Murder Unprompted: A Charles Paris Murder Mystery (3 page)

He drained the half-bottle to attain some sort of stability, but five minutes later, when something started doing macramé with his intestines, he wished he had saved it.

Alex Household’s method of building up to a performance did not involve alcohol. He did not believe in the use of stimulants, being an advocate of the use of the mind’s internal resources to control the waywardness of the body. It was part of an elaborate philosophy he had developed from reading the first chapters of a few paperbacks about Eastern Religion and talking to other actors over cups of jasmine tea.

His build-up method involved lying dead straight over three chairs, with the head free and lolling back and breathing deeply. A deep intake of air sounding like a gas central heating boiler igniting, a long pause, and then exhalation over a muttered phrase, which may have been some potent
mantra
, but to the casual observer sounded like ‘Rub-a-dub-a-dub-a-dub-a-dub’.

Charles was becoming a decreasingly casual observer as the half-hour ticked away and his nerves were twisted tighter. Alex’s charade didn’t help. Charles, normally most accommodating about the foibles of others, began to think sharing the dressing room might have its drawbacks.

Alex was that very common theatrical type, a faddish actor. He believed in vegetarianism, transcendental meditation, homeopathy, transmigration, the occult and a variety of other semi-digested notions. Alex was always talking about communion with nature and being at one with the world. He had a habit of producing herbal snacks in the dressing room, seeds, grasses, nettles and other less identifiable greenery. He had read a few chapters of a book called
Food for Free
, and kept going on about ‘the earth’s plenty’.

Normally, Charles could accept all this with good humour – after all, he did quite like the man – but, as he again suffered the interminable pause between the intake and the inevitable ‘Rub-a-dub-a-dub-a-duba-dub’ he thought he was going to scream or lash out. To avert both these dangers, he left the dressing room to go to the lavatory, though he couldn’t resist slamming the door as he went.

In the corridor he met Lesley-Jane Decker, whose arms were full of purple tissue-wrapped parcels. She was an attractive red-head of about twenty, still full of breathless excitement about actually ‘being in the theatre’. She was quite talented, and devoutly believed Paul Lexington’s and Peter Hickton’s conviction that
The Hooded Owl
was going to sweep triumphantly into the West End and make them all stars.

It had been obvious from rehearsal that Peter Hickton fancied her, but whether he had got anywhere, Charles could not judge. In fact, he couldn’t imagine how the director’s rehearsal schedule would leave any time for thoughts of sex, though, of course, all things were possible.

On balance, Charles thought that probably nothing had developed. A part from the logistics, Lesley-Jane was so naive and bubbly, he could not imagine her keeping quiet about a love affair. He even suspected that she might be that remarkable rarity, a theatrical virgin.

And it was more likely that Peter Hickton was saving his assault on her for the less hectic time when the play was actually running. There would be two and a half weeks then, which should give the young director plenty of time.

‘Oh, Charles darling, this is for you.’ Lesley-Jane thrust one of the packages into his hands.

‘Oh,’ he said blankly.

‘First-night present.’

‘Ah.’ Theatrical camp, he thought. What would it be? A fluffy toy? No, felt too hard. A plaster statuette of a pierrot? Yes, that’d be the sort of thing. ‘Oh, er, thank you. How are you feeling?’

She opened her green eyes wide. ‘Scared witless, darling. Paul says he’s hoping there’ll be some people from London out front.’

‘Oh really?’ Charles had heard that a few too many times to get very excited about it.

‘And, even worse . . .’ She paused dramatically.

‘What?’

‘My mother’s come down from London to see it.’

‘Is that bad? Is she awful?’

‘No, she’s an absolute angel. But she’s got awfully high standards. Used to be in the business, you know.’

‘Oh.’ The need to get to the lavatory was suddenly strong again. ‘If you’ll excuse me.

‘Yes. Is Alex in the dressing room?’

‘Sure.’

Sitting on the lavatory, Charles opened his first-night present. Oh, good, that girl would go far. He took back all his thoughts about her naiveté and theatrical camp.

It was a quarter bottle of champagne. He drained it gratefully.

As he went back to his dressing room, he met the author of
The Hooded Owl
, hanging around in the corridor like a schoolboy outside the headmaster’s study. The expression of agony on Malcolm Harris’s pallid face made Charles’s own nerves seem less crippling.

‘Don’t worry. It’ll be all right. It’s a good play.’

‘Do you really think so?’ The schoolmaster’s pouncing on this crumb of praise was almost pathetic.

‘Yes, of course it is. We wouldn’t have put in all this work on it if it hadn’t been.’

‘Oh, I do hope so. It’s just no one seems to have talked about anything for the past few days except the bits that don’t work and all the technical problems it raises and . . .’

Poor sap. Yes, it must have been strange for him, religiously attending the last week of rehearsals, and knowing nothing about the workings of the theatre. Everyone would be far too busy to waste time assuring the author that his play worked; there would be a lot of complaint about its inadequacies and difficulties. Anyone who had had a play produced before would have been prepared for that; but for Malcolm Harris, snatched from teaching the Causes of the Thirty Years’ War to fourteen-year-olds, it must all have been a profound culture shock. Charles felt guilty for not having realised earlier what the author had been suffering.

‘It’ll work. Really.’

Malcolm made a grimace that might have been intended for a smile. Maybe. My main worry is everyone getting the lines right.’

That’s what every author wants, thought Charles. And occasionally they get it. though most actors are highly skilled in the art of paraphrase.

‘I do hope Alex gets that big speech about the Hooded Owl itself right. I mean, that is the key to the play, and he got the rhythms all wrong this afternoon.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Charles soothed. Poor old Alex was having a bit of difficulty with the lines, he thought complacently.

‘Oh, and Charles, could you watch your line at the end of Act One.’

‘What?’

‘At the Dress Rehearsal, you said, ‘I’ll tell you one thing – it’s the last time I’ll come running.’

‘So? Isn’t that right?’

‘No. It should be, ‘I’ll tell you
something
. . .”

Oh really! thought Charles. Bloody authors!

But he didn’t say it. Instead he asked, ‘Anyone out front tonight?’

‘Oh, just my wife and my wife’s mother.’

‘Ah.’ Then reassuringly, ‘And maybe lots of impresarios and film producers waiting to snap up the rights. How would you feel about a film offer on the play?’

‘Oh, I’d . . . I’d get my agent to deal with it,’ replied the author, with an unsuccessful attempt at insouciance.

Still, good. At least he’d got an agent. Slowly he was sorting himself out.

Charles looked at his watch. Twenty past seven. ‘Must just go in and check the old slap,’ he said, gesturing to his make-up.

‘Yes, I’ll come in and wish Alex all the best.’

Charles opened the dressing room door to discover that Alex Household had stopped his ‘Rub-a-dub-a-dub-a-dub-a-dub’ routine. In fact, though they sprang apart quickly, he appeared to be doing his giving-Lesley-Jane-Decker-a-cuddle-on-his-knee routine. Well, there’s a novelty, thought Charles.

Alex tapped Lesley-Jane on the bottom in a way that was meant to suggest the contact had just been theatrical excess, but he didn’t convince Charles.

‘And thank you so much for the ginseng, darling,’ said Alex, to reinforce the impression of casual contact.

Ginseng. Of course. It would be. Lesley-Jane had got Alex’s number all right.

‘Um . . .’ Malcolm Harris began awkwardly. ‘Um, Alex, just came in to say good luck –’

‘Oh Lord!’ shouted the actor. ‘For Christ’s sake!’ The author looked mystified by the outburst.

‘Don’t you know anything, you bloody amateur?’

‘I don’t understand . . .’

‘You mustn’t say what you’ve just said.’

‘What? I mustn’t say good –’

‘Don’t say it again!’ Alex shrieked. ‘It’s bad luck.’

‘Well, what should I say?’

‘Oh Lord – break a leg or . . . anything but that!’

Charles should have remembered: amongst Alex Household’s other fads was devout observance of all the theatrical superstitions.

Malcolm Harris’s minimal confidence had now deserted him completely.

‘I’m sorry. I don’t know these –’

‘No, you don’t know anything!’ snapped Alex. ‘Don’t even know how to write a decent play!’

In a second the author’s hand clenched into a fist and was raised to strike. But in the fractional pause that preceded the blow, the Stage Manager’s calming voice came over the loudspeaker.

‘Beginners, Act One, please.’

Malcolm Harris lowered his fist, glowered at the lead actor of his precious play, and scurried off to find the pass-door to join his wife and his wife’s mother in the auditorium.

Alex Household, Lesley-Jane Decker and Charles Paris hugged each other wordlessly, and passed through the corridor to the stage.

The eruption of applause as the final curtain fell left no one in any doubt that
The Hooded Owl
had worked, at least for the good burghers of Taunton. Whether it would work for the supposedly more sophisticated audience of the West End remained to be seen.

But for the cast there was no doubt about anything. Each of them had felt the momentum of the play build up through the evening, each of them had felt his doubts about its worth evaporate, each of them felt the relief of consummation after the exhausting preparations. They were all euphoric.

Charles and Alex tumbled back into the Number One dressing room, arms around each other’s necks, giggling like schoolgirls. ‘Yippee, yippee. It works, it works!’ cried Alex.

They both felt emotionally drained – the parts they played were taxing – but lifted above exhaustion on to a high like drunkenness.

As Charles became aware of this, he realised that he had given a performance – and a good one – on an alcoholic intake of only a swig of Bell’s and a quarter bottle of champagne. This was something of a record for him, and momentarily the heretical thought traversed his mind that maybe his talent could flourish without constant irrigation.

Mind you, he really needed a drink now.

As if in answer to his thought, Paul Lexington poked his head round the dressing room door. ‘Terrific, both of you! We have a hit on our hands, babies! Soon as you’re out of your cossies, up to the bar. Drinks are on me tonight!’

‘That’s very generous of you, Paul,’ said Charles.

‘Oh, it’s nothing. I’d laid it on for anyone who came down from London.’

‘And has anyone come?’

A shadow passed over the producer’s boyish face. ‘No, not tonight. I expect they’ll be along later in the week.’

But he was incapable of pessimism. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be on the phone first thing in the morning. Tell ’em the quality of what they’re missing. They’ll be falling over themselves trying to snap this one up.’

At that moment Lesley-Jane Decker burst in, as effervescent as the champagne she had handed out. She threw her arms round Alex Household’s neck. ‘God, you were wonderful tonight.’

‘Oh Lord, praise, praise,’ he said, with a shrug.

‘You were super too.’ Paul Lexington patted Lesley-Jane on the shoulder. ‘See you up in the bar.’

‘Terrific.’

As the Producer turned to leave, he was met in the doorway by a tall lady in a light-brown fur coat. She looked as if she was in her forties, but slightly over-elaborate make-up and hair that had been helped to recapture its former redness made putting an exact date on her difficult.

‘Excuse me,’ she apologised in a rich, elocuted voice. ‘I don’t want to intrude.’

She was looking at Alex and Lesley-Jane still clasped together, a sight for which she seemed to have slight distaste.

The young actress turned at the voice and rushed across to the older woman. ‘Mummy! Mummy,
do
come and meet everyone.’

Paul Lexington, after being introduced, nodded politely and said he hoped she’d join them for a drink in the bar. Alex Household said he was enchanted,
but
enchanted to see her at last, he’d heard so much about her.

‘And, Mummy, this is –’

‘Ah, but I know you, don’t I, Charles?’

Charles Paris looked up warily at the woman’s face. Maybe there was something vaguely familiar about it, but he couldn’t for the life of him say where he had seen her before. ‘Um . . .’

‘Long time ago, darling.’

‘Oh . . . er . . .’ He was going to need a bit more of a clue than that.

Malcolm Harris blundered in through the door flanked by ferret-faced women who had to be his wife and his wife’s mother, and there was a pause for more introductions.

‘Wonderful play, Malcolm,’ Alex cooed. ‘Oh Lord, what a wonderful play.’

But the diversion didn’t let Charles off the hook. ‘Have you placed me yet?’ asked Lesley-Jane’s mother seductively.

‘Um, no . . .,’ he had to admit, wondering whether their previous encounter had been under embarrassing circumstances.

‘You remember Cheltenham . . .?’ she nudged.

‘What? Cheltenham Rep.? Back in the early sixties?’

‘Sssh.’ She raised an elegantly manicured finger to her lips. ‘Don’t let’s talk dates. But yes, Cheltenham Rep. it was.’

Given a context, he did begin to place her. ‘Oh yes.’ But he still couldn’t for the life of him remember what her name was.

She seemed to realise this, and gave in. ‘Valerie Cass.’

‘Of course! Valerie Cass! Well, how are you? Talk about long time, no see.’

As he brought out the platitudes of recognition, he placed her exactly. Yes, of course, early sixties, Cheltenham, young actress, playing
ingenue
roles. Now he knew the connection, he remembered that she had had that same quality of naive enthusiasm that Lesley-Jane demonstrated. Not as good an actress, though. No, his recollection was that Valerie Cass had been a pretty bad actress.