The first act, composed of various scenes ran on in the same vein for a full hour, and behind them George Robson and his best friend, Owen Frickley, struggled to control their laughter, much to the annoyance and embarrassment of their fellow STAC members.
Ultimately, Joe was glad when the curtain came down for the twenty-minute interval and he could lead the way into the bar.
Trapped in the centre of a middle row, it was some time before they managed to get out of the seats and into the bar, and Joe’s purchase of their drinks before they went in was seen as a wise move. Gesturing towards the crowded bar, where the audience were three or four deep, he said, “I’d never have got served in that lot.”
Neither Sheila nor Brenda commented and he got the feeling they were still concerned with the spectacle they had endured.
“So,” he asked conversationally, “What did we think of it so far?”
“I, er…” Brenda trailed off.
Sheila took a generous slug of her gin and tonic. “Let’s be frank. It’s a farce.” With a nod of the head she indicated George and Owen standing by one of the fruit machines, enjoying a good laugh. “And they were a disgrace.”
Joe tracked her gaze. “Well, you know what George is like, and Owen’s a good follower. He knows when to laugh.” His gaze traversed slightly to the left of the two men, where Nat Billingham and Malcolm Sedgwick, still in their stage clothes were in the throes of an argument. “I wonder if they’re discussing George and Owen, too.”
“I’d give my right arm to be a fly on the wall of that dressing room,” Brenda commented.
“Yeah. Knowing you, you’d want to be there while they changed.”
Brenda smiled mock-sweetly. “One of these days, Joe, you’ll go too far and I’ll put you on your back.”
“Odd. It’s usually you who’s—”
“Cut it out, both of you,” Sheila ordered. More soberly, she said, “Poor Teri. It can’t be good for her to be mixed up in something as silly as this.”
“It explains why she appeared so glum earlier on, though.” Joe gulped down half his beer. “It also explains what that panto clown was on about this afternoon.”
As Joe watched Sedgwick and Billingham, still arguing, a third, taller man joined them. Not part of the play, dressed in jeans and a heavy coat, he spoke only to Sedgwick, who listened for a moment, then with a dismissive wave, gave the newcomer a piece of his mind before storming off with Nat in tow.
Intrigued as he was by this performance, Joe took his cue from Sedgwick and checked his watch. He gulped down the last of his drink. “Time we were getting in for the second half. I’d better visit the smallest room first.”
Reaching around a clutch of people, to drop his empty glass on a table, a tall, untidily dressed, bearded man brushed past and nearly knocked it from Joe’s hand.
“Why don’t you watch what you’re doing,” the man snapped.
“And why don’t you look where you’re going?” Joe grumbled, but the man had already disappeared into the crowds, and it was some moments before Joe recognised him as the same man who had been so rudely dispatched by Sedgwick a few moments earlier.
“I’ll bet he’s a bailiff,” Joe muttered, much to the puzzlement of his friends.
Five minutes later they took their seats once more, the house lights went down soon after, and the second half began where the first had left off.
Joe found himself as bemused as before by the incompatibility between the setting and the dialogue, but he silently applauded them on their translation of the churchyard scene. He had asked earlier where they would get the skull of Yorick, but in the event they did not need it.
Hamlet, addressing Horatio held up newspaper, its headlines emblazoned with the death of Yorick in a gangland shootout.
And yet Sedgwick still stuck to Shakespeare’s original dialogue, bringing more, barely suppressed guffaws from George and Owen when he announced, ‘Alas poor Yorick’.
Of the Sanford 3rd Age Club members, only Sylvia appeared to be enjoying the play. Les Tanner looked bored to tears, but Sylvia could frequently be seen aiming her smartphone at the stage and surreptitiously videoing parts of it.
As the performance neared its climax, Sedgwick, the writer as well as director, had taken wholesale liberties with the original script. Gertrude was killed offstage, but Hamlet had shot Claudius, who lay on the stage, to the left as viewed by the audience. Laertes burst in followed by Horatio. There was a struggle during which Hamlet’s gun went off again and this time killed Ophelia who for some reason best known to Sedgwick, had not committed suicide. Teri fell dramatically to her knees, then to the stage while Sylvia avidly videoed it. In the meantime, Joe struggled to work out how Hamlet could have shot her considering that like Claudius, she was to the left of the stage and therefore behind Hamlet.
Laertes and Hamlet got into another argument during which, still using Shakespearean language, Hamlet explained how he had learned of his father’s murder by Claudius, who had also disposed of Gertrude, two acts for which Hamlet had just taken revenge. In a fury, Laertes whipped out a pistol, aimed and fired, declaring, “Have at you now,” a line from the original play which made Joe cringe, and brought uproarious laughter from George and Owen.
The gunshot was obviously a cue. As he fell, Hamlet whipped out a knife and planted it firmly in Laertes’ chest.
The crowd waited for Laertes to fall. But he did not. Instead, he stared down at Hamlet who was gagging on the stage. Hamlet raised a supplicating hand and it dropped again. Slowly Laertes ceased to be Laertes, and became Nat Billingham again. From the floor at the back of the stage, Ophelia transformed into Teri Goodson and raised her head in grave concern. Nat glanced at her and something must have passed between them, for she looked left and right and gave a nod, upon which signal, the curtain came down.
Chapter Four
Several minutes went by, and when the curtain did not rise again, a murmur of consternation rippled through the audience. Another couple of minutes passed and the house lights came up. Someone tried to generate a slow handclap, but it petered out as quickly as it had begun without picking up any momentum.
“Something has obviously gone wrong,” Sheila whispered.
Joe could imagine the scene behind the curtains, cast and crew scurrying randomly here and there in a desperate effort to get the show back on. “I’m glad I run a café and not a theatre.”
“Wonder what it could be?” Brenda murmured. “It has to be something pretty serious to cause this much of a stoppage.”
“The play was almost over, too,” Sheila said. “There was really only Horatio’s farewell speech to come.”
“And the arrival of Chief Inspector Fortinbras,” Brenda said checking the programme with undisguised disdain. “Fancy. A chief inspector with a bloody silly name...”
Nat Billingham, still dressed as Laertes, appeared from the right and stood centre stage in front of the curtain. Joe noticed that this time, he had a microphone in his hand. “At least we’ll be able to hear—”
Sheila cut him off with a hissed, “Shh. Let’s see what he has to say.”
The whole house fell silent as Nat began to speak.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we ask for your forgiveness.” His features were grim. “Unfortunately, one of our key players has been taken suddenly and seriously ill, and we’re waiting for the medical services to arrive, and we can’t move him.”
The murmur, which had been silenced by his arrival, picked up again, louder this time.
“We had only a few minutes to go, and I regret to inform you that we will be unable to complete tonight’s performance. For those of you who may be concerned, the theatre management will decide whether refunds will be made, or whether the play will be staged again allowing free entry for those of you here tonight.”
Joe glanced along the row at Sylvia, who was now in frantic and obviously fearful debate with Les Tanner. Joe leaned across Brenda and tapped Les on the arm. “Tell Sylvia
not to worry. The guy said they can’t move him. It’s not Teri.”
Nat Billingham concluded his speech. “I can only apologise for these tragic events, and trust that it hasn’t spoiled your enjoyment too much. Thank you.” He gave a half bow and walked off to the right.
The murmur came back, louder, augmented by the movement of people as they rose, and made for the aisles. Snippets of complaints reached Joe’s ears as he shuffled along the row towards the exit. “Bloody farce…” “See it again? Not likely…” “I’ll be demanding my money back…” “All this time, all this money and we don’t get the ending…” Joe understood their frustration. The entire evening had been a complete waste of time and money in his opinion, and he felt even more cheated by missing out on those last few minutes of drama.
Typically, his two companions were concerned with other matters.
“I do hope he’s all right whoever he is,” Brenda said over her shoulder.
“Sedgwick wasn’t it?” Joe said. “He sounded like he was struggling to breathe in that last few minutes.”
“We should try to get to see Teri,” Sheila suggested, talking past Joe to Brenda. “If she’s anything like her grandmother, the poor girl will be a wreck.”
Joe looked back and saw Sylvia and Les Tanner getting out onto the far aisle, but instead of turning right for the exit, they began to fight their way left, towards the stage.
“Sylvia has the same thought in mind,” he said and Sheila followed his pointing finger.
“She’s worried.”
“Teri will be okay,” Joe assured them as he followed Brenda out into the aisle and they moved slowly towards the open exit doors.
A little over five minutes later, they emerged onto the street, bathed in the bright lights of the entrance, and put on their coats. The rain had stopped, but the winds had not died down, and still carried salt spray from the sea.
Joe checked his watch. “Not ten o’clock yet. Fancy a beer? We can go next door until we hear what’s gone on.”
“I need something,” Brenda assured him.
They strolled along towards the Clock Tower, past an ambulance, its blue lights flickering in the darkness, and as they once more made the doors of the Rep Bar, a police car came round the Clock Tower, and hurtled into a gap ahead of the ambulance. Two uniformed officers climbed out, locked the doors and strolled briskly to the stage door.
“Must be more serious than we thought,” Joe said, holding the bar door open for his companions to pass through.
“Let’s hope it’s not that serious,” Sheila said.
As it had been during the interval, the bar was packed. Customers stood three and four deep at the bar, attendants rushed here and there, eager to serve, harassed by the calls coming at them. Joe guessed he would have at least a ten or fifteen minute wait for service. He spotted George Robson and Owen Frickley at the front, already being served.
“George,” he called out. “Get me a half of lager, a Campari and soda and a gin and tonic will you? I’ll square you up when you get here.”
George nodded and a tall, bearded man stood next to Joe scowled.
“Why don’t you wait your turn?”
Joe recognised him as the man who almost knocked the glass from his hand during the interval; the same man who had been given short shrift from Sedgwick. “I like to annoy people like you.”
“You wanna watch you don’t annoy me too much.”
Joe studied the unshaven features. “Are you on my Christmas card list?”
He did not answer and Joe joined Sheila and Brenda who stood by one of the pillars.
“Not a seat to be had,” Sheila complained.
“Tell ’em you’re pregnant, Brenda,” Joe suggested. “That should get you a seat and me and Sheila can sit on your knee.”
“You’re coming awfully close to a knuckle butty, Joe Murray.”
Joe shrugged and smiled. “Just trying to lighten the mood.”
It was some minutes before George, carrying a tray with several pints and spirits, joined them. Joe had struggled to get near the bar, and both George and Owen had struggled to get away from it.
“Who’s that clown with the beard?” George asked, handing spirits to the women and then sipping the head off his pint of dark mild.
Owen passed a glass of lager to Joe. “He’s just threatened us for getting your beer.”
“He wasn’t too happy when I asked you to get it,” Joe confirmed. “And I had hassle with him in the interval.”
“One more word and I’d have ripped his head off,” George confirmed.
A foreman gardener for Sanford Borough Council, George was a big, muscular man, and Joe knew he would never back off in a confrontation. But looking at the bearded stranger, he would not have been so sure of the outcome as George was. Wearing jeans and a quilted coat, he was a lot younger and slimmer than George or Owen, and he gave the impression of physical fitness as he battled his way to the bar.
“Any word on what’s happened?” Brenda asked.
George finished his pint with a couple of large gulps, put the empty glass on the tray, and took a second. “Heard a whisper between two of the bar staff. The old duffer as what plays Hamlet, has pegged it, they reckon.”
The words shocked Sheila and Brenda into open-mouthed silence. Joe read the signs immediately and hastened to take the steam out of the debate.
“Scuttlebutt. Chinese whispers. You know what these are like.”
“Only telling you what I overheard, Joe,” George assured him.
Joe’s eyes strayed to the bar once more where the bearded man was offered service by one of the staff. He declined with a shake of the head and pointed further along the bar to another attendant, and the first one called to his colleague.
“Rum,” Joe muttered.
“Good night, though,” said Owen, misinterpreting Joe’s observation. “I haven’t laughed so much since the last series of the Benny Hill Show.”
Sheila frowned. “Hamlet is supposed to be a tragedy.”
“It was a tragedy,” Joe said. “A tragedy that this version ever made it to the stage.”
At the bar, the bearded man spoke to the attendant he had asked for. Then, with a face set like thunder, he turned, pushed his way through the crowd and stormed from the room.
“They obviously don’t stock his brand of lemonade,” Joe commented.
Joe was still musing silently on the incident when, ten minutes later, George and Owen finished their drinks.
“There’s a lap dancing club on the main street and we’re gonna give it a look,” George grinned at Brenda. “Course, if you’re willing to give us a private show, Brenda, we’d—”
“Sod off, George. You two couldn’t afford a private show with me.”
Sheila giggled. “Incorrigible. All three of you.”
The crowd were beginning to thin out, and tables became vacant. George and Owen bid them goodnight, and as they left, Sylvia and Les Tanner stepped into the bar.
“People obviously don’t want to pay over the top for beer,” Joe commented, “so they’re doing a George and Owen and heading out for the pubs and clubs.”
They commandeered a table near the exit, and while Les Tanner went to the bar, Joe signalled to Sylvia to join them. She looked distraught, and the moment she joined them, she launched into her anxious explanation.
“Malcolm Sedgwick, the director, the man who played Hamlet, has died,” she said. “And it’s much worse than that. The police say he was murdered.”
The background murmur from the bar filled the stunned silence which greeted Sylvia’s announcement.
Sheila was first to recover. “Murdered?”
Sylvia was near to tears. “They suspect Nat Billingham, the man who played Laertes, and my poor Teri.”
Tanner joined them with a steadying brandy for Sylvia and a half of bitter for himself.
“Teri?” Joe asked, barely acknowledging Les with a nod. “She was nowhere near him and besides, she w
ouldn’t harm a fly.”
Sylvia gulped down some brandy. “Apparently, Malcolm was shot, and since Nat was the one who used the gun in the final scene, they’re questioning him.”
“All right,” Joe said, “but what does that have to do with Teri?”
“She was the property mistress, Joe,” Les told him. “The gun was her responsibility.”
“No way.” Joe barked in a show of defiance. “Remember when we were in Lincoln for the murder mystery weekend a coupla years back? I learned a few things at that do. These theatre companies have professional armourers, and with all due respect to Teri, she isn’t an expert with guns… is she?”
“Of course not,” Sylvia replied indignantly. “I don’t understand all the ins and outs of it, Joe. I only know they’re questioning my poor Teri.”
His mind still tumbling over the problem of the gun and responsible persons, Brenda hastened to reassure Sylvia. “Just because they’re questioning her, it doesn’t mean they suspect her. It’s purely routine.”
“I know that, Brenda, but you know what the police are like.” Sylvia glanced apologetically at Sheila as if she had only just noticed her presence. “Forgive me, Sheila. I’m not including Peter in that.”
“Of course not,” Sheila agreed. “The police are trained in, er, how can I put it, controlling an interview, but all the same, Sylvia, I don’t think they suspect Teri. They’ll be trying to ascertain the backstage routines to work out who may have had access to the gun.”
“Precisely what I said,” Les declared. “It’s the same with Billingham. He actually used the weapon, same as he has done in every performance. Hardly his fault if some maniac swapped the blank cartridges for the real thing, is it?”
“Course not,” Joe agreed, with the private reservation that Nat Billingham was likely the first suspect the police would look at, especially if they learned of the argument between Nat and Sedgwick during the interval.
“Argument?”
The question seemed to come at Joe from all of them simultaneously when Joe voiced his concern.
A Theatrical Murder Page 4
