Murder in the Title (19 page)

The file she had brought with her was all that Tony had kept at home. Any hope that it would prove to be some kind of dossier, evidence in the ‘case' his wife had suspected he was building up against his ‘enemy', was soon dashed.

The file was a further demonstration of Tony Wensleigh's disorganized mind, of his lack of administrative ability. It was just bits and pieces, carbons of letters and photocopies of documents jumbled up with photos of actors, programme proofs, rehearsal notes scribbled in his cramped handwriting, props lists, snippings of Frank Walby reviews, Board Meeting agendas, designers' sketches for sets, phone numbers on backs of envelopes, restaurant bills and other less decipherable scraps.

There was no system in the collection; it was as if the Artistic Director had every now and then emptied out his jacket pockets and shoved whatever he found into the file.

Just sorting through the mass of paper would be a long job. Charles was glad he had taken the precaution of buying a half-bottle of Bell's from the pub. He took a long swig and, propping himself up on Mimi's brushed nylon pillows, started to wade through.

After about an hour, he had winnowed out four single sheets and one stapled bunch of papers which he thought might have some bearing on the case, or which, failing that, might at least provide some background to recent events at the Regent Theatre.

The first confirmed what his widow had said about Tony Wensleigh's view of the plays in the current season. It was a duplicated sheet, headed ‘Play Selection Committee – Proposals', containing a list of play titles. Presumably, since there were only seventeen in all, these represented some sort of short list. Five shows in the season, no argument about the pantomime (which had been
Puss In Boots
that year) and, it seemed, one nomination from each committee member for each of the other four slots.

It was clear, from his underlinings and comments, which had been the Artistic Director's own suggestions.
Much Ado About Nothing, Sleuth, Kiss Me Kate
and Ayckbourn's
Ten Times Table
. Not wildly original, perhaps, but a fairly well-balanced programme of Rugland Spa fodder.

What was striking about the committee's voting was that in every case the Artistic Director's proposal had been voted out, and in each case replaced with something inferior. Even
Much Ado
. . . had given way to
All's Well That Ends Well
, a much more difficult and less readily accessible play.

Whether the committee's voting reflected lack of artistic judgement or something more sinister it was hard to be certain. The first was quite possible, Charles reflected. He already had serious doubts about Herbie Inchbald's knowledge of the theatre;
The Message Is Murder
did not inspire much confidence in Leslie Blatt as an arbiter of taste; and, he suddenly realized, though he had heard Donald Mason talking about a lot of administrative matters, he had never heard an artistic judgement from the General Manager.

On the other hand, the unanimity of voting against Tony Wensleigh suggested that his suspicion of organized opposition was not completely fanciful.

The Artistic Director's view of one of the plays ultimately selected was left in no doubt by a carbon of a letter dated a few days before the Play Selection Committee Meeting.

Dear Leslie [it ran], thank you very much indeed for letting me see the script of
The Message Is Murder
, which I return herewith.

I am afraid your submitting it puts me in a difficult position, because, having known you so long, I would like to be able to write back with enthusiasm, but I'm afraid I can't. I am sure that, as you say, the play was well received when first produced in the fifties, though I feel the fact that its run ended on its pre-London tour may suggest that it lacked a certain West End gloss.

Anyway, that need not matter. Frequently a revival can completely change a play's fortunes. But I'm afraid I cannot see that happening in this case. To be brutally frank, the play has dated badly and now seems painfully contrived. The characters have no inner life or psychological continuity, and, speaking as a director, I can foresee massive problems in giving the play any credibility at all.

I am sorry to have to write like this, but I feel that it is better to be frank at this point than by politeness to get caught in a project which should not have started.

Please rest assured that I have often had occasion to respect your judgement in the past, and am sure that I will be grateful for your advice in the future. I am only sorry that I cannot agree with you about the suitability of
The Message Is Murder
for production at the Regent in the 1980s.

Yours sincerely,

Tony.

The letter interested Charles a lot, not only because it confirmed Tony Wensleigh's dislike of the play, but also because it revealed a core of good sense and professional skill which he had not seen during his brief acquaintance with the director. Tony Wensleigh might have cracked up in the intervening months, but he hadn't cracked when he wrote that letter.

The next document of interest was a letter from Herbie Inchbald, dated some three years previously. It spelled out precisely the threat to the site of the Regent Theatre.

Dear Tony,

As you know there has been a great deal of toing and froing on the Council recently over the future of the Regent and, both as a Councillor and as Chairman of the Theatre Board, I think it's up to me to keep you informed of developments.

As you don't need telling, the theatre holds a prime position in the Maugham Cross area, the whole of which is badly run down and will at some point require redevelopment. I don't question that that will have to happen in time, but what I and my supporters on the Council are trying to ensure is that any development plans guarantee the survival of the Regent in its current form. As you have probably gathered, not everyone on the Council agrees with me. Like everything else, it has become a political matter, and we're spending an awful lot of Council time debating the merits of theatre v. Leisure Centre and God knows what else.

The issue has become more pressing, because we have now had a definite offer on the whole Maugham Cross area from Schlenter Estates. It is an attractive offer and the majority of the Council favour accepting it and appointing Schlenter Estates as developer. They seem to be well backed and have presented us with convincing plans, demonstrating how they will raise development money from a pension fund, etc. They seem to know what they're on about.

And Rugland Spa could use the money. Apart from a guaranteed minimum income from the project, we would also receive a healthy percentage of the gross rents for the completed development, just the sort of financial boost we need in these straitened times. And, of course, we would control the way the development is done, to keep it in tone with the rest of the town centre.

But Schlenter do want the Regent site as part of their development and I think they'd be prepared to do anything to get it. I've already had the soft soap treatment from them, invitations to look round one of their completed projects near Birmingham. I went along, out of curiosity. Most of the day was spent being whisked between expensive restaurants in Rolls-Royces, being fed to the gills with excellent food and champagne (and with a fairly unambiguous offer of a girl at the end of the day if I fancied it). Well, of course, they'd backed the wrong horse with me. I can recognize a bribe a mile off, and am fortunately sufficiently comfortable not even to be tempted. But it does show how important the development is to them, and what they'd be prepared to do to get that site.

As I say, a lot of the Council would let them have it without a backward thought, so we're going to have to fight hard to save it.

I'm sure we'll succeed. As we discussed, I've written to Lord Kitestone asking him to be our patron. His name on our notepaper will give us a lot of respectability. And then we must organize public opinion. I'm sure we can guarantee a good outcry when the proposal to demolish the theatre becomes public, and I'm sure we'll be able to stop it. Either the development will go ahead, leaving the Regent untouched, or else the whole project will be shelved.

But, even if the second happens, this has been a grim warning and it's the kind of thing that's bound to come up again. It's down to us to ensure that we maintain such a high standard of theatre at the Regent that no one even dares to suggest closing us.

Anyway, thought you ought to know the state of play. Rest assured of the continuing support of myself and anyone else on the Council who I can speak for (and pray that there won't be a disaster at the elections!).

Yours sincerely,

Herbie.

The letter confirmed – if it needed confirming – Councillor Inchbald's whole-hearted backing for the Regent, but it also defined the reality of the threat to the theatre's future. And its total reliance on Council support.

That had been three years before. The Regent was still standing, and the area in which it stood, Charles had noticed, was, by Rugland Spa's genteel standards, pretty shabby. So presumably the deal with Schlenter Estates had not gone through. But the more run-down the Maugham Cross area became, and the lower the artistic standards of the Regent fell, the greater became the likelihood of another similar offer. An offer which, after recent disasters, the pro-theatre lobby might find difficult to fight off.

Charles then turned his attention to the stapled sheaf of papers, which turned out to be photocopies of Donald Mason's c.v. and references when he applied for the post of General Manager at the Regent Theatre just over a year before.

These made fascinating reading. Charles realized that he knew almost nothing about Donald's past. Whereas much of actors' conversations is spent in asking each other where they've worked and who with, such questions are rarely addressed to General Managers. Indeed, in many theatres, the cast are hardly aware of the General Manager's presence.

Donald Mason had started out in 1970, it appeared, as an estate agent, which, he wrote, ‘taught me the basic skills of administration without in any way stimulating my mind, which was becoming increasingly set on the idea of working in the theatre'. Difficulty in finding an opening in this country had led him to try his luck in Australia, where, starting humbly as an Assistant Front of House Manager, he had risen through various companies, until he reached the status of General Administrator at the Kelly Theatre in Sydney. Wishing to try his luck again in his native country, he had returned to England six months previously and found, like many before him, that experience abroad did not count for as much as it should. But, determined to build up his career again, he had been prepared to go a few rungs back down the ladder, and accepted a job as Assistant Front of House Manager at the Pavilion Theatre, Darlington. It was from there that he was applying for the Rugland Spa job.

That career history was adequate for the job; what made it exceptional was the quality of the references that accompanied the application. Charles knew that in the theatre a good reference was sometimes a way of getting rid of a member of the administrative staff who didn't fit in, but that could not explain such unanimity of praise as Donald Mason had received from his Australian employers. Charles didn't know the antipodean theatrical scene, so the names didn't mean anything to him, but there was no doubting the enthusiasm of Ralph Johnson of the Theatre Royal, Adelaide, Rich Coleman of the Dominion, Perth, Greg Avon of the Hippodrome, Melbourne, and Jim Vasilis of the Kelly Theatre in Sydney. They all praised Donald Mason's administrative skill, tact and general flair for the theatre; and they all very much regretted losing him. The letters made impressive reading. Rugland Spa had been lucky to catch Mason at a low point in his career, because he was clearly destined for higher things.

The final piece of paper from Antony Wensleigh's file was further confirmation not only of Donald's suitability for his job, but also for the Artistic Director's endorsement of the appointment. The duplicated sheet was headed ‘General Manager Applicants' and dated nearly a year before. There was a list of five names with times half an hour apart, presumably for their final interviews. There were comments beside all the names in Tony's tiny writing, but against Donald Mason's were four asterisks, an exclamation mark and the remark, ‘This one by a mile!'

So, though conflict seemed to have developed between the Artistic Director and the General Manager, there was no question of Tony having had Donald foisted on him. He had supported the new appointment unreservedly.

If his feelings of persecution were more than fantasy, then the contents of the Artistic Director's file gave no clue as to the identity of his persecutor.

There was only the business of play selection, which could perhaps show organized opposition to Tony, and that seemed more likely to be just the workings of innocent philistinism.

A natural instinct for tidiness made Charles drain the half-bottle of Bell's. Then he switched out the light and tried to snuggle into the brushed nylon sheets (though snuggling and brushed nylon sheets don't really go together). The stuff in the file had been interesting, he reflected, but it hadn't really got him any further in what probably wasn't even a case.

‘There was a phone message for you this morning,' Mimi announced, as Charles tried not to meet his kipper in the eye. What a hell, he thought, for a fish. Being caught is bad enough. Being kippered adds to the agony. But then to have to suffer the final indignity of being cooked by Mimi . . . it made hanging, drawing and quartering seem humane.

‘Who from?'

Disbelief flooded Mimi's face, before drenching her words. ‘She said she was your wife.'

‘Why on earth didn't you wake me?'

‘Oh, didn't want to disturb you. I said you were sleeping it off.'

So that was going to be the regular line, whoever rang while he was asleep. Thank you very much, Mimi just wait and see what I write in your Visitors' Book. I will. I really will.