Murder in the Title (15 page)

The naked gathered behind the screens as Kathy Kitson moved to centre stage (a habit she had) to deliver herself of the same – or who could say, perhaps some new – euphemism. But what she would have said at that rehearsal was never revealed.

Because at that moment came the Invasion of the Hats.

The doors of the Drill Hall burst open and, led by the redoubtable hat of Mrs Feller, in marched the Massed Hats of Opposition to
Shove It
.

There were about a dozen of them. Most carried banners. To those with which they had picketed the theatre had been added such choice slogans as ‘DON'T POISON THE MINDS OF OUR CHILDREN', ‘NO ROMANS IN BRITAIN HERE', ‘FILTH CORRUPTS' and, rather surprisingly, ‘YOU KNOW WHERE YOU CAN SHOVE IT!'

In the wake of the hats, shamefaced and wishing he was anywhere else in the world, was dragged a very young policeman.

The aim of the demonstration was disruption and the first action of the hats, loudly shouting out the slogans on their banners, was to knock down the two screens. The sheer size of the nudist colonies these revealed struck them dumb.

In the ensuing silence Tony Wensleigh's voice could be heard weakly asking what on earth they thought they were doing.

‘There!' Mrs Feller pointed an accusatory finger, as far as Charles could see, directly at him, and turned to the young policeman saying, ‘If that isn't an obscene display, I'd like to know what is.'

‘Well, erm . . .' The wretched young man blushed beetroot. ‘In fact, the law on obscenity is not always clear.'

‘But this is clearly obscene,' insisted Mrs Feller.

‘Well, it might be, but, even if it were, I'm not quite sure what I could do about it.'

‘Not sure? I'll tell you exactly what you could do – and exactly what you should do – arrest the lot of them!'

The young policeman looked even unhappier. The prospect of rounding up a dozen naked men and women and marching them through the streets of Rugland Spa to the police station was not one that appealed to him.

He tried to look authoritative by getting out a notebook and pencil. ‘Right,' he began tentatively. ‘Who's in charge here?'

‘I am,' Tony Wensleigh replied.

But not for long, thought Charles. This latest incident was just what the Artistic Director didn't need. Charles wouldn't have offered much for Tony Wensleigh's chances at the Extraordinary Board Meeting the following evening.

MRS FELLER DID
not get any arrests, but she achieved the lesser objective of totally sabotaging the Undress Rehearsal. By the time the Hats had been cleared from the Drill Hall, the cast had all apologetically put their clothes back on again and it was too late to start on Act Two of Royston Everett's little masterpiece. Even if the cast of the evening's show had forgone the break due to them between rehearsal and performance, there wouldn't have been time. So a somewhat sheepish little group traipsed back to the Regent Theatre.

Where at least one of them was met with a further set-back. Charles, now feeling that he should watch the Artistic Director's every move, had walked back with him from the rehearsal room but there had been little conversation. Tony Wensleigh was sunk in a gloom of his own.

But they were still walking together when they entered the foyer of the theatre, and so Charles overheard the words of Donald Mason, who rushed up anxiously to his colleague as if he had been awaiting his return for some time.

‘Tony,' the General Manager whispered as Charles moved away, ‘just had a call from Nigel Hudson.'

‘Nigel Hudson?'

‘My contact at the Arts Council.'

‘Oh yes.'

‘Well, it wasn't so much a call as a tip-off. Apparently our grant prospects are dicier than we thought.'

‘Oh.'

‘They're going to make their recommendations within the next fortnight.'

‘Oh yes?'

‘And they're sending the assessment team down to the first night of
Shove It
to, as Nigel charmingly put it, “give us a final chance”.'

Which, Charles reflected as he left the foyer. was considering the current state of the production, tantamount to a straight refusal of the grant.

But the new blow aroused very little reaction in the traumatized Artistic Director. All it got was another dulled ‘Oh yes?'

Charles was surprised to find there was a telegram from him backstage. There are perhaps actors whose lives are full of ecstatic messages from fans and urgent news from agents about film offers, but he wasn't one of them.

His first reaction was that something awful had happened to someone in the family. Juliet was ill. One of the grandchildren had been in a car accident.

It was family. But it wasn't bad news. Or, he decided quickly before his mind was swamped with mixed emotions, it probably wasn't bad news.

‘COMING DOWN TO RUGLAND SPA FOR LUNCH ON SUNDAY. RING ME IF YOU CAN'T MAKE IT. LOVE. FRANCES.'

The dear departed Sir Reginald De Meaux was now on his best behaviour. He had given his word to Donald Mason and, not wishing to add to the dissension between General Manager and Artistic Director, he therefore did not even contemplate a visit to the pub after he had discharged his artistic duties in the Thursday night performance of
The Message Is Murder
. He would wait around for the curtain call, following Tony Wensleigh's desires.

Other nights he would have been content to sit quietly with a book (he was re-reading Samuel Butler's
Erewhon
and enjoying the experience), but on this occasion he felt twitchy and couldn't concentrate. His dressing room chair felt uncomfortable, and Leslie Blatt's banal dialogue, half-heard over the loudspeaker, was a constant distraction.

Partly, he knew, it was the telegram. The prospect of seeing Frances filled him with reactions he didn't want to itemize.

But there was also a general air of tension in the theatre. The afternoon's débacle would normally have been laughed off by the company, but it merely added to the anxiety over
Shove It
The show was due to open the following Wednesday and everyone was aware that it was well behind schedule. They were also becoming aware, given no assurances to the contrary from their director, that it was not a very good play.

The state of the Regent's internal politics was also starting to have its effect on the company. The conflict between General Manager and Artistic Director could no longer be disguised. Nor could the importance, for the future of the theatre, of the following evening's Extraordinary Meeting of the Board. All this added pressure to the normal anxieties of a week before a new production opens.

For Charles, who reckoned he had deeper insight into the real causes of the divisions in the theatre, the stress was greater. He could recognize the increasing strains on Tony Wensleigh, feared that they might resolve themselves into violence, and yet felt impotent to stop the escalating sequence of crime.

If only he had some proof of Tony's involvement in the earlier attacks . . .

He decided to go up into the gallery and watch the Act Two hanging of Colonel Fripp (now being played with rather more conviction, because, in spite of his years, he had more talent than Gordon Tremlett, by Rick Harmer). Seeing the effect repeated might give Charles some clue as to exactly how the accident had been staged.

The top floor of the Regent Theatre was quite complex. The central area was the decorated ceiling of the auditorium with the roof directly above it. Above the stage was the flying space with a gallery on either side. In the front of the building, above the bar, was the space into which the administrative office was crammed.

But along the sides, joining the front of the theatre to the back, were two broad passages. The primary function of these was to give access to the catwalk round the auditorium from which much of the lighting was fixed, but because storage space is always at a premium in a repertory theatre, they were also used for other purposes. One side, on long mobile rails, was kept the company's stock of all-purpose costumes (the sort of peasant blouses and leather jerkins which would see service in anything from medieval mystery plays, through pantomime, to Robert Bolt). The other side was used as a prop store, where Roman helmets nestled side by side with papier-maché marrows, rubber skulls dangled by strings of plastic onions, glass jewellery hung from deer's antlers, and tennis rackets poked from witches' cauldrons.

Both of the stores had doors at either end, giving access to the flying gallery and the administrative office area.

Charles had climbed up the wall-ladder to the gallery and was inspecting the counter-weighting of the wire from which Rick Harmer was about to be suspended when he heard a noise from the props store.

The door was closed. Charles had seen Nella, Rick and the other members of the Stage Management down at floor level. They were the only people who might have legitimate cause to go to the prop store during a performance. Alert to the danger of another act of sabotage, Charles decided that he should investigate.

He opened the door with extreme caution, but the light it admitted put the intruder on his guard. From the far side of the gloom a torch-beam swung round into Charles' face, blinding him.

‘Charles.' The voice, which he recognized, sounded relieved. Then Charles thought he heard a click, like the throwing of an electrical switch.

There was sufficient light from the door for him to see a light-switch on the wall nearby. He flicked it. Two naked hanging bulbs illuminated the scene. He stepped inside and closed the door.

Tony Wensleigh was momentarily thrown by the sudden light and froze. He was crouched in the far corner of the store by a fibreglass sundial and a pile of breastplates made of stiffened felt. In his hand he held a World War I army revolver.

After the shock he moved hastily, shuffling the breastplates back against the wall, tucking a dangling string behind a grandfather clock before he turned back to Charles with apparent insouciance.

‘What on earth are you doing here?'

‘Just heard a noise and wondered who it was.'

‘Oh.'

The monosyllable seemed to require further explanation.

‘I was just going for a walk round the gallery, you know killing time.'

‘Yes, of course. You do have a long wait between your appearance and the curtain call.'

‘Yes,' Charles agreed, with some edge.

‘Why do you do it?'

‘What?'

‘Why do you wait? Why not just get changed straight away? I'm sure no one notices whether you're there or not at the curtain call.'

Charles looked at the Artistic Director in amazement. ‘I do it because you specifically asked me to.'

‘Oh, did I?' Tony looked confused, suddenly like an old man. ‘I'm sorry. I keep mixing things up. Do things and can't remember I've done them. Don't do things and think I have done them. Sorry.' He rubbed his hand across his brow, as though his mental state were something external, that could be wiped away.

‘You've been under a lot of pressure recently, Tony,' said Charles gently.

The Artistic Director gave a weary smile. ‘That is a wonderful understatement. A lot of pressure, yes. I wonder how much pressure it takes before a man cracks. How many straws can a camel take cheerfully, and how does he recognize the one that's going to do the damage? Does it carry a Government Health Warning?'

He let out a bark of nervous laughter. Then silence came between them. With surprising clarity further banalities by Leslie Blatt filtered up from the stage.

Charles kept his therapist's tone of voice. ‘Tony, you don't have to crack up completely. You can save yourself, you can talk, tell the truth.'

‘Yes, I firmly intend to. Get the truth out into the open, then the pressure'll go away.'

‘Exactly. And you'll feel a lot better.'

‘Yes.' The Artistic Director seemed calmer. ‘Yes, I'll get people to listen to my side. Then they'll realize I'm not mad.'

‘Of course they will,' Charles soothed.

‘And the nightmare'll soon be over.'

‘Yes. You can put an end to it whenever you want to. It's up to you.'

‘You're right, Charles.' The Artistic Director looked directly into his eyes. ‘It's all a lot clearer now, what I should do. I've been very confused the last few weeks, but now its coming clear.'

‘Good.'

The revolver was still in Tony's hand. Charles thought the atmosphere had relaxed sufficiently for him to mention it.

‘Where did that come from, Tony?'

The Artistic Director looked down, as though noticing the weapon for the first time. ‘Oh, that. I just found it up here. Forgotten we'd got it. Came from one of my first productions at the Regent,
Journey's End
. In the early days we didn't have any money. We could just afford the cast, but nothing left for costumes and props . . . So we put out an appeal in the
Gazette
– any one got any First World War uniforms and stuff they'd lend us. Quite a good response. This came from an old girl who'd had two brothers in the war. They'd both been wounded, and she'd nursed them both until they died. She'd kept everything . . . all their uniforms, everything . . . and she said we could borrow them because of the play . . . because
Journey's End
was against war, and she hated war. I don't know why we've still got this. We should have given it back . . . I can't remember.'

Once again the clouds of confusion were gathering. He pulled himself together with an effort. ‘The old lady gave us all the ammunition, too. She'd kept that.' He gave a little laugh. ‘We shouldn't really have used a gun like this on stage. Not one that works. Should have had a spiked one, but . . .' He shrugged. ‘. . . I'm sure we were in a panic as usual, and the important thing was to get the production on. I think that's always been the important thing – to get the production on – and it's never left much time for anything else. Plays are easier, too – I find plays easier than everything else. Other things just get so . . . complicated . . .'