A Decent Interval (24 page)

But that was lower in the pecking order of his thoughts than the main one. With a sickening crunch of logic, Charles Paris realized that every idea he'd had about the case up until that moment had been based on a false premise.

C
harles left the theatre to buy a sandwich for his lunch, then went up to his dressing room to eat it. There was no one else there and there wouldn't be till round one fifty-five, the ‘half' before the two-thirty matinee.

His mind was too full to notice what was in the sandwich. He thought back again to the evening of Katrina Selsey's death. Nobody but Peri Maitland knew of the plan to hijack Sam Newton-Reid's dressing room. Milly Henryson had returned the tube of mascara there once she'd repaired his make-up after the battlements scene with the Ghost of Hamlet's Father. There was a perfectly reasonable chance that whoever introduced the corrosive into the tube had effected the sabotage then, before Katrina's invasion. The
StarHunt
winner had never been the target, Sam Newton-Reid had. And, as with Katrina, the aim had been to cause an injury rather than death.

So Charles was no longer looking for someone with a grudge against Katrina Selsey. Now it was someone with a grudge against Sam Newton-Reid.

He rang through to Peri Maitland.

‘Charles,' she said before he had a chance to identify himself. Which must have meant she'd saved his number. ‘I thought we'd agreed that any conversation between us was now closed.'

‘I know we did, but there's something I need to check with you.'

‘What?' Her tone was not welcoming.

‘Listen, it's going back to the night Katrina died.'

‘Surprise, surprise.'

‘I want to know about the mascara.'

‘We went through all this at the hotel.'

‘Yes, but there's something else I need to check. The mascara tube that Katrina used … was it definitely hers?'

‘I assume so, yes. Why should she be using anyone else's?'

‘But, I mean, did she actually take it out of her own make-up bag?'

‘No, she picked it up off the table in front of the mirror.'

‘And do you recall bringing that from her previous dressing room?'

‘Charles, for God's sake! I can't remember every bloody detail. It's not as if I was making a video of what we were doing.'

‘No, but—'

‘Look, we were in a rush. I was just going along with Katrina's mad idea to avoid another tantrum from her. And we were worried about people seeing what we were doing, so we just grabbed everything from Katrina's dressing room and dumped it in Sam's. Then we grabbed his clothes and bag and stuff and dumped them in Katrina's old dressing room. The whole exercise probably took less than a minute.'

‘And did you take anything of Sam's from the table in front of the mirror?'

‘I don't think there was anything of his there.'

‘But there could have been?'

‘What are you on about, Charles? What do you actually want to find out?'

‘I want to find out if it's possible that the mascara Katrina used was already on the table when you came into the dressing room.'

‘Ah.' Peri Maitland mulled that over for a moment. ‘Well, yes, I can see that's a reasonable question to ask. And the answer is: I just don't know. I suppose it could have been. But then again, that wouldn't make any sense. Sam Newton-Reid is a chap, Charles. Dong!' she said in a way he'd noticed young people using to point up a statement of the bleeding obvious. ‘Chaps don't use mascara. Or at least some do, but I wouldn't have thought Sam was the type. He seems all red-blooded male, happy with that Milly he's got.'

Charles didn't waste time explaining about Sam Newton-Reid's pale eyelashes. He just said, ‘But it would in theory be possible that Katrina picked up a tube of mascara that was already in the dressing room when you entered it?'

‘It would,' Peri Maitland replied in a tone of great exasperation, ‘in theory be possible. Though I can't for the life of me see how that could be important. Now, Charles, will you get off the phone and out of my bloody life!'

Charles Paris felt pretty sure now that he had the solution to the mystery. And his view had shifted a bit. He was moving away from the theory that someone had had a grudge against Sam Newton-Reid. Now he was thinking of someone who had a grudge against the whole show, someone whose aim was to mess things up for Tony Copeland Productions. As Frances had pointed out, you can't do ‘
Hamlet
without the Prince'. And a severe eye injury to the actor playing the eponymous hero could really screw things up.

There weren't many candidates for the role of saboteur. Charles remembered the lines he had heard in The Pessimist's Arms after Jared Root's accident. ‘I could also arrange some other accident to screw up your plans.' And then: ‘If I don't get more money, you just wait and see what happens.'

Charles reckoned Bazza hadn't got more money, so he'd taken affairs into his own hands.

C
harles Paris came offstage after the matinee battlements encounter with Hamlet to the sight that Milly Henryson had promised him. She was waiting in the wings, soon to enter for her first scene with Polonius. As Sam Newton-Reid came offstage, she had a handkerchief ready to mop up his tears and a tube of mascara to repair the damage to his wood-shaving eyelashes. They stood close as she titivated his make-up, a rather touchingly domestic scene.

Charles went slowly up to his dressing room, knowing that it would be empty and knowing that he needed time to think. He sat heavily in front of the mirror. Framed by the Ghost's helmet, the false-bearded face that stared back at him looked distressingly old.

Bazza. He was now convinced of Bazza's guilt. He remembered the last encounter they'd had in The Pessimist's Arms. Though the details had been subsequently eclipsed by Doug Haye's attack on him, Charles had been surprised at the time by Bazza's overreaction to the accusation of causing Jared Root's ‘accident'. But he recalled suggesting that the two events might be linked. If the stagehand had thought he was about to be accused of causing Katrina's death as well, then his response was perhaps not so disproportionate.

The more Charles thought about it, the better Bazza fitted the profile. He might also have had access, amongst all the backstage paraphernalia, to some corrosive substance more powerful than household bleach. Yes, it was definitely Bazza.

Charles Paris's day was still going well, and he felt excited rather than apprehensive about the forthcoming confrontation. He knew the form. He'd acted out such scenes in any number of dire stage thrillers. (‘As the Detective Inspector, Charles Paris was about as menacing as a kitten.' –
Coventry Evening Telegraph
.) The gap between the matinee and the evening performance would probably be his best chance to get Bazza on his own.

His mobile rang. It was on the table where he'd left it when he went on stage. The Ghost of Hamlet's Father's armour hadn't been designed with a suitable pocket for a phone.

‘Hello?'

‘Charles, it's Tibor.'

‘Oh, good to hear you. Most enjoyable lunch yesterday.'

‘Well, yes, enjoyable for people who like listening to Portie.'

‘Oh, he's not so bad. The self-appointed life and soul of any party. Very entertaining.'

‘I agree. But like most entertainments Portie's conversation should be of finite duration.'

‘Ah, you went on a bit after the lunch, did you?'

‘And how. You see, Portie's just landed on me. He asked to stay at my place and I couldn't really say no. He's drinking me out of house and home. Got to bed at four this morning.'

‘Ah. With Portie talking all the time?'

‘Yes,' Tibor Pincus replied through clenched teeth. ‘I didn't get in many words edgeways.'

Charles tried to keep a giggle out of his voice as he said, ‘You have my sympathy.'

‘And what's more, he hasn't got any money. God knows what went wrong in the States, but he's completely skint. Keeps touching me for the odd twenty.'

‘So how on earth did he afford the fare to cross the Pond?'

‘His son paid for that.'

‘Really? So why's he over here? Just to meet up with his far-flung family?'

‘If he's going to do that, with the number of bastards he claims to have spawned, it could take quite a long time. But no, I think he's just come over to see the one son. Which is why I wanted to warn you, Charles.'

‘Warn me of what?'

‘That Portie is about to descend on you.'

‘On me? Why?'

‘Because he knows you've got digs in Marlborough and he's reckoning to crash out there.'

‘But why on earth is Portie coming to Marlborough?'

‘To see his son.'

‘His son's in Marlborough?'

‘Yes. He's in your production of
Hamlet
.'

‘Really?' But even as he spoke, Charles remembered something. Bewilderment gave way to understanding. Portie's real name came back to him. Jeremy Portlock. Will Portlock must be his son.

‘Portie's on the train from London as we speak,' said Tibor Pincus. ‘He's going to see his son Will in tonight's performance of
Hamlet
at the Grand Theatre.'

‘Well, good luck to him. He'll have a long wait. The Second Gravedigger doesn't come on till Act Five.'

‘But Will Portlock is not playing the Second Gravedigger.'

‘Sorry to contradict you, Tibor, but he is.'

‘Not according to Portie. According to him, in tonight's performance, Will Portlock will be playing Hamlet.'

‘Oh, my God!' said Charles Paris.

T
hough encumbered by the armour of the Ghost of Hamlet's Father, Charles Paris sped up the stairs to the star dressing room. He now understood everything with remarkable clarity. He was caught up in that oldest of theatrical plots – the understudy putting the actor he's understudying out of commission and thus gaining his moment of glory on the stage.

After Jared Root's accident, Will Portlock had reckoned the part of Hamlet must be his. How much it must have hurt to have Sam Newton-Reid suddenly parachuted into the production. And, given the level of diplomatic skills displayed by Tony Copeland and Ned English, it was entirely possible that no one had even apologized to the understudy for his exclusion from the role.

Will had made one attempt to sabotage Sam by doctoring his mascara. That had gone horribly wrong, resulting in the death of Katrina Selsey. But he wasn't going to risk another failure. He had actually paid to fly his father over from Baltimore to see him play Hamlet that evening. Whatever he'd lined up for Sam Newton-Reid must be something he knew would work.

Charles pulled open the door of the star dressing room and burst through. As he did so, he glimpsed something tall and heavy falling towards him.

Whatever it was struck him on the head.

Charles Paris fell, unconscious, on to the dressing room floor where Katrina Selsey had died.

H
e didn't know how long he was out, perhaps only a matter of seconds. Certainly, there was no one else in the room when he came round.

Gingerly, he pulled himself up on to the chair in front of the mirror. His head was still buzzing; he didn't feel quite there.

Charles looked down to the stone floor to see what had hit him. It was a black-painted metal stand, robust enough to carry the weight of the heavy old-fashioned stage lights. The kind of kit that might easily be found lying around the scene-dock of a place like the Grand Theatre.

The stand had presumably been propped against the wall. A string ran from it to where it had been fixed to the dressing- room door. Charles's opening the door had pulled it down on him. A very effective booby trap.

Thank God for the heavily padded helmet of the Ghost of Hamlet's Father. That had taken the full force of the falling metal and protected him from more serious injury. What the stand's effect might have been on the bare, blond head of Sam Newton-Reid when he returned at the interval Charles shuddered to contemplate. It would certainly have put him out of commission for the second half of the matinee. Would his understudy have been put in to play that second half, or would the rest of the performance be abandoned? Might Will Portlock's triumph have had to wait till the evening performance?

Charles suddenly became aware of the low mumbling from the tannoy which relayed the onstage action to the dressing room. He heard Polonius saying, ‘
Tell him his pranks have been too broad to bear with
.'

Oh God! It was the start of the Closet Scene. In which the Ghost of Hamlet's Father had to make an appearance. Maybe Charles had been unconscious for longer than he thought. He still felt a bit woozy.

Before he left the star dressing room, he climbed shakily on one of the chairs and removed the string that had been pinned to the top of the door. He untied the other end from the light-stand, which he propped safely in a corner where it was in no danger of falling on anyone.

Then he hurried down to the stage to haunt Hamlet.

The Ghost gets offstage before the end of the Closet Scene. The action ends with the exit of Hamlet, dragging off the body of Polonius, and that, in Ned English's production, was the cue for the interval to start.

Charles Paris went straight up from the stage to the star dressing room and sat down, waiting for Sam Newton-Reid to appear. When he did, the boy looked puzzled to see the older actor there.

‘What's this? Not a repeat of Katrina Selsey's annexation of my dressing room, is it?'

‘No, Sam. But it is to do with her death.'

‘Oh?'

‘Look, if I try to explain, it'll sound completely daft, but would you just trust me on this?'