a stinging pain in his hand.’
‘Were the police told?’
‘Oh yes. It was all official. They seemed to think it was kids. No great surprise. It’s not the first lime that it’s happened round there.’
‘In that case, I can’t see why you think there’s anything odd about it. It doesn’t sound as if it bad anything to do with the show at all. Perhaps the only lesson is that managements should be prepared to pay a bit more money to get rehearsal rooms in slightly nicer areas.’ He pronounced the last two words in his best Kensington Lady accent.
‘Okay. Yes, I admit, on its own, that doesn’t sound much. But exactly a week later there was another accident. The day before yesterday.’
‘What happened this time?’
‘One of the actors fell down some stairs and broke his leg.’
‘Where? At the rehearsal rooms?’
‘No. At his digs.’
‘So why should that have anything to do with the show?’
‘It’s just the coincidence of the two of them, exactly a week apart, at exactly the same time of day, both people in the show.’
‘What time of day was it?’
‘Early in the morning both times. Frederick Wooland was shot on his way to rehearsal, say at quarter to ten, and Everard Austick was found in his digs at about half past nine this Tuesday.’
‘Did you say Everard Austick?’
‘Yes.’
Charles burst out laughing. ‘You can’t be serious.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, Everard Austick is the greatest piss-artist in the business. He’s a bottle-a-day man. Always drunk out of his mind. If you think that him having a fall in his digs is a sign of foul play, you’re way off beam. I’d be much more suspicious if a day went by when he didn’t fall down something.’
Gerald looked discomfited. ‘Oh, I thought the coincidence was too great. I mean, both on the same day.’
‘Well . . . it doesn’t sound much to me. Listen, Gerald, I’m very grateful to you for getting me this job and certainly once I get inside the company I will investigate anything that needs investigating, but from what you’ve said, I’m not going to have much to do. Is that really all you’ve got?’
‘Well, I suppose that’s all the actual facts. But it means that the show has got off to an unlucky start and we – they don’t want anything to go wrong. There’s a lot of money at stake.’
‘Whose money?’
Gerald didn’t rise to the bait. ‘Amulet Productions are putting up most of it and they’re working in association with Arthur Balcombe, who is one of my clients. Hence my involvement.’
‘I see. All the big boys.’
‘Yes. And then of course Christopher Milton has a stake because he’s got the rights of the show.’
‘Christopher Milton?’
‘Yes, he bought it as a vehicle for himself.’
‘Really?’
‘Didn’t you know?’
‘Gerald, you didn’t tell me anything. You just asked if I would be prepared to take a part in a West End musical for nine months and keep my eyes open for any possible sabotage attempts. You’ve told me nothing about the show. But I see now, it’s this musical based on She Stoops to Conquer, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right.’
‘I’ve seen stuff about it in the Press. Now let me think. . . .’ He mused facetiously. ‘If it’s a musical based on She Stoops to Conquer for a West End audience, then what would it be called? Um. How about Conkers? With an exclamation mark.’
‘No, it was going to be,’ said Gerald with complete seriousness, ‘but then it was decided that that didn’t really give the right impression of the sort of show it is.’
‘So what’s it called now?’
‘Lumpkin!’
‘With an exclamation mark?’
‘Of course.’
‘With Christopher Milton as Tony Lumpkin?’
‘Of course. That was another reason for the title. It means a neat billing – “Christopher Milton as Lumpkin!” See what I mean?’
‘Yes, I do. Tony Lumpkin. Of course. One of the all-time great upstaging parts. Hmm. What’s the script like?’
Gerald was reticent. ‘It’s okay.’
‘Anything to do with Goldsmith?’
‘No. He hasn’t any money in it.’
‘I didn’t mean Goldsmith the impresario. I meant Oliver Goldsmith who wrote the thing.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry. I think the show makes the occasional nod in his direction.’
‘But presumably it’s not designed for fans of Oliver Goldsmith?’
‘No, it’s designed for fans of Christopher Milton. He’s riding very high at the moment, with the telly show at the top of the ratings.’
‘What telly show?’
‘Oh, come on, Charles, don’t be affected. You must have seen Straight Up, Guv.’
‘I don’t think I have. I’m not a great telly viewer.’ He did not possess a television in his Bayswater bed-sitter. He was not enthusiastic about the medium. It was a necessary evil for his career as an actor, because it was well paid, but he had never enjoyed the work (or the product).
‘Well, let me enlighten your ignorance. The show gets massive audience figures and it has made Christopher Milton just about the hottest property around. He’s very big box office.’
‘So it doesn’t really matter what show you put him in.’
‘Ah, but it does, and Lumpkin! is just right. Could make a lot of money. That’s why I – the people I represent – are so anxious that nothing should go wrong. Either to the show – or to the star.’
‘I see. Who’s written it?’
‘Well, it’s basically a show which the Ipswich Warehouse Company put on last year to celebrate the bicentenary of Goldsmith’s death.’
‘Oh yes, I remember reading a notice of that in The Stage. What was it called then?’
‘Liberty Hall.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Book by a chap called Kevin McMahon, with music by some bloke whose name I forget. Anyway, Christopher Milton’s agent, Dickie Peck – do you know him, by the way?’
‘By reputation.’
‘Well, he went down and saw the show and reckoned it had potential for his boy, got Christopher Milton himself down to see it, and they bought up the rights. I think they got them pretty cheap. Could be a good investment. I mean, the stage show should run at least a couple of years on Christopher Milton’s name, and then there might be a chance of a film . . .’
‘And the script is more or less as at Ipswich?’
�
��Hardly. No, there’s been quite a lot of surgery. They’ve scrapped the original music and lyrics – or most of them anyway. And got in Carl Anthony and Micky Gorton to write new ones.’
‘You look at me as if I should have heard of them.’
‘You certainly should, Charles. They’ve written a whole string of Top Ten hits. Heart Doctor . . . Gimme No More Lies . . . Disposable Man – all that lot!’
‘Really, Charles, you are square.’ Gerald prided himself on his sudden knowledge of the pop scene.
‘Some of us age quicker than others, man.’
Gerald ignored the dig. ‘The new music is excellent. It fits the style of the period, but it’s also very . . . funky.’ He tried too hard to deliver the last word naturally.
Charles laughed. ‘It sounds a riot. I hope I don’t have to sing anything funky. I wouldn’t know where to begin. Incidentally, I should have asked before – what part am I playing?’
‘You’re playing Sir Charles Marlow. Do you know the play?’
‘Yes, I did a production of it once in Cardiff – with Bernard Walton of all people, when he was very new in the business. He played Young Marlow – his first starring rôle. And I’m the father . . . hmm. Only comes in at the end.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Good.’
‘Why good?’
‘Last act parts are good. You can spend the whole evening in the pub.’
‘It was Everard Austick’s part,’ said Gerald reprovingly. ‘Ah yes, that was probably his downfall. A lifetime of last act parts is the short route to alcoholism.’
‘Hmm.’ Gerald pondered for a moment. ‘I sometimes think I drink too much. Difficult to avoid in my line of work. Occupational hazard.’
‘That’s what I feel about my line of work too,’ Charles agreed. ‘Though I must admit at times I worry about the amount I put away.’
‘Yes.’ There was a reflective pause. Then Gerald said, ‘How about a brandy?’
‘Love one.’
When it arrived, Charles raised his glass. ‘Many thanks, Gerald. This is the most painless audition I’ve ever undergone.’
‘My pleasure.’
‘Incidentally, I don’t know anything about the time-scale on this show yet. What’s this – the second week of rehearsal?’
