A Capital Crime

by Laura Wilson

  Clutching her notes to her chest, Diana stared down at her shoes. She’d been told that they were days behind schedule, and Anthony Renwick had spent the morning – it was now quarter past eleven – stumbling through take after take, disorientated and constantly forgetting his lines, until nobody could bear to look at him. Now, the unit were avoiding each other’s eyes, too, ashamed at being part of a disaster. Only Carleton kept on staring at Renwick with pinpoint concentration, as if he were trying to force a performance from the actor by sheer willpower.

  ‘Action!’

  Diana glanced up in time to see a look of consternation momentarily animate Renwick’s otherwise immobile features. A second later, he let out a long, wailing fart.

  ‘Cut! Cut!’ Carleton jumped up and strode towards him. ‘For Christ’s sake, Tony …’

  The crescendo of laughter – a release of tension, if not actual merriment – stopped abruptly when Renwick burst into noisy, gulping tears. Carleton put an arm round his shoulders – ‘Break, everybody! Ten minutes!’ – and escorted him outside, motioning Diana to follow. She’d been working at Ashwood for two weeks now, and while she felt she’d never be on top of the myriad jobs involved in assisting Marita Neill, the continuity girl – it turned out that Mr Carleton had a perfectly good secretary already – she was at least beginning to understand how things worked. And, when she wasn’t worrying about missing something or getting it wrong, which was still quite a lot of the time, she was enjoying herself a great deal. The other good thing was that, although his attraction was undeniable, she was managing not to be openly stupid about Mr Carleton (as Lally – who’d guessed immediately, much to her chagrin, from the way she spoke about him – had put it).

  Anthony Renwick stood in the feeble winter sunlight, shoulders heaving, with Carleton wiping his nose for him as if he were a baby. As Diana approached Carleton broke away and took her by the arm. He seemed so supercharged with tension that it was like being inside an electric force field. ‘Get him a drink.’

  ‘But he’s not supposed to—’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Diana, look at him!’

  ‘You’ll kill him. His doctor—’

  ‘His doctor hasn’t got the studio breathing down his neck. Just go across to the bar and get him a bloody drink,’ Carleton hissed. ‘You can get one for me, too, while you’re at it.’

  Seeing that it was useless to argue, Diana said, ‘What would you like?’

  ‘Anything! Just make sure it’s strong.’

  Renwick, who’d been staring into the middle distance somewhere over Diana’s left shoulder during this exchange, suddenly said, with more firmness and clarity than he’d managed all week, ‘Brandy. I want brandy.’

  ‘There you are,’ said Carleton. ‘He wants brandy, and I’ll have the same. Now go!’

  Dismissing her, he returned to Renwick and steered him back towards the studio. ‘Come on, Tony,’ she heard him say. ‘Pull yourself together. You’ll be all right now.’

  As she walked down the causeway, Diana felt very doubtful that Renwick would ever be ‘all right’. Certainly, judging from the way in which Mr Vernon had harangued Carleton the previous evening – she and Marita had been in Carleton’s office when he took the telephone call, and his feelings, if not his actual words, had been excruciatingly obvious – Renwick wouldn’t be working for Ashwood again. Whether Carleton himself would, having told Mr Vernon in no uncertain terms that he hadn’t wanted Renwick in the first place, also seemed open to question.

  As she entered the old house, Diana was nearly knocked off her feet by a young lad with an armful of paperchains and a grin so wide that it threatened to meet itself at the back of his head. There were people up ladders tacking coloured streamers to the gallery and the whole place had an atmosphere of bustling, anticipatory festivity.

  The restaurant, in contrast, was deserted, except for a few waitresses laying tables and the old barman who, on seeing Diana, raised his eyebrows so high that they all but disappeared beneath his toupee. ‘You’re on G Stage, aren’t you, miss? I thought it couldn’t last.’

  ‘It’s just the one,’ said Diana, defensively, taken aback by the man’s familiarity and instant summing-up of the situation. ‘Well, just the two, anyway. Brandy.’

  The barman picked up two balloons, and looked pointedly from the one in his left hand to the one in his right. ‘For Mr Carleton, is it?’

  ‘Mr Renwick,’ said Diana, assuming that he must know about the actor’s problem.

  ‘Both of them?’

  ‘Well, no. The other one’s for Mr Carleton.’ Diana wondered why she was explaining this – after all, what business was it of his?

  ‘Is it indeed?’ The barman’s tone was arch, but he turned away too quickly for Diana to read his expression, busying himself with the optics. ‘Can’t say I’m surprised.’ He turned and slid a tray across the polished surface. ‘Would you like a siphon?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ said Diana, briskly.

  ‘Right you are.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  As Diana picked up the tray and turned to leave, the barman said, ‘I’ll see you later, miss.’

  ‘Naturally,’ said Diana, with hauteur. ‘I shall return the tray.’

  ‘Of course, miss.’ To her astonishment, the barman closed one eye in a deliberate, conspiratorial wink.

  She returned to G Stage to find Carleton and Renwick huddled at the side of the building, smoking in silence. Ignoring the soda, Carleton picked both balloons off the tray and held one up to Renwick, whose eyes followed it with a precision of focus Diana hadn’t seen from him before. If he were a dog, she thought, he’d be slobbering. ‘There you are,’ said Carleton. ‘Just what the doctor didn’t order.’

  As they clinked their glasses, Diana saw a look pass between them, a strange mix of solemnity and devilment, as of a secret shared. Obviously, Carleton had supplied Renwick with illicit drinks before. But surely, she thought, he can’t really believe that everyone inside hasn’t guessed what Renwick’s doing out here? And even if they don’t, they’re bound to smell it the moment the two of them walk back in.

  Renwick drank greedily and returned the glass to the tray with a flourish. ‘Bless you, my child,’ he said, giving her a mock bow.

  ‘That,’ said Carleton, tossing back the remains of his own brandy, ‘should get us through till lunch, at any rate.’

  Two hours and three scenes later, Diana was forced to admit that the brandy – and the second helpings she’d fetched an hour later, to the unconcealed amusement of the barman – had done the trick. Renwick was a changed man and the alteration infused the unit with new energy. As he seemed almost to blaze before her, Diana felt herself lit up by the presence and the vitality that had made him a star. Now, everyone was looking at him. He didn’t draw your attention so much as actually drag it to him, so that you barely noticed any of the other actors. But we’re watching him die, she thought, remembering what Alex had told her about the doctor’s warning. If he carries on with it, then he really will die. And she’d got him the brandy, hadn’t she? And, she thought ruefully, she would again if Carleton requested it. She not only needed the job, especially as Hambeyn House was still on the market and she was looking for a flat – despite their protests to the contrary, she felt she’d imposed herself on Jock and Lally for quite long enough – but she loved working at the studio.

  Only obeying orders, she mocked herself, that’s what I’m doing. Would Renwick, she wondered, have cracked if Carleton hadn’t suggested the brandy? He could have refused it, of course, if he’d had the mental strength, but anyone could see how weak he was.

  As if he could read her thoughts, Carleton beckoned her over during a pause for set-dressing and said, ‘There’s no option, Diana. It’s him or the picture.’

  When they finally broke for lunch, and Carleton and Renwick strolled off towards the restaurant, arms round one another’s shoulders, Diana, too disturbed to be hungry, decided to take herself off for a
walk. It was a desire to be elsewhere, rather than a conscious decision, that led her in the direction of Make-up, where, peering through a half-open door, she caught sight of Monica Stratton. Kneeling on the floor beside a supine and almost naked actress, who was unconcernedly smoking a cigarette, the policeman’s daughter was occupied in painting a delicate lacework of what was obviously meant to be blood across the young woman’s legs.

  ‘We’ve got company,’ said the actress, raising her head fractionally from its cushion. ‘Can I get up now?’

  ‘No, you’ve got to dry … Oh!’ Monica half-turned and, catching sight of Diana, blushed.

  Hoping the girl hadn’t thought she was eavesdropping – she certainly hadn’t overhead anything – Diana felt uncomfortable. ‘I didn’t mean to disturb you,’ she said, lamely.

  ‘Can I help you?’ asked Monica, getting to her feet.

  Diana, having only talked to her briefly on the previous occasion they’d met, now had the chance for a proper look at her. Despite the severe hairstyle and unbecoming overall, her fresh complexion and bright green eyes made the languid sophisticate who sprawled before them on the floor in her maquillage and silk underwear seem tawdry and stale.

  ‘I was just getting a breath of air,’ she said. ‘Wandering about, really.’

  ‘Oh …’ Monica, too, seemed at a loss for what to say. ‘Well, it’s a nice day, for a change.’

  ‘I am sorry if I disturbed you.’

  ‘Oh, no. I wouldn’t mind some fresh air myself. We’re starting again in ten minutes, and I’ve missed lunch, so …’

  ‘Do you fancy a quick walk?’ Honestly, thought Diana, anyone would think they were a boy and a girl at their first dance, tongue-tied by proximity and etiquette.

  Monica looked down at her paint brush. ‘I’ll have to wash this first, or it’ll get hard.’

  ‘What about me?’ asked the actress.

  ‘You’ll have to stay put till we start again,’ said Monica. ‘I’ll finish you off on set. It’s all right, I’ll put a notice on the door so noone’ll come in. It’s for a Donald Colgate picture,’ she explained to Diana. ‘I’m not supposed to be doing it, but one of the girls is off with chickenpox.’

  ‘I’m just the legs,’ added the actress. ‘Still, at least I’ll be able to tell everyone I’ve been killed by Donald Colgate. It’s practically a rite of passage.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Monica placidly, from the basin, ‘he’s always playing men who murder their wives – they get him if they can’t have James Mason.’

  She put on her coat and scarf and the two of them wandered down the causeway. Despite Monica’s remark, it wasn’t a ‘nice day’. It wasn’t raining, but above them, dark clouds were beginning to conjoin so that the sky resembled an ominously heavy grey eiderdown. Turning her collar up, Monica said, ‘I told Dad about meeting you.’

  ‘Oh …’ Diana, gratified by this – she’d thought the girl might have forgotten – asked, ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He remembered you.’ Another grin, quick this time. ‘Very well, I think – although he didn’t say that.’

  Diana, wondering what to make of this, said, ‘He was very kind to me.’

  ‘That sounds like Dad.’ The girl stared at Diana for a moment, then blurted, ‘I’m worried about him,’ and stopped abruptly, looking alarmed.

  Surprised, Diana said, ‘Why?’

  Monica looked as if she wished she hadn’t said anything. ‘It’s probably nothing, but he’s gone sort of quiet. Gone into himself.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s worried about something … a case.’

  Monica nodded. ‘I know he is,’ she said, more enthusiastically this time. ‘It’s a man who killed his wife, and it’s horrible for Dad because of Mum.’ Before Diana could say anything, she added, ‘Mum was killed, you see.’

  ‘During the war?’

  ‘Yes, but it wasn’t a bomb. It was a woman that Mum and my Auntie Doris were looking after when she was bombed out, and she went sort of mad and attacked Mum … stabbed her. It happened while I was evacuated. Dad feels guilty because he thinks he should have saved her, but he wasn’t there in time. He’s never told me that, but I know he does. I’ve known for ages. And I know he keeps on remembering what happened, and it’s this case, making it all worse … He misses her like mad. We all do, but … I’m sorry, I don’t really know why I’m telling you this. I don’t normally talk about it.’ Monica huddled into her coat, and Diana had the impression that she was battening down the hatches.

  ‘I’m not surprised.’ Seeing Monica’s stricken face, she hurried on, ‘I just meant it must be very hard for you, that’s all. But you can tell me, if you like.’ She smiled encouragingly. ‘I’m quite good at listening.’

  Monica considered, biting her lip, then said, ‘I didn’t really think about it until recently – or I suppose I didn’t notice – but it’s as if his life has sort of stopped. His memory, I mean. Sometimes he tells me things, stuff from the past … It’s always me he tells, never Pete – that’s my brother – because he won’t talk about Mum at all, and anyway he’s not at home any more … But when Dad says things, it’s always stuff from when Mum was here.’

  ‘Perhaps he thinks those are the things you want to hear about.’

  ‘Yes, I do, but … The years between then and now are like a big … nothing, as if there’s only what happened today, or yesterday, and then before that it was nineteen forty-four, before Mum died. I mean, I don’t want him to forget about her, but I think he should start living properly, not just going to work and his allotment and reading the paper as if he’s just pretending, because that’s how it seems. Auntie Doris and Auntie Lilian think he should get married again.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t think I’d mind if it was someone nice, but I don’t see why he should have to if he doesn’t want to. Look, I really am sorry for telling you. It’s just that I really can’t talk about it with Pete, or Auntie Doris, or my cousin Madeleine, and you’re … you’re …’

  ‘I’m …?’ Diana prompted.

  ‘You’re so … different, I suppose – sorry, I hope that doesn’t sound rude or anything.’ Monica paused for a moment, frowning at Diana, then added, ‘Was your husband killed in the war?’

  ‘No,’ said Diana. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Well …’ The colour in Monica’s cheeks intensified.

  ‘Go on. I shan’t be offended.’

  ‘Working here, for one thing. And it was what came into my mind when I first saw you – that you’d had a loss. I mean,’ she said, ‘I suppose it could have been anything,’ Monica gave an awkward little laugh, ‘but it seemed as if you’d lost something important.’

  Although taken aback – Monica was clearly as observant as her father – Diana found that she didn’t in the least mind the girl’s frankness and found herself willing to repay one confidence with another. ‘I did lose my husband in the war – just not in the way you thought. We’re divorcing.’

  Monica’s blush was now a vivid scarlet. ‘I really didn’t mean to pry, Mrs Calthrop. I’m terribly sorry.’

  ‘I’m not,’ said Diana. ‘I left him. Not,’ she added hastily, ‘that I’d like it generally known.’

  ‘No. No, of course not. I shan’t tell anyone.’ She put her hand on her chest and said, ‘Not a soul – cross my heart.’ The childishness was deliberate, put-on, but the sincerity was real enough.

  ‘Thank you. And please … tell your father how very, very sorry I am.’

  A few minutes later, Monica set off back to her drying actress, mimicking ‘At least I’ll be able to tell everyone I’ve been killed by Donald Colgate!’ with surprising accuracy, and leaving Diana to contemplate the sheer magnitude of grief, in all its forms, in everything that the girl hadn’t said. A sudden image made her wince and blink as if avoiding something real: the picture of a prim, rigid little woman, lace handkerchief dangling from one sleeve of her cardig
an, who said, ‘I beg your pardon,’ and set about gouging at Monica’s cowering mother with a pair of sewing shears. Ridiculous, she thought. She had no idea what Mrs Stratton was like, or the woman who’d killed her. She had, in fact, no idea about Stratton’s home life at all, except that it must now be lonely and, judging by what Monica had said, haunted by the spectres of guilt and regret as well as his murdered wife. Poor, poor man … She hoped he’d got somebody he could talk to – if he wanted, that was, because men very often didn’t. He’d been so understanding – a good friend to her, when she’d needed one. It would be nice, she thought, if she could do the same for him – comfort, perhaps, or just listen. But I shall probably never see him again, she thought sadly – after all, she wasn’t likely to meet him socially, was she?

  Diana found Marita in the restaurant, huddled with Alex McPherson in the corner. The tables around them were deserted, but across the room, in the middle of an appreciative coterie of studio staff and partially costumed actors, was Anthony Renwick, declaiming, brandy balloon held aloft. ‘Don’t mind me,’ said Alex. ‘I’m on a spying mission for Mr Vernon. Management needs to keep tabs on the Means of Production, and I shall have to report that one of the Means has dined not wisely, but a bit too well. And,’ he added, glancing at his watch, ‘we’ll have the unions on our backs if this sort of thing keeps happening.’

  ‘Mr Renwick was wonderful this morning,’ said Diana.

  ‘So I gather,’ said Alex wryly. ‘Let’s just hope he gets a few more takes under his belt before he falls over. Coffee?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Have this,’ said Marita, pushing a full cup towards her. ‘I haven’t touched it, and I need to get back.’

  When she’d gone, Alex said, ‘So … Mr Carleton is making quite a pet of you, according to Marita. Taking you under his wing, so to speak.’

  ‘He’s been very … kind,’ said Diana carefully, realising, as she said it, that these were the exact words she’d just used to Monica about Inspector Stratton.

  ‘So I understand.’

  This seemed so pointed that Diana found herself saying, ‘Marita hasn’t taken against me, has she? She certainly hasn’t said—’