Murder Unprompted: A Charles Paris Murder Mystery (8 page)

The way he had fought back from that position showed that the grit demonstrated in all those celluloid heroics was not just acting. He had survived by sheer determination.

His first decision had been to take on only older parts. He refused every sort of juvenile role that was offered, resisting lucrative inducements to recreate his West End successes in the diminished settings of the provinces or seasons in South Africa and Australia.

The result of this policy change was a very quiet three years. He played one Blimpish cameo in a short-lived play in Birmingham and a couple of small parts in television plays.

It wasn’t an enjoyable period of his life, but he stuck it out, certain that he was on the right track. He deliberately courted very old parts, particularly on television. He realised the medium’s power, and realised that, through it, he could reach a different public and establish a new image with them. The West End and even cinema audiences were tiny compared to the huge passive mass of armchair viewers. He reasoned that, if he could establish a new, older identity with them, he would be able to shake off the persona of faded juvenile.

Age was not the only criterion in his choice of parts. He avoided the trendy and the experimental, aiming ideally for costume drama, aware that his strengths were those of permanence and reliability, and would be dissipated by following the twists of fashion. And he had a gut-feeling that the values of that huge but silent force, the British middle class, were the same as his own. The television-viewing public was made up of the older stay-at-homes, not the swinging exotics whose exploits filled the front pages of the newspapers. They might not dare to admit it, but they didn’t like the changes they saw around them; they enjoyed television’s recreations of more confident times, when they had had a country to be proud of, when people had reached maturity at forty and had not pandered to youth. They liked seeing the old values reasserted.

And, gradually, through the parts he chose, Michael Banks came to symbolise those values.

His three years in the wilderness climaxed with a solid part in a BBC costume drama series. It was not the lead, but the character was in every episode, and had the advantage of ageing from week to week.

The public took the character to their hearts. Once again, they took Michael Banks to their hearts. Having watched him grow old before their eyes in their own sitting-rooms, they would thereafter accept him in parts of any age.

Since that time, his career had had no more problems. He had become increasingly selective in what he did, avoiding, on the whole, long runs in the West End, and concentrating on starring television parts or extremely lucrative cameos in international films. He became an institution of British acting, respected and loved. In the business, you never heard a word against Michael Banks.

And, when the cast of
The Hooded Owl
met him, they could understand why. He was an immensely likeable man. He was in his sixties, but had aged gracefully. The familiar acute face had thickened out, and the hair, remembered as darker than it actually was because of all those black-and-white films, had greyed becomingly. It was cut in a trendier style, worn longer than it would have been, but its shape still reminded one of all those gruff but infinitely reliable heroes. He dressed casually in a red golfing sweater, pale blue trousers, and deceptively ordinary-looking hand-made shoes.

The surprise about him was his size. As actors, they were all used to people looking different off screen, but none of them had expected him to be so tall. He must have been six foot four, with a frame to match. A most impressive figure. The reasoning behind casting him as the father in
The Hooded Owl
became clearer by the minute.

Clearer to Charles, anyway. He was at the rehearsal, needless to say, having, possibly for the first time in his life, followed his agent’s advice. Through the haze of Bell’s which had been the weekend, it had become clear that he had little alternative. He was being offered a job, being offered good money, and he’d be based in London. His dreams would have to wait, be returned intact to some cupboard deep in the recesses of his mind, whence they would arise, undaunted, at the next glimmer of hope in his career.

To his surprise, the strongest argument in favour of taking the job had been that it would keep him near to Frances. Her talk of moving, and the indefinable detachment he had felt in her when they had met, worried him. He felt he needed to rebuild the relationship – not, of course, to revive it as a total marriage, but to get back to the level of intermittent companionship which seemed to have gone.

Similar arguments must have weighed with Alex Household, because he was there too. His face looked strained and petulant, but he had clearly decided to put his mortgage and proximity to Lesley-Jane above pride.

If the cast had needed a demonstration of Michael Banks’s genuine warmth, they could not have asked for a better one than the way he dealt with Alex Household.

The first thing he did on arriving at the rehearsal room was to ask Paul Lexington which one was Alex and, having had him identified, he immediately went across to the actor with hand outstretched.

‘Alex, I’m sorry. This is a lousy way for me to get a job. I know exactly how you feel. Just the same thing happened to me on one of my first jobs. It was a revue back in the thirties. We were doing a pre-London tour. I got as far as Birmingham, and then was called into the manager’s office. Just the same as you, I was offered the understudy.’

‘Did you take it?’

‘Oh yes.’ Michael Banks grinned disarmingly. ‘Oh yes, I took it. And it does mean I know exactly how shitty you’re feeling at this moment, and all the horrible fates you’re wishing down on my head.’

Alex blushed. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say . . .’

‘Yes, you would. You wouldn’t be human if you didn’t. Anyway, all I want to say is – I’m very sorry. This can be a rotten business at times. I sympathise. And, if you’re willing, I’ll be very grateful for your help. God, you must know this character inside-out by now, and I’ve got to get it presentable in a fortnight. Any tips you can give me, old boy, I will welcome as rich gifts.’

It was beautifully done. Had it been less well done, someone as prickly and paranoid as Alex Household would have bridled, would have pointed out that to lose a part at the beginning of one’s career was rather different from losing it after twenty years in the business, would have made some bitter retort. But, as it was, Michael Banks had him eating out of his hand. Yes, of course, said Alex, no, he couldn’t pretend he wasn’t hurt, but thanks for saying it, and he’d be happy to give any advice that might be required.

George Birkitt didn’t show quite the same smooth tact in his dealings with the actor he was replacing.

‘Hello, Charles. Long time, no see,’ he murmured after getting himself a coffee.

‘Hello.’

‘Rather strange circumstances for a meeting.’

‘Yes.’

‘I was very undecided when my agent told me about the offer . . .’

‘Oh.’

‘Well, it
is
second billing, no two ways about that. I mean, God knows, I’m the last person in the world to worry about that sort of thing, but there does come a point in your career where you
have
to think about it. I mean, with
Fly-Buttons
up there in the ratings, I do have to be a bit careful.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I tell you, Charles, it was only after I heard that they’d signed up Micky Banks that I agreed to do it. Of course, it is still second billing, but second billing to Micky Banks is no disgrace at this stage in my career.’

‘No, I suppose not,’ said Charles.

Peter Hickton was up from Taunton and keen to start working his cast as hard as ever. Now that the two main parts had been recast, there really was going to be a lot to do, and the company waved goodbye to their hopes of a cushy fortnight.

The director clapped his hands. ‘O.K., loves. Now, as you all know, we’ve got a big job on, and we’re going to have to work every hour there is to get
The Hooded Owl
up to the standard I know it can reach.’

This was very familiar to those who had worked with Peter before; he said it before every production, regardless of how complex or simple it was, and regardless of the length of rehearsal allocated.

‘Now what I want to do is go through the blocking today, so that Micky and George can start to feel the shape of the production. Tomorrow we’ll get down to Act One in detail, and then on Wednesday we’ll –’

‘Um, sorry, old boy . . .’

Peter Hickton looked to the source of the interruption. It was Michael Banks.

‘Yes?’

‘Sorry, can’t do Wednesday.’

‘What?’

‘Can’t do Wednesday. Got to do some Pro-Celebrity Golf thing for the BBC. Didn’t the agent mention it?’

Peter Hickton looked round to Paul Lexington, who shook his head.

‘Oh, I’m so sorry. The agent’s an awful duffer when it comes to dates. Got the same thing the following Wednesday too.’

‘Oh.’ But Peter Hickton was only slowed down for a moment. ‘Never mind. If we work hard over the weekend, we can –’

‘Ah. Sorry, old boy, going away for the weekend.’

‘Oh.’

‘Going to stay with some chums in Chichester. Can’t really put it off, been in the diary for ages. Sorry, this show came up so suddenly, there are a few dates we’ll have to work round.’

‘Yes’ said Peter Hickton. ‘Yes, of course.’

Under normal circumstances, understudies would be expected to attend all the rehearsals to familiarise themselves with the production, but, because Alex and Charles knew the play so well, they were given a dispensation to take most of the first week off, which would save both them and their replacements the embarrassment of the early stumbling rehearsals while the newcomers were trying to memorise the lines. The two understudies were asked to come back on the Friday afternoon, when there was going to be a complete run of the play for the producers and Malcolm Harris.

When he arrived at the rehearsal room on the Friday, Charles found the author in a state of extreme annoyance.

‘What’s up, Malcolm?’

‘Have you seen this?’ He pointed to a printed handout on a table. It read:

THE VARIETY THEATRE

PAUL LEXINGTON PRODUCTIONS

in association with

BOBBY ANSCOMBE

presents

MICHAEL BANKS GEORGE BIRKITT

in

THE HOODED OWL

There was more writing beneath this, but it was printed too small to be legible.

‘I see,’ said Charles.

‘It’s a bit much. My name might just as well not be on it,’ objected the author.

‘Hmm. You see, what’s happened is that this is a big design for a poster. They’ve economised by reducing it for the handout. Your name’d be legible on the big poster.’

‘That’s a fat lot of good. No, I’m really annoyed about this. I think these handouts should be withdrawn. I mean, look at the size of Paul’s name – it’s as big as Michael Banks’s, for God’s sake.’

‘Producer’s perk. He decides what the poster looks like.’

‘Well. I’m furious. Who should I complain to about it?’

‘Under normal circumstances,’ said Charles gently, ‘you’d go to your agent and get him to complain to the management.’

‘Ah,’ said Malcolm Harris, realising, perhaps for the first time, the folly of the contract he had signed with Paul Lexington.

‘Good news about getting Michael Banks, isn’t it?’ said Charles, to cheer up the hangdog author.

It had the desired effect. Malcolm Harris brightened immediately.

‘Yes, it’s wonderful. From the moment I first thought of the play, I thought he’d be ideal for the part. Though, of course, I never dared hope . . .’

The run-through started. Charles could not judge George Birkitt’s performance, he was too close to the part to be objective, but there was no doubt that Michael Banks was going to be very strong as the father. In his first scene he established an unshakeable authority, which, Charles knew, was bound to strengthen the total collapse of the character in the second act. Alex Household had been excellent in the part, but, in retrospect, he seemed to have been giving an actor’s interpretation of a man fifteen years older than himself. Michael Banks actually seemed to
be
that man.

But, after the first scene, the performance weakened. The power of the acting remained, but its flow was constantly interrupted. The actor just did not know the lines and, though he could manage the exchanges of dialogue quite well, every time he came to a big speech, he would dry.

‘Sorry, old boy. Sorry, loves. Prompt,’ he would say. The Stage Manager would give him the line, he’d be all right for a couple more sentences, then, ‘Sorry, it’s gone again.’

The play tottered on like this for a quarter of an hour. Charles was sitting at the back of the hall with Malcolm Harris, and kept feeling the author tense as another of his speeches was chopped up and destroyed. Eventually, Michael Banks just stopped, looked out at the director, and said, ‘Look, sorry, Peter old boy, I’d better use the book. Not getting anywhere like this.’

‘I did want to do this run without books.’

‘So did I, dear boy, so did I,’ said the star lugubriously, and got a good laugh from the cast. He had managed to endear himself to all of them within the week, and they shared his agony as he groped for the lines.

‘We open in less than a fortnight,’ Peter Hickton continued to argue.

‘Don’t think I don’t know it. But, honestly, I think we’ll just be wasting time if I go on like this.’

‘You’ve got to come off the book sometime.’

‘I will, I will, love. I promise. Look, don’t worry about it. I’m usually pretty good on lines. Once, when I was in rep. I learned lago in three days. So it will come, just hasn’t come yet. So I think for this run I’d better press on with the book.’

Michael Banks’s charm didn’t prevent him from being forceful, and Peter Hickton had to concede defeat. The play continued. With the support of the printed lines, Michael Banks’s performance regained the stature it had shown in the first scene and left no doubt that he was going to add a new excellence to
The Hooded Owl
. Charles found he was watching much of the play as if seeing it for the first time.