Murder in the Title (3 page)

In a waisted silk dress, no doubt, Charles thought vindictively. He couldn't really blame her for cutting him, but it didn't improve his mood. He drained his Spanish vinegar and went to replenish it. Ahead of him at the bar were two men, one crumpled, fat and unfamiliar, the other Gordon Tremlett, the actor who had played Colonel Fripp.

The crumpled fat man was persuading the girl behind the bar that it'd save time if she filled him a pint glass of wine rather than ‘one of these piddling little things'. He succeeded, and moved away with the brim of the tankard already to his lips.

Charles could always recognize a professional drinker. ‘Who is he?' he asked Gordon Tremlett.

‘Frank Walby, love. Theatre Critic on the
Gazette
.'

‘Ah. And what's he going to think of the show?'

‘Oh, he'll adore it. Never given a bad notice in his life. Bit like a review in
Stage
– so nice it doesn't mean anything. Praise for all, my dear, including the lady who tore the tickets. No, I've lived in Rugland Spa fifteen years and never seen a harsh word from Frank.'

Gordon Tremlett had an unusual history for an actor. He had come into the business after taking an early retirement as, of all things, a bank manager. Always a keen (and talented) amateur actor, he had managed to get his Equity ticket, and worked at the Regent whenever there was a suitable small part for him. He had hardly ever worked anywhere else, but demonstrated the fanaticism of all converts and was far more theatrical than most lifetime actors.

His colleagues regarded him with amused tolerance and occasional resentment. The latter arose whenever he tried to identify too closely with the rest of the company. They could not treat as an equal in their own hazardous profession someone cushioned by a large pension from Barclays Bank.

Gordon Tremlett's talent was serviceable, but he was an example of Antony Wensleigh's tendency to surround himself with casts of friends rather than searching out excellence.

‘Sorry, love,' Gordon apologized, picking up a tray of drinks and moving off. ‘Got some people in.'

Gordon always had people in. His own little claque, all members of the amateur dramatic society he had formerly supported and now patronized, all still slightly breathless at the fact that one of their number was working in the ‘real' theatre.

Charles was walking away from the bar with another glass of gall, when Donald Mason again busied up to him.

‘Charles,' the General Manager whispered. ‘Just a warning.'

‘What?'

‘Lad in the leather jacket – he's one of the Arts Council assessment team.'

‘Really?'

‘Yes. And our prospects of getting a grant for next season are dicey enough, so just be careful.'

‘Sure. But you'd better detach him from Kathy. He seems to be a big fan of Royston Everett's work, and she's calmly telling him how she plans to expurgate all her lines in
Shove It
.'

‘Oh, that's not the sort of thing that's going to worry him. No, I'm more concerned that he doesn't hear about Tony's mismanagement.'

‘What mismanagement?' It was news to Charles that the Artistic Director had been guilty of any.

‘Oh, you know, cock-ups over the budget and all the other things. For God's sake don't let the Arts Council bloke hear about those.'

Charles raised his head and, over Kathy Kitson's shoulder, met the eyes of the young man in the leather jacket. There was no doubt that the Arts Council bloke had heard Donald Mason's words.

Mr Pang, owner of The Happy Friend Chinese Restaurant and Takeaway, watched impassively as Cherry Robson rose from the table, slapped Leslie Blatt round the head and swept out. Cherry, a former dancer now toying with the idea of becoming a straight actress (she was playing Wilhelmina in
The Message Is Murder
), was a tough girl who knew with great accuracy what she wanted from life. It didn't include being touched up by septuagenarian playwrights.

Leslie Blatt, totally unsquashed, leered at Charles. ‘I'll get her, you know. Women are like that, always say no when they mean yes.'

Charles shuddered and returned to his congealing Number Forty-Three. He shouldn't have come on to the restaurant. He wasn't hungry. He knew he was only there because he didn't want to be alone yet, and also so that he'd get back too late to catch the appalling tea and curiosity of his landlady, Mimi.

He felt alienated and alone as he looked along the table. Rick Harmer, the young Assistant Stage Manager, appeared to be baiting Leslie Blatt. Rick was a bright boy, who had got the Rugland Spa job straight out of R.A.D.A.. When he'd served his forty weeks and got his full Equity ticket, there was no doubt that he would go far. His readings-in for other members of the cast at rehearsal had revealed considerable talent, and he was already signed up with one of the biggest London agencies, Creative Artists Ltd. He treated the Regent Theatre with a slight air of patronage but, since he did all the many duties required of him with more than the usual efficiency, it was difficult to find fault with him. But his certainty (probably quite justified) that he was going to be a lot more successful than the rest of the company had ever been didn't endear him to his colleagues.

He had also had some success as a writer of comedy sketches for radio and television, and it was with this that he was baiting Leslie Blatt.

‘Yes, they're making a radio pilot of one of my scripts in a couple of weeks. Up at the Beeb.'

‘Beeb?' asked Leslie Blatt, out of touch with such colloquialisms. ‘BBC. No, I'll be going up to the recording-ooh, that reminds me, must tell Tony I'll need the time off. Only radio, of course, but that'll lead to telly. LWT have got one of my other scripts at the moment. My literary agent . . .' He left a little pause to ensure that the distinction between this figure and his performing agent was not missed ‘. . . says they're very keen. Think it might be a good vehicle for Christopher Milton.'

‘Who?' asked Leslie Blatt, rather testily.

‘Haven't you heard of him?' Rick Harmer did not comment further on this ignorance of the entertainment scene. ‘Has all your work been tatty old thrillers, Leslie?'

The playwright bridled. ‘What do you mean?'

‘I mean, have you done much telly?'

‘Not a lot, no,' the playwright replied, cautiously dressing up failure to its best advantage. ‘I'm really a man of the theatre, you know. The theatre and the boudoir . . .'

Further down the table, Laurie Tichbourne, seen earlier in the evening in the tennis kit of James De Meaux, preened himself in the beams of adoration that emanated from the girl beside him. He was one of those people, many – though not all of whom are actors, who reckon that being born with exceptional good looks excuses them from all further effort in life. Laurie Tichbourne, now in his mid-thirties, had had a perfectly satisfactory career exposing his looks and moderate talent as juve leads in most of the reps in the country. He was well-liked (indeed, there was nothing about him to dislike, unless one wanted something positive, like a decision, out of him) and it was quite possible that one day a casting director would swoop down and carry him off to star in a television series or even a feature film. It was quite possible. So long as getting the job didn't involve any effort on his part, quite possible.

His current source of adoration was the Regent Theatre's other A.S.M., a girl of quite astonishing prettiness called Nella Lewis. In looks she was the perfect complement to Laurie Tichbourne though Charles suspected she rather outmatched her escort in seriousness of emotional intent (and intelligence).

‘Thing was,' Laurie drawled, ‘they wanted me to dye my hair blond for the part. Can you imagine that, Nella – me with blond hair?'

‘No, I can't, Laurie.'

‘Well, I'd had it done once before, for a day I did on a film, and I knew it made me look an absolute fright. Absolute fright. So I said, come on, I know I'm meant to be a German, but all Germans aren't blond. And if this girl's meant to fall for me, she's not going to fall for me with blond hair.'

‘So what happened?'

‘Oh, the director took my point.'

‘Oh, good.'

Charles wondered how long Nella's intelligence could be curbed by infatuation. Then he became aware of a voice on his left.

‘You see, every performance is a political statement. Don't you agree, Charles?'

The voice belonged to Gay Milner, the actress who had played Felicity Kershaw.

Charles gave his usual response to questions about politics in the theatre. ‘Um . . .'

‘No, I mean every part reflects some facet of society, and if you feel that society's got to change, then you can express that in the way you play the part.'

Unwisely, Charles decided to pursue this line of thought with her. ‘But you can't apply that to every play. I mean, take tonight's little epic.
The Message Is Murder
has nothing to do with any society that's ever existed. It's set in its own little cloud-cuckoo-land of country houses and butlers and bodies in the library. You can't make political points when you're acting in something like that.'

‘Oh, but you can, Charles. If you're committed, you must. I mean, it's more difficult. You know, I was in
Scrag End of Neck
at the Bus Depot.'

‘Ah.' Charles nodded appreciatively, as if he'd heard of the play and the theatre. ‘Really?'

‘Yes. And there of course the political message is overt, so it's that much easier to play.
The Message Is Murder
is more of a challenge.'

‘Hmm. So what is there in your playing of Felicity Kershaw that makes a political statement?'

‘Ah well, you see, she is obviously a representative of the propertied classes.'

‘Yes, I accept that.'

‘The small percentage of the population who own a disproportionate amount of the country's wealth.'

‘Okay.'

‘So, by making her repellent and untrustworthy, I am sounding a warning to the audience to distrust people of that class.'

‘Oh.' That was why she was doing it. And Charles had thought she was playing it repellent because that was the way Leslie Blatt had written the part, and untrustworthy because of her devious involvement in the murder that had to be revealed in Act Three.

‘You see, Charles, the theatre has a vital educational function. It's one of the most persuasive forms of grass-roots agit prop that . . .'

Gay Milner droned on. She was not unattractive. Not sensational like Nella, but she had a certain sexy angularity. And seemed to be unattached. There was a time when Charles would have put up with the political claptrap in the hope of getting somewhere with her, when he'd have talked along, maybe gone back to her digs to pursue some complex crux of socialism, maybe moved aside the coffee cups and tested the reaction to a tentative hand laid on . . . But that time seemed long ago.

He felt desolately miserable.

‘Charles, old man.'

Antony Wensleigh had come down the table to him and squatted on the floor beside him.

‘Yes, Tony?' Charles looked at the Artistic Director. The most noticeable feature of Antony Wensleigh's face was his huge, liquid brown eyes, infinitely mournful, infinitely sensitive. They showed enduring sympathy to his casts through all the squabbles and hiccups of rehearsal. They were the reason that people liked working with him as a director.

And yet, it had to be faced, he wasn't in the front rank of his profession. Though passionately devoted to the theatre, there was about him a certain vagueness, a certain lack of push that deprived his productions of a West End finish. He lived to some extent in a world of his own, happiest in the rehearsal room, surrounded by casts he knew well, uneasy and occasionally by default inefficient in boardroom and administrative office. Herbie Inchbald had been right: someone as frequently abstracted as Antony Wensleigh needed the incisive support of a Donald Mason.

Perhaps part of Tony's trouble was that he had been at the Regent too long. Twelve years in the same job had set him apart from the square dance of movement from rep to rep, which is the only way by which theatrical directors rise in their profession. He was now in his early fifties, an age which made dramatic changes for the better unlikely. And he was cosily settled in Rugland Spa. He had come to regard the job as his for as long as he wanted it, the renewal of his annual contract a mere formality, almost as if he were in a normal job like the rest of humanity. And that attitude, in the world of the theatre, was a potentially dangerous one.

‘Thing is, Charles . . .' The huge eyes looked more mournful than ever, as they did when they had something unpleasant to impart. ‘Thing is, Kathy was a bit upset . . .'

‘I know, Tony, it was unforgivable of me.' No point in making excuses. ‘One of those ridiculous corpses, where something stupid just suddenly seems funny. And I'm afraid, stuck in that little cupboard, things seem disproportionately funny . . .'

‘Yes, well, it's . . .'

‘Won't happen again, Tony. Promise. Better tomorrow.'

‘Good. Thanks.' Antony Wensleigh stood up with relief, and then articulated the prime motivation of his life. ‘It's just, you know, I like everyone to be happy.'

‘Yes. Sure.'

Mr Pang was not so indiscreet as to look pointedly at his watch, but he did come over and ask if anyone would like a sweet. Laurie Tichbourne asked what flavours the ‘Ice Creams (Various)' on the menu were. Mr Pang said ‘Vanilla', so they all agreed they'd just have the bill. Its arrival prompted the customary discussion as to how it should be divided. Gay Milner produced a calculator and worked it out. Charles reached into his pocket for his share.

He had just enough. He'd been to the bank that day. Where had it all gone? In the day's depressed drinking, he realized.