Sicken and So Die (18 page)

Moira gave another of her little shrugs. ‘Workable, anyway.'

‘Right.' There could be no doubt about her signals now. Charles, rendered doubly cautious by the existing climate of political correctness surrounding all interpersonal relationships, still couldn't find any ambiguity in what she said.

He looked into her eyes. They were sharp and teasing, daring him to take action. His face moved towards hers.

Their lips were almost touching when they were stopped by an electronic crackling. It came from a field telephone on a desk.

A voice emerged through the bacon-sizzling sound. ‘Does anyone know where the hell Charles Paris is? He's needed on stage
immediately
.'

HIS BOOT-SOLES skidding in the mud, Charles Paris hurried back through the trees towards the stage. Rain still dripped obstinately from the branches and sheeted across the open spaces below. He wished he had taken one of the Mutual Reliable anoraks, after all.

As he had the thought, someone dressed in one came hurrying towards him. It was a woman; the thin working light caught on the water-shiny plastic outline of her breasts. Though the head was averted against the weather – or perhaps against him – Charles could see straggling blond hair flicker out from under the anorak's hood.

The woman said nothing to him, possibly hadn't even seen him, but turned abruptly away between the trees in the direction of the cast caravans.

Charles pressed forward, feeling an idiot. For him to have missed his cue was a serious black mark. A tech is hell for everyone, a major test of company patience, but it is the duty of all cast members to be on hand – or at least somewhere whence they can be quickly summoned – at all times. There are enough technical problems to slow the process down without lost actors screwing things up. Charles didn't anticipate a warm welcome when he made his belated entrance.

On top of that, he was feeling stupid about what had happened with Moira. He berated himself for the weakness of his will. She was attractive, she appeared to be amenable – even enthusiastic – but he still shouldn't have responded so easily. His sole aim in life should be to make it up with Frances, for God's sake.

Charles dived into the hessian tunnel which led to the stage. It seemed even narrower and clammier than it had before.

He skidded to the wing area and almost cannoned into Sally Luther, dressed in her soggy Cesario costume. Her blond wig dangled in tendrils like overcooked pasta.

‘Oh, I'm so sorry, Sally.'

‘Where the hell have you been?'

‘Got delayed.' He popped his head out on to the stage and shouted, ‘Sorry, Alex! I'm here now!' then smartly popped back in before the director could start bawling him out.

Sally Luther moved on to the stage and shouted, ‘Can I get back to my dressing room now he's here, Alex?'

‘No.'

‘Oh, for God's sake! We've already been doing this scene for half an hour.'

‘Sally, I'm sorry, but we need the bridge between the scenes, because we've got to do the lighting change and move the chairs. We'll have to go back on the end of your scene. Take it from “O time, thou must untangle this . . .” Oh, just a minute –' He had been interrupted by the lighting designer. ‘No, we've just got to reset a couple of lanterns. Could be five minutes. Nobody leave the stage . . . And that includes you, Charles Paris, you unprofessional bastard!'

Charles was stung by the words. To be called unprofessional is the worst insult any actor can receive – particularly when he knows the aspersion is justified. He shrunk into the wings against the damp hessian, as Sally Luther and Chad Pearson came off stage to join him.

‘I wouldn't get too close to that if I was you,' the actress advised.

‘Mm?'

‘There's a holly bush or something behind it. I was standing there a minute ago and I got quite a nasty prick through the hessian. Just in the fleshy bit of my thigh – really stung.'

‘Oh. Right. Thanks.' Charles moved further away from the screening, and saw that he was now directly in view of half the audience (assuming that the Chailey Ferrars
Twelfth Night
ever did have an audience, an idea which at that moment seemed a laughable fantasy). ‘Tight on sight-lines, isn't it?' Charles observed as he shrank back into the wings.

‘OK, we're set!' Alexandru Radulescu's voice bawled out from the darkness. ‘Back to “O time, thou must untangle . . .”, Sally. And make sure you're ready for your cue, Charles bloody Paris!'

Sally Luther ventured back into the downpour to complete her soliloquy at the end of Act Two, Scene Two.

“O, time, thou must untangle this, not I!

It is too hard a knot for me t'untie.”'

Shaking her head wearily – and to the sound of doleful sitar music – she moved off into the wings where Sir Toby Belch and Sir Andrew Aguecheek waited. Charles had always thought it a clumsy bit of blocking from Alexandru Radulescu to have her exit the same way they were about to come on, but he didn't think this was the moment to raise the point.

‘Thank God for that,' Sally Luther muttered as she passed. ‘I'm not in the next scene.' And she hurried off towards the ‘dressing rooms'.

Charles Paris and Chad Pearson made their entrance and then had to wait in the rain for further adjustment of the lights. The
Twelfth Night
tech wound on its weary course. At the current rate of progress, Charles reckoned they'd be lucky to finish before four in the morning.

And a wicked, but unsuppressible thought inside him conjectured what kind of response a knock on the Portakabin door at four in the morning might get.

In the event, he never found out. The tech was not allowed to run its full course.

In the middle of Act Two, Scene Four, Orsino had just asked ‘Cesario', ‘And what's her history?'

Sally Luther replied,

Suddenly she clutched at her throat and started gagging. She fell down on to the wet stage.

After what seemed an age, an ambulance made it across the muddy grounds of Chailey Ferrars to pick up the invalid and take her to the local hospital.

And on the next morning's radio and television news bulletins it was announced that Sally Luther was dead.

THE TECH HAD ended in chaos with less than a third of the play rehearsed, so it was no surprise to have a company call for ten o'clock the following morning, the Tuesday, the day
Twelfth Night
was due to open. Very few in the cast expected that opening to happen as scheduled.

Charles Paris had gone back to his digs and slept little. (Somehow, in the circumstances, knocking on the door of Moira's Portakabin had seemed inappropriate.) He made a point of getting back to Chailey Ferrars early in the morning.

The weather had miraculously changed. As if Sally Luther's death had been some ritual sacrifice to propitiate the rain gods, the Tuesday dawned bright and clear. Underfoot remained muddy, but the growing warmth of the sun promised to dry out the sodden field.

Moira's prodigious organisational skills were paying off. As Charles arrived at nine-thirty, groups of men were bolting together the metal structure of a raked auditorium. Women and boys were unloading stacks of chairs from a drop-side truck. Already the front few rows were fixed in position. So the audience would have seats to sit on that evening – though whether there would be a show for them to watch was more doubtful.

At the back of the auditorium stood two Land Rovers towing large caravans with the name ‘Saniserve' printed on their sides. Moira had sorted that out too. Not only would the audience have seats to sit on, they would also be able to relieve themselves. There was nothing to stop the first night performance from going ahead – except its lack of a central character.

Charles Paris knew exactly what he needed to do. He went straight up on to the stage to the wings through which he had exited and entered the night before. In the daylight the tented area looked untidy and amateur. The hessian drapes hung damply down, but already, where the beams of the sun caught them, a thin steam was beginning to rise.

Charles tried to remember Sally's exact words. Something about being careful, not standing too close to the drapes . . . About a holly bush . . . About feeling something prick through . . . Something stinging her upper thigh . . .

He probed gingerly along the soggy fabric hanging, but could feel nothing pressing through from behind. He went backstage to check. The hessian screen, shabbier from this side and supported on irregularly angled tent-poles, stood proud from the surrounding trees and shrubs. There was no holly bush for Sally Luther to have leant against.

Which meant that if something had punctured her skin, it must have been pushed through the drape from the other side. And Charles Paris didn't find it fanciful to think that something might have been a syringe.

This was serious now. Gavin Scholes could possibly have been struck down by a genuine illness. John B. Murgatroyd's attack might just conceivably have been accidental food poisoning. But Sally Luther was dead, and it seemed very likely that she had been murdered.

Charles kicked himself for not taking action earlier. If he'd voiced his suspicions, the poor girl's death might have been averted.

On the other hand, the familiar question arose of who he should have voiced his suspicions
to.
Previous experience had taught Charles that the police have a distinctly sceptical attitude to intimations of murder – particularly when they come from members of the theatrical profession. That all actors are self-dramatising and effete – and probably gay – seemed to be an enduring conviction amongst the British constabulary.

He would need unanswerably solid proof of wrongdoing before he could take his accusations to the proper authorities. And at the moment he had no proof at all, only vague suspicions and a few, inadequately connected, links of logic.

There was also his position in the company to consider. Charles Paris was already unpopular enough, without starting to spray around accusations of murder. He needed to be extraordinarily certain of his facts before he challenged anyone. A misplaced allegation of serious criminality from one cast member to another could prove to be a very inauspicious opening to a three-month tour.

There was of course a strong chance that if Sally Luther had been murdered the police would soon be on to the case. A death as sudden as hers must inevitably demand a post-mortem, and if its finding showed she had been injected with poison, then the
Twelfth Night
company would quickly be swamped by inquisitive police officers.

But if, for some reason, that didn't happen . . . Charles had to find out more.

The Great Wensham Festival officials had turned out in force for the ten o'clock call on stage at Chailey Ferrars. The Festival Director was there, along with Moira Handley and Pauline Monkton. Asphodel's accountant was also present, flanked by Alexandru Radulescu, the lighting designer and the assistant director.

Alexandru was the most overtly irritated by Julian Roxborough-Smith's long-winded oration, tapping his hand crossly against his knee, anxious to be active.

‘. . . a terrible tragedy of the kind which I am glad to say is unprecedented in the history of the Great Wensham Festival. On behalf of the Festival Society – and of course of our sponsors – I will be sending appropriate condolences to Miss Luther's family.'

The company, in the front rows of audience seating, were as impatient as their Director. They wanted to know what decisions had been made, and they wanted to know as soon as possible. All were twitchy. Only Talya Northcott looked serene, as her mind formulated the dream that was about to come true. ‘UNDERSTUDY RISES TO TRAGIC CHALLENGE – A STAR IS BORN!' Mummy would really enjoy telling her friends about that. The scrapbook would fill up very quickly.

‘One point I should mention,' Julian Roxborough-Smith ground on, ‘is that there are always people who feed on and try to benefit from disaster – I refer of course to the press – and it's not impossible that, after what's happened. Great Wensham will become the target of the tabloid hacks. The Chailey Ferrars staff will be doing their best to keep these scavengers out, but in the event that any of you are approached by journalists, I would ask you to say nothing, just address all enquiries through the festival's press officer . . .'

Pauline Monkton squirmed at the thought of more limelight and responsibility.

‘. . . who I am sure is better qualified to handle such enquiries than you are.'

The panic in the press officer's eyes cast doubt on the truth of this assertion. ‘We've had lots of calls already, Julian,' she whispered breathlessly, ‘and I really don't know what to say to them. I think, if I just leave the answerphone on then they'll probably stop ringing after a time.'

Annoyance tugged at the corner of the Festival Director's mouth, but he was too professional to give his press officer a public dressing-down for wimpishness and general incompetence, so moved smoothly on.

‘If, on the other hand, you are approached by the police – and I don't at this stage know whether there is likely to be any form of police investigation – I would obviously rely on you all to co-operate fully.'

‘However . . .' He sighed and adjusted his floppy bow-tie ‘. . . with every setback – even one so terrible and shocking as this – the question that must follow on from any tragedy is: “Where do we go from here?” I've just come from a meeting with your director and . . .' He clearly didn't know the name of the person to whom he gestured . . . this gentleman from Asphodel Productions, at which meeting we discussed the various options that are open to us.