Murder in the Title (7 page)

Which sounded reasonable enough – to anyone who hadn't seen the real cause.

Charles justified having a pint at lunchtime on medical grounds. It wasn't going to be the start of another heavy day; it was just a necessary compensation for the dehydration caused by his hangover.

And it did taste good.

As he sat over it, he concentrated his mind on the stabbing.

Two things seemed clear. First, that it had been a deliberate act. And, second, that he had not been the intended victim.

The second conclusion came from lack of motivation. He had hardly been in the company long enough for anyone to build up murderous resentment against him, and the one person who might harbour such thoughts, Kathy Kitson, had been onstage at the moment of the attack.

Leslie Blatt had been pretty furious with him the previous evening for ‘making nonsense of my play' (no very difficult task, in Charles' view). But the unwitting sabotage of the plot of
The Message Is Murder
had come after the stabbing, so could not be claimed as motivation.

Nor were there any young ladies in the company who might (as in many other companies in which he had worked) have been offended by amorous advances from Charles Paris. His state of confusion over Frances had prevented him from even being aware of other women.

No, whoever had wielded the duelling sword was under the impression that someone else was playing the late Sir Reginald De Meaux. And there was no shortage of candidates for the corpse's job. Practically every male in the company who wasn't actually onstage at the end of Act One seemed to have been considered to take over Charles' role.

He thought them through in the order that he had met them the previous evening.

Lesley Blatt was the first. The repellent old playwright had offered himself for the job and reckoned he was going to do it, until told otherwise by Rick Harmer.

Rick had officiously taken over, even getting dressed and made up for the part, before giving way to Charles himself.

And then Tony Wensleigh had forbidden Charles to go on and said that he would go into the cupboard.

Leslie, Rick and Tony – each one of these at one time thought – and no doubt told others – that he was going on for Charles Paris. The pivotal issue then became: who had each of them told? Or, who did the potential murderer think he, or she, was stabbing?

Again Charles thought back. When he had met Nella Lewis on the stairs, she had been coming down from the floor where both Leslie Blatt and Rick Harmer were. And she had told Charles that his part was going to be taken by ‘that bastard'. Since the two young A.S.M.s appeared to have a harmonious relationship, it was reasonable to assume that she referred to the old playwright. And since she was then occupied for the rest of the Act ‘on the book', she could well have continued to think that Leslie Blatt was the occupant of the cupboard. And it might not be out of character for her to respond violently to some septuagenarian assault on her virtue (an action that would certainly be in character for the playwright).

What was more, Nella had actually been carrying the duelling sword when Charles met her.

But no jumping to conclusions. On to the next potential victim.

Rick Harmer had put a lot of backs up in the company by his cockiness and success, but the only person he had roused to real anger was Leslie Blatt. The younger man's taunts obviously got through to the raw nerves of the older. Leslie Blatt had certainly been under the impression that Charles' part was to be taken by ‘young Mr Smartypants'. On top of that, he had intended to spend the Act backstage, which would have given him ample opportunity to choose his moment for a murderous stab through the canvas.

Then on to Antony Wensleigh. Who had arrived late on the scene, heard about Charles' condition from Rick Harmer, and announced the apparently firm decision that he was going to take over as Sir Reginald De Meaux (deceased).

Well, as Charles had just had confirmed by the telephone conversation, there was one person with a very substantial grudge against the Artistic Director. Rick Harmer was a very ambitious young man and Tony Wensleigh stood in the way of one of his ambitions.

It was like a game. Three sets of potential murderers and potential victims. And, in spite of all those permutations, the person who nearly got spitted was Charles Paris.

If he'd been standing up in his normal position when the lunge was made . . . The thought still gave him a nasty little frisson.

Drunkenness, he thought as he rose to buy himself another pint, does have its advantages.

THE MESSAGE IS MURDER
moved into the second week of its run at the Regent Theatre, Rugland Spa, without further mishap. It was playing to over fifty per cent capacity, which was deemed to be very good business. Herbie Inchbald's words about anything ‘with “murder” in the title' seemed to be being proved true. And the play was greeted with a few oohs and aahs and the modest applause which, regulars assured Charles, was the nearest the Rugland Spa audience got to enthusiasm.

Company life continued with its customary uneasy bickering. Kathy Kitson threw a tantrum one evening because the cold tap in her dressing room was dripping. Laurie Tichbourne caught a slight cold, which he treated as if it were an outbreak of cholera, and Nella Lewis ministered to him with hot lemon drinks and clean handkerchiefs. Rick Harmer hinted that his agent (that was his
acting
agent, of course, not his
literary
one) was having extremely interested enquiries about him for a major role in a major television series. Gay Milner insisted on lending everyone books about International Socialism, and Cherry Robson shrewdly started sleeping with a very rich local factory-owner. At meals after the show in The Happy Friend Chinese Restaurant and Takeaway, the Variety of Mr Pang's Ice Creams remained fixed at Vanilla.

Life, in other words, was normal.

And Charles Paris had nothing to do.

The ways that actors spend their time when they're working in the provinces are various. Some spend it acting. Particularly in repertory companies, many of the cast of the evening's show will pass much of their day rehearsing the next production. Though tighter Equity regulations have prevented the hours of work that used to be expected, this can still agreeably occupy most of the day.

But Charles Paris wasn't in the next production, the much-debated
Shove It
, and was so deprived not only of occupation but also the social life of rehearsal.

Some actors, though not actually rehearsing, can still spend the entire day preparing for their evening's performance. The deeply serious tune themselves like precision instruments, working through relaxation exercises, preparatory walks and concentration games. The deeply lazy, like Laurie Tichbourne, can quite easily pass a day doing absolutely nothing. He would rise around eleven to a large breakfast, cooked by a loving landlady (he, needless to say, always ended up with a ‘treasure'), take a leisurely bath until lunch, eaten either at his digs or somewhere within strolling distance in the town, while away the afternoon perhaps with another sleep, then arrive at the theatre at seven o'clock complaining how tired he felt.

Charles Paris couldn't follow either of these courses. Even an actor marinated for a lifetime in Stanislavskian lore (which he certainly was not) would have had difficulty in ‘thinking himself into' the role of the defunct Sir Reginald De Meaux. And the Laurie Tichbourne method didn't work either. Charles was one of those people for whom stasis meant depression; to sit around all day was simply to offer an open invitation to all his worst thoughts. And since what he could only regard as the ‘loss' of Frances, those thoughts were even less welcome than usual.

Some actors marooned in the provinces are organized about their careers. They write lots of letters, to other theatres, managements, television producers, casting directors, anyone who might lead to another job. They ring their agents and other contacts, finding out what new shows are coming up. They work hard, and are occasionally rewarded.

Charles Paris had long since ceased to believe that his career would be affected by anything but the randomness of fate.

Some actors, who have the ability, use the time to write, trying out ideas, getting new shows together, trying to interest managements in their wares.

Charles Paris, who had the ability, seemed to have lost the desire to write.

Some actors take advantage of their environment. They join the National Trust, they spend their days visiting stately homes and other places of local interest.

Charles Paris never got round to doing that sort of thing. Some actors pursue their sideline. It's amazing how many extra talents actors have. Some are solicitors and do a little gentle conveyancing for their colleagues. Some are doctors and fit in the odd locum clinic. Some are collectors and use their time with profit scouring the antique shops or bookshops of the area.

Charles Paris had no sideline.

Of course, all actors go to the cinema in the afternoon.

Charles Paris did that.

But Rugland Spa only had two cinemas. And that left a lot of the week unfilled.

The
Rugland Spa Gazette & Observer
was in the newsagents on Thursday mornings, but Gordon Tremlett, who knew everyone and how to get everything in the town, came into his dressing room with a copy on the Wednesday evening.

It was just after seven o'clock. Charles Paris, now
very good
about being in for the ‘half', sat there meekly, his Sir Reginald De Meaux gear complete but for the screw-on sword and a fresh splash of Kensington Gore.

‘Well, love, we're all over the local rag!'

Charles wondered whether Gordon Tremlett, in his previous existence, had addressed those grovelling for overdrafts as ‘love'. It seemed unlikely. No doubt such flamboyance was reserved for his wild evenings amongst the Rugland Spa Players.

‘What do you mean?'

‘The
Shove It
scandal, sweetie. Look, front page news.'

The headline read ‘COUNCILLOR DENOUNCES “SMUTTY” PLAY'.

Charles shrugged. ‘They say all publicity's good publicity.'

‘Not sure in this case, love. Councillor Davenport's asking for an enquiry into the running of the Regent.'

‘Oh.'

‘He's not going to get it, of course. Herbie Inchbald slapped him down firmly at last night's council meeting. But I think it could all blow up into a rather nasty row. You seen the Mrs Feller Brigade outside the front?'

Charles nodded. As he passed the theatre that afternoon he'd noticed a cluster of aggrieved ladies' hats and banners exhorting the public to ‘KEEP OUR THEATRE CLEAN', ‘BAN PORNOGRAPHY' and allow ‘NO OBSCENE SHOWS IN RUGLAND SPA'.

‘But surely that's the sort of publicity the show needs. Nothing like a bit of a controversy to fill the seats.'

‘Not here, dear.'

‘People'll come along just to see what the fuss is about. Broaden their minds.'

‘Oh no, love. People move to Rugland Spa specifically to have their minds narrowed. No, they'll stay away in droves.'

‘Are you sure?'

‘Positive. Seen it before. No, this is a pity for the theatre. There are a lot of people in this town who'd like to get rid of the Regent. A lot of people on the council, unfortunately. Councillor Davenport and his lot want it sold. It's a prime site – any developer who got hold of it'd knock the theatre down and make a mint.'

‘But isn't the theatre a protected building?'

Gordon Tremlett shook his head wryly. ‘Not old enough or architecturally interesting enough to be listed. It is protected in a way, but the council could reverse that whenever they wanted to.'

‘Why does this Davenport bloke want to get rid of it?'

‘Wants the money to build a Leisure Centre on the Leominster Road. His pet project. Always saying theatre's a waste of time; we should be investing in the health of the body rather than that of the mind.'

‘Blimey.'

‘Trouble is . . .' Gordon tapped the paper. ‘Something like this doesn't do his cause any harm.' The former bank manager pondered for a moment. ‘I wonder if all this has anything to do with what Donald was asking me . . .'

‘What was that?'

‘Oh, just wanted to pick my brains, share a little of my expertise.' Gordon looked up mischievously. ‘You're not going to believe this, Charles, but I haven't always been an actor.'

Play along with him. ‘No. Really, Gordon?'

‘No.' With a complacent shake of his head. ‘No. And I don't think you'd ever guess what I used to be . . .'

Oh God, here we go. The worst-kept secret in Rugland Spa. ‘Why, what were you. Gordon?'

‘Only a bank manager.'

‘Good heavens.' And, in case that was insufficient amazement, Charles added, ‘Well, well, what a turn-up.'

‘Oh yes.' Gordon smiled like the sphinx unburdened of her riddle.

‘But what was Donald asking you then?'

‘Ah well, you see, love, during my wicked past . . .' Gordon chuckled at his wit, ‘I developed a certain familiarity with figures, account books, what-have-you . . .'

‘Not surprising.'

‘No. Anyway, I gather Donald's found some inconsistency in the theatre's books, don't know what, but he asked if I wouldn't mind casting an eye over them when I've got a moment. I don't think he wants to bring the accountants in and make it official. It's probably nothing, but I was wondering whether this threat of an enquiry's made him a bit nervous.'

‘Could be.'

‘Yes.' Gordon Tremlett rubbed his hands with glee. ‘Still, before I get on my slap and cossy to tread the boards . . .' (he always used far more theatrical slang than a real actor would) ‘I will cheer myself up with a nice notice. Frank Walby's column – always on the Entertainments Page, always on page fourteen, always restorative to the poor thespian ego.'