Murder in the Title (20 page)

‘Am I to ring her back?'

‘No. She said she'd leave a message.' Mimi stopped, as if that were all she had to communicate, and started further adulterating her tea with tepid water.

‘What was the message?'

‘Oh. You want to know?'

‘Yes.'

‘Well, you can never be sure. Some of my gentlemen don't want to hear from their wives, tell Mimi not even to admit they're here if their wives ring.' She looked at Charles balefully. ‘You behind on the maintenance?'

‘No, I am not. We are not divorced.'

‘Oh. Happily together, eh?'

Charles restrained himself. ‘What was the message?'

‘She said she couldn't make lunch tomorrow.'

The slap of pain made him realize how much he had been looking forward to seeing Frances. Whatever the situation was, however awkward the meeting, he wanted to see her.

‘Oh, well . . .' he said miserably.

‘But . . .' Mimi took her time, ‘she said could you make it dinner instead? An early dinner. She's booked for seven-thirty Sunday. If you can't, ring her between six and seven tonight.'

Charles felt such a flood of boyish joy at his hope restored that he forgot Mimi's awfulness. ‘Terrific,' he said, rising from the table.

‘Now you're not going to leave that lovely kipper, are you?' demanded Mimi.

Charles felt guilty about Martha Wensleigh, guilty about the anguished appeal he had seen in her eyes. He felt he should have something for her, but knew he had nothing to give.

Still, one new idea had come with the morning. It was tiny and undeveloped, but pursuing it would at least give him the illusion of doing something on the widow's behalf.

The thought he had had arose from something in Herbie Inchbald's letter about the proposals to redevelop the Maugham Cross area. The Councillor had made it clear that Schlenter Estates wanted the site very much, and had even tried tentatively to bribe him as a way of getting it. Was it just possible that they had also found a way of putting pressure on Tony Wensleigh, hoping through him to weaken the theatre's status in the town and make their course easier?

It was fanciful, but no more fanciful than a great many of the blind alleys Charles had run up in the course of his detective career.

The trouble was, he knew nothing about the workings of property companies. However, he did have a friend who might be able to help him.

He phoned from a public call-box, wary of Mimi's telescopic ears.

Kate Venables answered. ‘Charles, what a pleasure to hear from you. Not to say a surprise. Look, I must dash – taking one of the kids out for her riding lesson. I think Gerald's still here – he's just on his way out to play golf. Just a sec. Lovely to hear you.' The receiver was put down and Charles heard receding cries of ‘Gerald!'

Charles could visualize the house in West Dulwich, a beautifully appointed example of 1970s Georgian. Money had been lavished on it like plant food on a Chelsea Flower Show exhibit. Everything was of the best and of the most expensive. Riding lessons for the children, golf for Gerald, facials for Kate – everything perfect, everything money could buy. Occasionally, in reflective moods, Charles tried to imagine just how much money Gerald Venables made but usually gave up early on in disbelief There was the basic profit from the highly successful firm of show business solicitors, but that was now only part of a huge investment income. Gerald was one of the few consistently successful ‘angels' who actually made a profit from putting money into shows; but he also had stakes in television companies, commercial radio stations and God knew what other lucrative projects.

The two had met at Oxford and, in spite of the fact that Charles' annual income probably represented a month's pocket money for Gerald, had remained friends. Part of the reason for this was Gerald's fascination with detection and childlike eagerness to get involved in any investigation that Charles initiated.

That this eagerness remained undiminished was confirmed by his first words when he reached the phone. ‘Charles, are you on a case?'

‘Not sure. I might be.'

‘You must be. I don't hear from you from one year's end to the next, and when I do, it's always a case. Spill the beans.'

‘I'm at Rugland Spa.'

‘Ah, taking an early retirement?'

‘No. Thing is, the Artistic Director of the local theatre has just committed suicide.'

‘But Charles Paris is convinced it was really murder?'

‘No, I'm sorry. Nothing so dramatic. Seems no doubt he actually did away with himself. I just want to know why.'

‘Ah. And you think I can tell you? You overestimate my powers, I'm afraid. I'm not psychic.'

‘I just want you to find out some information for me.'

‘Showbiz?'

‘No. It's a bit outside your normal field, but I thought you might be able to root something out. It's about a property company.'

Gerald didn't immediately reject the idea that he might know something. As Charles had suspected, the solicitor's investments were well diversified.

‘Which property company?'

‘Schlenter Estates.'

Gerald made a little whistle through his teeth. ‘The original wide-boys.'

‘You mean they're crooks?'

The solicitor tutted. ‘You really must learn to moderate your language, Charles. There are laws of slander in this country. Anyway, a crook is someone who has been found guilty of a crime. Schlenter Estates have never been found guilty of anything.'

‘But . . .?'

‘But nothing. They are now a highly respected company with international interests. They're even more respectable since they were taken over by Fowler Rose Stillman.'

‘They're big, aren't they? Even I've heard of them.'

‘Oh yes. Fowler Rose Stillman are very big. And highly respectable.'

‘Then why did you refer to Schlenter as wide-boys?'

‘I was being indiscreet.'

‘Go on, Gerald, don't be coy.'

‘Well, it's going back a few years. During the property boom. Round 1970. Then there were a few uncharitable rumours going around about Schlenter. No property companies had a very good reputation round then.'

‘Anything specific?'

‘On Schlenter? Can't say off the top of my head. I could check round on the office on Monday, ask a few people, if you like.'

‘I'd be very grateful.'

‘What do you want exactly?'

‘Don't know, really.'

‘That's helpful.'

‘Well, sort of anything about them. Who really owns them, what they do . . . any dirt, certainly.'

‘Just that. Uhuh,' said Gerald with heavy irony. ‘I'll see what I can do. Where can I contact you?'

Charles had to give Mimi's number. It wasn't private, but at least it wasn't actually in the Regent.

‘I'll have to ring either before eleven or else considerably later,' said Gerald. ‘I've just remembered I've got a client coming in at eleven. He's joining the National as an Assistant Director and we're going through his contract. That'll mop up lunch – mop up most of the day, actually.'

‘I'll stay in till eleven.'

‘Fine. Actually you might know him.'

‘Your client?'

‘Yes. It's Bill Walsingham – have you worked with him?'

‘You bet. Bloody marvellous director.'

‘Yes.'

‘Oh, well, give him my love.'

‘Will do.'

‘And now I won't keep you from your golf any longer. Hope to hear from you on Monday.'

‘Do my best. Oh, incidentally, Charles, isn't it good news about Frances?'

The change of subject was too sudden for Charles. ‘What about her?'

‘Well, I mean this new bloke.'

‘Ah.'

‘David. Seems an awfully good thing.'

‘You've met him?'

‘Yes. Absolute charmer.' Charles didn't say anything. ‘No, I'm so pleased for both of you really. I mean, it's been obvious for years that you and Frances wasn't going to work out. Kate and I had hoped it would when you first split up, but . . . And Frances has needed someone. So now you must feel a lot freer.'

‘Freer?' Charles echoed.

‘Yes, for all those little actresses, eh? No doubt you've got another little cracker on the scene at the moment.'

‘No doubt,' Charles agreed, feeling emptier than he could ever remember.

The Message Is Murder
was given its two final performances on the Saturday, and then returned to its vault, surely never to rise again.

Both the matinée and the evening show were subdued, which was hardly surprising, considering the circumstances. The Methuselahs of Rugland Spa clapped politely at the matinée, and a fuller, fractionally younger audience gave exactly the same reaction to the evening show. Charles unbuckled the Waspee belt of his duelling sword for the last time, and vowed to do something unprecedented. He would turn down work. He would tell his agent on the Monday – if anyone else comes offering a part as a dead body, Charles Paris is unavailable.

The end of the show left everyone in limbo. A director had still not been appointed to rescue
Shove It
, so that production's future remained uncertain, and some members of the company were not sure whether they should be doing a full goodbye routine or if they'd all meet up again for rehearsals the following week.

A subdued little party went for a subdued little celebration at The Happy Friend Chinese Restaurant and Takeaway. Mr Pang welcomed them with his usual impassive smile.

There was little conviviality around the table. Laurie Tichbourne sat beside Nella, looking at her soulfully. A stranger might have seen this as evidence of a love too deep for words, but Charles recognized the plight of someone who just couldn't think of anything to say.

Cherry Robson was there with her factory-owner, though they were in the middle of some complicated row or negotiation. Half-way through the meal, he stormed out and, after two minutes of truculent deliberation, Cherry followed. She wasn't going to let all that money get away so easily.

Leslie Blatt, no doubt to the relief of the females present, was not there.

Rick Harmer and Gay Milner sat either side of Charles, apparently talking to him, but in fact engaged in long individual monologues. Rick was going on about how successful he was going to be, how almost certain he was to get this major television role, apart from getting this television sit com series to write, and how he wasn't really sure whether his agent had big enough ideas for him. What did Charles think?

Gay Milner was talking about sexual relationships and their relevance to their political context. Most of what she said was direct quotation from the director of
Scrag End of Neck
at the Bus Depot, who appeared to have found a new rationale for that oldest of masculine pursuits – how to get sex without responsibility. It was very important that sexual relationships remained egalitarian, Gay quoted. There was, after all, capitalism in sex as well as other forms of property-owning. It was important that relationships should not be limited by the use of glib emotive buzz-words like ‘love'. What did Charles think?

Since he had no thoughts at all on what either of them was talking about, he said nothing, but that did not deter them from continuing to circle round their subjects right through the meal.

At the end Mr Pang was once again asked what Ice Creams (Various) he had, and once again he said Vanilla.

The Sunday was a twitchy day for Charles. He would have liked to wake very late, but Mimi decided to hoover the landing outside his bedroom at eight o'clock. She seemed to have some in-built monitor which made her hyper-sensitive to her gentlemen's desires; she must have done, otherwise she couldn't so consistently have ensured that they were frustrated.

When she finished hoovering, Charles turned over, still with a good chance of going back to sleep. He achieved this, but after five minutes was woken by a knock on the door and ordered down for what Mimi had the nerve to call an omelette.

He got out as soon as possible and was faced with the prospect of a day to kill in Rugland Spa, a day when the pubs didn't open till twelve or the cinemas till three. At least, thanks to
Shove It
rehearsals, he hadn't seen either of the films that had started on the Thursday. But did he really want to go to
Bambi
? Or
She Lost Her Swedish Knickers
, come to that? (He wondered idly whether Mrs Feller spent her spare time picketing the cinema or whether she'd given it up as a bad job.)

The day stretched ahead, one of those awful sagging Sundays in rep. In the old days, he remembered, they had been rare. Sundays had meant tech runs and Dress Rehearsals for a Monday opening. But Equity had tightened up the regulations, now there were overtime rates for Sunday working and as a result few theatres did it. Shows opened now on Wednesday, and usually ran two-and-a-half weeks. The old manic days of weekly rep were gone.

He trudged round the streets of Rugland Spa. Anything of interest the town had to offer (and there wasn't much) he had already seen. He felt mournful and self-pitying.

And he knew that part of the reason was the evening that lay ahead. His mind vacillated between desperately wanting to see her and blind panic. At times he contemplated not turning up at all at the hotel. It might be simpler that way.

The day passed somehow (
Bambi
was actually much better than he'd remembered it), but he still found himself at the Rugland Spa Hotel half an hour too early. But by then his feet were so tired, he couldn't face another aimless circuit of the town. Anyway, at seven o'clock he would be able to get a drink and he felt he was going to need a couple of stiff Bell's to set him up for the evening.

The Rugland Spa Hotel had been built in the days when the spa meant something, when people actually ventured out to Herefordshire to take the waters, when the town was, if not a wildly fashionable resort, at least an active one.