Simon Brett - Situation Tragedy

Outside in the street, where the apparatus of filming had mostly been cleared up, he met Jay Lewis, looking young and waif-like in the moonlight.

‘Have you been through the grilling too?’

She nodded. ‘Not very nice. Poor Robin.’

‘Has Aurelia gone?’

‘Yes. I organised a car for her about an hour ago. She looked exhausted. I’m just waiting for mine to come.’

‘Ah.’

‘Actually, Charles, you’re Bayswaterish, aren’t you? I’m Notting Hill. You could share the cab.’

‘Great. If you’re sure that’s okay.’

She was. In the cab she still seemed waif-like, so it was only kind for him to put his arm round her. On the journey, with the predictable interruptions to give directions to the driver, who appeared never to have driven in London before, a degree of intimacy was established.

They arrived outside her flat first. She didn’t seem keen to leave him. ‘My flat-mate’s away. I don’t really like to go in on my own. After what happened to Robin.’

Charles, ever the obliging gentleman, dismissed the cab. As they climbed up the stairs, he said, ‘About your flatmate, you know I said I wanted to pick her brains on Film Research. .’

‘Oh yes.’

‘I wonder if you’d mind asking her about a movie Aurelia did with her husband. Late Thirties, I should think. Called Death Takes a Short Cut .’

‘I’ve never heard of it.’

‘Nor have I, sweetie. That’s why I’m asking.’

‘Hock-A. I’ll ask her.’

Jay Lewis opened the door of her flat. Once she had closed it, she came into Charles’s arms.

In bed he disentangled himself lazily. ‘Very nice indeed.’

‘Really. You mean it?’

‘Certainly do.’

She sighed. ‘There’s so much to learn.’

‘As a PA?’

‘Yes, and. .’

‘And sex?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Well, I think you have a natural aptitude for it.’

‘Good.’ She snuggled into his shoulder. ‘You know. Ernie Franklyn Junior says a PA should really be prepared to sleep with anyone.’

‘Oh, does he?’ said Charles Paris. ‘Thank you very much.’

West End Television Ltd,

W.E.T. House,

235-9 Lisson Avenue,

London NW1 3PQ.

6th July, 1979.

Dear Charles,

I enclose some revised pages for the beginning of Part Two of this week’s script. As we lost last night’s filming and are working so close to time, Bob and I have decided it’ll be simpler to do a rewrite and replace the exterior scene with a new scene in the hall. I turned to Willy and Sam who, at incredibly short notice, have come up with the enclosed, which I think is terrific and well up to the standard of the other scripts I’m getting from them for later episodes. I think we really are on to a very exciting series!

On a slightly sadder note, I heard this morning that Dob’s little dog, Cocky, died during the night. As you know, she doted on him and is bound to be very upset. I’m sending this letter to you by taxi to ensure that you get it before going to rehearsal on Saturday. Do be gentle with Dob.

Once again, many thanks for all your hard work on the series. See you at the Crew Run on Monday.

With the warmest good wishes,

Yours sincerely,

Peter

Peter Lipscombe

Producer The Strutters

The detective part of Charles’s mind was in confusion. Every time he got near a theory which linked the deaths around The Strutters, something new came along to break it up. On the Thursday night he had been convinced that Dame Aurelia Howarth had arranged the murders of Sadie Wainwright, Scott Newton and Rod Tisdale, because she had gone slightly dotty and was convinced that they all meant harm to her precious little dog.

But, even as he had reached that conclusion, another death had occurred, a death in which Aurelia could not possibly have had any hand. He was getting rather sick of providing alibis for his main suspects.

And now, to add to the confusion, Cocky had died. So any motivation the dog might have provided for Aurelia was gone. If any more deaths happened, there would have to be another reason for them. Just as there had to be another reason for Robin Laughton’s death.

Again Charles was struck by the random nature of all the deaths, except for Rod Tisdale’s. If anyone did unlock the wheels of the huge light and push it over, they can’t have had Robin Laughton as a specific target. There was no guarantee that the Floor Manager would be standing in the right place at the right time (or, from his own point of view, the wrong place at the wrong time). Like Scott Newton’s death, the latest accident seemed a random act of sabotage. There was no guarantee that the light would hit anyone, and certainly no guarantee that it would kill anyone it did hit.

So he was back to indiscriminate violence against the whole series. And the only person to whom he could attribute a motive for that was currently sunning himself in Sardinia and maybe waiting for a well-publicised kidnap.

Maybe it was all just coincidence, after all. Maybe, as the condescending detective-sergeant had said, someone had quoted from Macbeth in the dressing room, and The Strutters was just a bad luck show.

And yet he felt he was missing something. There was something he had heard recently that was important, something that he should have been able to relate to the sequence of deaths. But he couldn’t for the life of him remember what it was.

The final recording of the first batch of The Strutters on 17th July went well. The cast was relaxed and the tested old formula of the What’ll the Neighbours Say? script about the political meeting pleased the studio audience.

‘Rod Tisdale — what a great writer!’ Peter Lipscombe was heard to observe in the bar between buying drinks for people. ‘What a terrific talent! Tonight’s episode just said it all — still experimenting, never content, always looking for new avenues in the comedic field. What a loss he’ll be. You know, I reckon, if someone brought out a book of his scripts, he’d really get the recognition he deserves. He’d be up there with the Sheridans and the Wildes and the Shaws, no question. But of course no publisher would ever do it, no publisher would have the imagination to do it.’

Willy and Sam Tennison, the archpriest and priestess of the arch, were also there, and, while agreeing absolutely, but absolutely with what Peter said about Rod, who really had been a terrific writer and such a good chum, they had been delighted with the way their little scene had gone, promised well for the future, didn’t it, darling, oh yes, darling, really promising, darling, whole show going to be such fun, wasn’t it, darling, yes, darling.

The cast was animated, too. They were lifted by the audience’s reception of the show, but, more than that, they had the prospect of a couple of weeks’ rest after the hectic pace of the recent schedule. In fact, given extra filming days and an early read-through, the break was only going to be nine days, but that was better than nothing and they were all looking forward to it.

George Birkitt put his complaints to one side and, with the prospect of no new lines to forget for a few days, was jovially expansive. Even Dob Howarth seemed to be bearing up pretty well after her loss. She and the grinning Barton stood in the bar like royalty, accepting the servile tributes of its inmates.

Only once did her gracious exterior crack and emotion threaten. Romney Kirkstall was there, as ever, and eventually engaged the attention of his idol. ‘Dob,’ he said, ‘I was terribly upset to hear what happened.’

‘Thank you.’ She inclined her head and very deliberately changed the subject. ‘It’ll be good to have a few days’ rest. Imagine the luxury of the occasional breakfast in bed.’