Simon Brett - Murder Unprompted

‘Why? It’s true. Or have I missed something? Go on, tell me, I’m anxious to know — have you ever heard an interesting word pass our son-in-law’s lips?’

‘I decline to answer that. Juliet’s very happy with him.’

‘Thank you. You have answered it.’

‘Anyway,’ said Frances, heavily changing the subject, ‘what I wanted to talk to you about was the house.’

‘Our house in Muswell Hill?’

‘Yes. I want to sell it.’

‘Sell it?’

‘And move in somewhere smaller.’

‘Are you hard up?’

‘No, I’m better off than ever now I’m headmistress. But I’m also busier, and a house like that takes a lot of time.’

‘I suppose it does. I’d never really thought about it.’

‘And I’m over fifty now and have to start looking ahead to retirement. So selling the house seems the logical thing to do.’

‘Hmm.’

‘You don’t mind, do you?’

‘Mind? No, why should I mind?’

But he did. Somehow, through all the extravagations of his life, he still thought of Frances in the house in Muswell Hill as a fixed point, a moral and geographical norm from which everything else was a kind of deviation. He was surprised at the emptiness he felt at the prospect of her moving. That sort of thing, like Juliet thinking of having another baby, like the twins growing up, made him feel abandoned, immobile in a world where everything else was on the move.

He tried not to show his hurt, because he knew he had no justification for it, but for him the sparkle had gone out of the rest of the meal.

He saw Frances to her car, a bright yellow Renault 5, another symbol of her independence of him.

‘Shall I. . er. .’

‘No, Charles. I’ve got to do that marking.’

‘Sure.’

She thanked him for a lovely evening and for the roses, with a strange formality, almost as if they had just met for the first time.

‘We’ll meet up again soon,’ he said.

‘Yes, I’d love that.’

She kissed him gently on the lips and was gone.

Charles found a cab and gave the driver the address of the Montrose, a drinking club off the Haymarket.

‘Hello, Maurice Skellern Personal Management.’

‘Maurice, it’s me, Charles.’

‘Oh, hello.’

‘What’s with all this “Personal Management”? I thought you were called “Maurice Skellern Artistes”.’

‘Yes, I was, Charles, but I decided it had a rather dated feel. “Artistes” is so. . I don’t know. . so Variety. I thought “Personal Management” had a more with-it, seventies feel.’

‘We’re in the eighties, Maurice.’

‘Oh yes, so we are. Well, you know what I mean.’

‘Hmm. In my experience, “Personal Management” usually means the agent taking twenty per cent rather than ten.’

‘Ah yes, well, Charles, we must talk about that sometime. Anyway, how did the play go down in Bristol?’

‘Taunton.’

‘Taunton, Bristol — it’s all West Country. Anyway, how was it?’

‘You mean you haven’t heard?’

‘Heard what?’

‘Honestly, Maurice! I thought agents were meant to be the antennae of show business, alert to every rumour, every flicker of interest. I don’t think you even know where the West End is.’

‘You know, Charles, sometimes you can be very hurtful.’

‘Listen. The Hooded Owl was a very big success in Taunton.’

‘Oh, good.’

‘And it’s coming in to the West End.’

‘REALLY?’

‘Yes. Opening on 30th October at the Varietyoh.’

‘What’s the Varietyoh?’

‘The Variety. It saves you the trouble of saying ‘oh’ in a disappointed voice.’

‘Oh,’ said Maurice, in a disappointed voice.

‘No, it’ll be all right. Denis Thornton’s got the lease of the theatre now.’

‘Has he?’

‘And Bobby Anscombe’s backing the show.’

‘IS HE?’

‘Yes, I’m surprised you haven’t heard anything about it.’

‘Now, Charles, I’m not as young as I was. I don’t get about the way I — ’,

‘No, I meant I was surprised the management hadn’t been in touch to sort out the West End contract. You sure you haven’t heard anything?’

‘Not a squeak.’

‘Oh well, they must be pretty busy this week. There’s a meeting tomorrow. No doubt I’ll hear more then.’

‘Yes. You don’t want me to ring anyone?’ asked Maurice, with distaste at the prospect.

‘No, don’t bother.’

‘You know, Charles, this is very good news. Very good news. It’s really gratifying for me, you know, as an agent. .’

‘Oh yes?’

‘Yes, when one feels that all one’s hard work has not been in vain, that all that careful guiding of a client’s career has not been wasted. Yes, moments like this make one understand the meaning of Personal Management.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘Now, Charles, about this rate of commission you pay me. .’

The Friday’s meeting for the company of The Hooded Owl was held in a superannuated gym near Covent Garden. Everyone was in good spirits, ranging from the quiet complacency of Alex Household to the Christmas Eve child’s exhilaration of Lesley-Jane Decker. The week’s break had relaxed them with that relaxation an actor can only feel when he knows he’s got a job to go to. Those based on London had seen friends, seen shows, talked endlessly; those based outside had sorted out digs or friends to land themselves on, seen shows, talked endlessly. And when they all met up again in the gym, they talked further, volubly, dramatically, hysterically.

The meeting was called for three in the afternoon, but by three-fifteen there was still no sign of Paul Lexington. At one end of the gym there was a folding table with a couple of chairs, from which he would no doubt address them when he arrived. One chair was already occupied by a young man in a beige suit with immaculately waved hair. No one knew who he was or made any attempt to talk to him, but he didn’t seem worried by this. He just sat at the table looking through some papers and playing with a pencil.

Peter Hickton wasn’t expected at the meeting. He was still monitoring his next Taunton production, Ten Little Indians (called by its author, Agatha Christie, in less sensitive times, Ten Little Niggers ), which had opened on the Wednesday. He would come up to town for the re-rehearsal, starting on the following Monday. In the view of most of die cast, two weeks was an excessive allocation of time to re-rehearse a show they had brought to such a pitch of perfection in Taunton. They reckoned they were in for a fairly lazy fortnight.

At three-twenty Paul Lexington arrived. He clutched a brief-case full of papers, and still looked pretty exhausted, but he had lost the wild look of the last week at Taunton. His confidence had returned a hundredfold.

‘Sorry I’m late, everyone. There’s been a lot to arrange, and one particular deal I only got signed half an hour ago. Have you all met Wallas?’

He indicated the young man in the beige suit. No, it was clear no one had met him. ‘Ah, this is Wallas Ward, who is going to be our Company Manager.

Wallas Ward nodded languidly, and the company looked at him with new interest. The Company Manager would play a significant part in their lives during the run. He was the management’s representative, responsible for the day-to-day running of the show. It would help if the cast got on with him, though, because of his allegiance to the management, they would never quite trust him.

‘Right,’ said Paul. ‘I’m sorry that we haven’t got round to contacting your agents during the last week, but it has been very busy. I’ve had to set up a Production Office, sort out the deals with Denis Thornton and Bobby Anscombe — there’s been a hell of a lot to do.’