Murder in the Title (8 page)

He turned with relish to page fourteen, but the sudden change of his expression was enough to make Charles lean forward and read over the shoulder:

DATED THRILLER FAILS TO THRILL

Every cliché of the whodunnit is present in the Regent's latest offering, THE MESSAGE IS MURDER by Leslie Blatt. Though the play had a modest success when it was first written in the fifties post-SLEUTH and DEATHTRAP, audiences require more sophistication in their thrills than this awkward little piece now has to offer. Throughout the evening disbelief is suspended so often that eventually one doesn't give a damn what happens next and only prays for a premature curtain to put the play out of its misery.

Nor are the show's chances improved by an untidy production by Antony Wensleigh. When the curtain rises on Hermione Halliwell's set, we suspect we are in for an evening of dated shabbiness, and nothing that happens subsequently dispels this impression.

The cast suffer the disadvantage of playing characters with no vestige of psychological credibility, but that doesn't excuse the display of hamming and fluffing to which we are treated. Kathy Kitson moves through her part like a shopwalker from Harrods and Laurie Tichbourne, as her son, is so wet you want to get up on stage and wring him out. Cherry Robson, as the maid Wilhelmina, sensibly makes no attempt to act and confines herself to looking pretty, while Gay Milner, an unlikely debutante, plays her part as if suffering from internal injury. Gordon Tremlett, impersonating a Colonel, gives a performance so unconvincing that it would not be tolerated by any amateur dramatic society in the country. The actor who emerges with most credit is Charles Paris, who is at least meant to behave like a dead body, and who has least opportunity to do anything wrong.

All in all, THE MESSAGE IS MURDER is a production to be forgotten as soon as possible, and one that raises disturbing questions about the Regent's methods of play selection and overall artistic standards.

‘Good God!' Gordon Tremlett exhaled in a shocked whisper. ‘He must have gone off his rocker.'

‘What?' asked Charles, who was just working out that ‘The actor who emerges with most credit is Charles Paris' was, if one forgot the rest of the sentence, a very quotable review.

‘Well, I mean, Frank. He's had a brainstorm. He's gone, completely. He's never written like this about any other production.'

‘Perhaps he's never thought any other production was as bad.'

‘No, but I mean, some of the things he says here . . . I mean, Okay, it's a rubbishy old play – I was only saying so to Leslie Blatt the other day – but a critic should be able to look beyond the play. To say that I give a performance that wouldn't be tolerated in any amateur dramatic society in the country . . . I mean, those aren't the words of a sane man. Are they?'

‘Well,' said Charles judiciously, ‘it does seem a bit over the top.'

‘Over the top? It's nothing short of lunatic. And so hurtful.' Gordon Tremlett slumped dramatically back in his chair. ‘I don't think critics realize how fragile an artist's confidence is. We have to go out there and give of ourselves every night, build ourselves up, bolster ourselves. And then, to be confronted with something like this. It's very puncturing to the ego.'

Charles grimaced, recalling past punctures to his own ego. The bad reviews always stayed fixed, word for word, in his mind. Like the one from the
Aberdeen Evening Express
:

‘With Charles Paris playing Dracula, dawn couldn't come soon enough for me.'

Or the
Yorkshire Post
's comment:

‘Charles Paris kept hitching up his Northern accent like a loose bra-strap.'

But perhaps the most wounding of all had been
Plays & Players
reaction to his performance in one of the great classical roles:

‘Charles Paris' Henry V had me rooting for the French at Agincourt.

‘NO, THERE'S NO
doubt about it,' Professor Weintraub announced. ‘Sir Reginald had been dead for at least eight hours when his body was discovered.'

(On the Wednesday night of the second week that was true. Charles Paris had been an exemplary cadaver and was now sitting quietly in his dressing room reading.)

‘But I don't see how that could be true,' Felicity Kershaw objected. ‘I heard him talking on the telephone in the study just before we went out to play tennis.'

‘Yes, so did I,' her fiancé agreed, trying desperately not to sound wet, ‘but we were fooled. That was just another part of the murderer's devilish plan. Look!'

Dramatically, he produced a spool of recording tape from his pocket. ‘Father had just bought one of those new-fangled tape recorders, and someone had set it in motion. So when we heard his voice, he was already dead!'

‘How horrible,' exclaimed Felicity Kershaw, starting to clutch at her stomach and then, not wishing to look as if she had an internal injury, stopping the gesture half-way.

‘Oh yes, it is horrible,' intoned Miss Laycock-Manderley, feeling extremely grateful that the
Rugland Spa Gazette & Observer
had nor deemed her performance worthy of comment. ‘There is evil in the air at Wrothley Grange. I fear Sir Reginald's death may not be the last disaster we have to face before the day is out. I have a strange tingling in my spine.'

‘Now don't let's get things out of proportion,' argued Lady Hilda, who wore a black silk dress for Act Two. This had been a source of some disagreement during rehearsal. Kathy Kitson had insisted that Lady Hilda De Meaux was the sort of woman who would instantly change into black after her husband's death. Tony Wensleigh, thinking of his Wardrobe budget, had felt this was unlikely but, not for the first time in his life, had allowed himself to be swayed. However, when she had also announced that Lady Hilda was the sort of woman who would change into yet another silk dress (this time, she fancied, a pearl grey) for the dénouements of Act Three, he had said he really would have to put his foot down.

‘Everything,' Lady Hilda continued, ‘will be all right once the police arrive.' With an elegant flick of her arm she looked at her watch. ‘I'm surprised they're not here yet. James, when you spoke to the station, did they say how long they would be?'

‘About half an hour,' James De Meaux replied as drily as he could.

‘Hmm. And that was two hours ago.'

‘Ahah,' Professor Weintraub joked inappropriately. ‘The good old English bobby travelling as usual on his bicycle, yes?'

‘You're sure they said half an hour, James?'

‘Oh yes, mater,' her son replied, because that was how Leslie Blatt thought the upper classes spoke. ‘The woman who answered said half an hour at the longest.'

‘Woman?'

‘Yes.'

‘And you rang the station in Winklesham?'

‘Yes, mater.'

‘But there aren't any women at that station. There's just Inspector Carruthers, Sergeant McIntosh and the two constables.'

‘What on earth does that mean, mater?'

‘Oh, there's something horrible going on,' Felicity Kershaw panted, again restraining herself from clutching at her vitals.

‘Now let's keep calm. We'll ring the police again. Professor Weintraub, would you oblige?'

‘Of course, milady.'

‘Ask the operator for 253.'

‘Yes, milady.' The Professor jiggled the buttons of the telephone. ‘I am not seeming to be able to raise the operator. Ah no, somebody answers. Could I have, please, number 253? What? Who is this? Wilhelmina?'

Lady Hilda moved sharply across to him. ‘Let me take it. Wilhelmina? What are you doing? Where are you? Oh. Well, will you please come here straight away?' She put the phone down.

‘Wilhelmina?' emoted Felicity Kershaw, her hand going involuntarily to her stomach. ‘You mean she planned it all? She murdered Sir Reginald?'

‘No. She was in the study dusting when the telephone rang and she answered it.'

‘But how on the earth . . .?' began Professor Weintraub.

‘The telephone in the study is just an extension of this one. Someone has tampered with the machinery, so that when you ring from here, it can be answered from the study.'

‘So I didn't speak to the police station at all?'

‘No, James. You spoke to someone in this house.'

‘Good heavens!'

‘A woman. Did you recognize the voice?'

‘Well, no. It was a very bad line. The voice was very muffled.'

‘A handkerchief over the receiver,' Professor Weintraub announced. ‘This is an old ploy amongst the criminal fraternity.'

James De Meaux looked menacing. ‘How do you know that, Professor?'

‘Well, I, er . . .'

But he was spared further confusion by the entry of Wilhelmina, who stood in the doorway, looking pretty. She had decided that this was probably her role in life after all. She was very tired, after a few late nights at clubs in Birmingham with her factory-owner. And since he, who was separated from his wife and didn't seem to know what to do with his money, had offered to take her on a trip to the West Indies, she couldn't wait for the end of the run. See how things sorted out. Maybe give up this acting lark.

‘Yes, milady?'

‘Wilhelmina, you just answered the phone in the study.'

‘Yes, milady.'

‘And spoke to us in here.'

‘Yes, milady.'

‘Has that ever happened before?'

‘No, milady.'

‘Are you sure?'

‘Certain, milady.'

‘Hmm. Now when James thought he was speaking to the police, in fact he was speaking to someone in this house. A woman.' (Leslie Blatt's constant repetitions showed he had no very high opinion of the retentive qualities of his audience's minds.) ‘Who was with you in here when you telephoned James?'

‘Nobody, mater. I was alone.' (This was true, as the audience could bear witness. Act Two had started with the relevant telephone call.)

‘So it could have been anyone James, you had better get into the car and drive to Winklesham to fetch the police.'

‘Yes, mater.'

‘We have no other means of communication since the telephone is not working.'

At this moment (one of Leslie Blatt's personal favourites in the play) the telephone rang. The entire cast froze, looking at the instrument.

Wilhelmina was the first to move towards it, but was stopped by her mistress. ‘No, I will answer it.' Lady Hilda raised the receiver. ‘Hello, Wrothley Grange. Ah, Laurence. Where are you? Well, will you come to the Grange straight away. What? Where? The bridge? What do you mean – washed away? But –'

She looked at the receiver. ‘We have been cut off.' She looked at the assembled company. ‘That was Laurence. The butler,' she added, in case people had forgotten the earlier reference to him at the beginning of Act One. ‘He was calling from Winklesham. The bridge over the River Wink has been washed away by the freak high tide.'

‘Oh no!'

‘But, mater, that means I can't drive to Winklesham to fetch the police.'

‘No, James. And I didn't have time to inform Laurence of Sir Reginald's death before we were cut off.'

‘No.'

‘Oh! That means we're all trapped here!' Felicity Kershaw had by now lost any inhibitions about her natural acting style and clutched her stomach enthusiastically.

‘Yes. Trapped with Sir Reginald's murderer. Who must be one of us.'

‘Oh,' moaned Miss Laycock-Manderley. ‘I knew there was evil in this house when I arrived. The deaths will not stop at one. The forces of evil demand their toll of blood.'

‘Don't go on so,' reprimanded Lady Hilda (and most of the audience echoed the sentiment).

‘No, we've got to be logical, think this through,' said James.

‘Yes. The person we are looking for is a woman with a knowledge of the workings of telephones,' asserted Lady Hilda.

‘Well, don't look at me. I'm an absolute rabbit at practical things. I can't even change a fuse.' Felicity Kershaw went off into a peal of high-pitched laughter, deliberately excessive to point up the essential vacuity of the property-owning class which she represented.

‘But why are we just looking for one person?' asked James, atypically incisive. ‘There might be a conspiracy. Suppose the woman who answered the telephone is in league with someone else, the one who actually tampered with the instruments. Maybe they planned the old man's murder between them.'

There was a pause for the cast (and audience) to assimilate this new idea, before James continued, turning his best profile to the auditorium, ‘Professor, you brought a lot of recording equipment with you.'

‘Yes, but this is because of my bird-watching. I make records of bird-song. I am very anxious to capture the singing of the cormorant. This is why I bring it.'

‘But there are no cormorants round here. Not for miles,' James countered.

‘Ah, well, sorry, a mistake. When I say cormorant, I did not mean, er . . .'

‘I don't think you'd recognize a cormorant if one flew in your face. Or any other bird, come to that. I don't think you brought your recording equipment and cameras for bird-watching at all. I think you re more interested in the top-secret army research establishment in the pine forest.'

‘No, I –'

‘I think you're a spy, Professor Weintraub. And I think my father recognized you as such. You may not know it, but my father was Head of British Intelligence during the last war!'

Professor Weintraub looked around the assembled company with panic in his eyes. ‘But I never knew this, I never knew it.'

‘I think my father invited you here to expose you, to show you up for the dirty little spy that you are!'

‘No, it is not true!'

The ensuing pause was ended by Miss Laycock-Manderley with an utterance which, surprisingly and for the first time in the play, was not reminiscent of Cassandra. ‘If we're looking back to the last war,' she said with a dryness that James De Meaux envied, ‘we might do worse than investigate Colonel Fripp's record.'