Simon Brett - Murder Unprompted

‘Lot of paper in tonight, isn’t there?’ said Bartlemas, looking up to the Circle and Gallery.

‘Lot of paper, yes. .’

‘Paper?’ Frances managed to query.

‘Free seats, love. Often happens for a first night if it’s not selling. .’

‘Yes, blocks of tickets sent round the nurses’ homes, that sort of thing. .’

‘Believe me, love, if you go to as many first nights as we do, you get to recognise them. .’

‘Recognise individual nurses even. .’

‘There’s one with a wall-eye and a wart on her nose who I swear goes to more first nights than we do. .’

This also was apparently a joke. They roared with laughter.

‘Why is there so much paper?’ Charles managed to ask.

‘No publicity, dear. .’

‘And the theatres out of the way. .’

‘People’d flood to see Micky Banks. .’

‘Simply flood. .’

‘But they’ve got to know where he is. .’

‘As you say, no publicity. .’

‘By the way, who’s Dottie with tonight?’

‘Don’t know, but looks such a nice young man. .’

‘Joy-boy?’

‘Maybe. .’

‘Oh,’ said Charles. ‘You mean she and Micky don’t. .’

‘Now you don’t want us telling tales out of school, do you?’

‘Oh, you naughty Charles Paris, you. .’

They seemed set to continue talking forever, but the auditorium lights began to dim, so they scuttered off, giggling, to find their seats.

Charles and Frances sat down too. And with feelings too complex to itemise, he watched the curtain rise on the first official London performance of The Hooded Owl .

The applause at the interval was very generous. It almost always is on a first night, when the audience tends to be Mums, Dads, husbands, wives, lovers and friends-in-the-business. But, even allowing for that, Charles reckoned they were enjoying it.

Michael Banks was giving a performance of effortless authority. Some of the cognoscenti had recognised why he was wearing the deaf-aid, but for the majority, it just seemed to be part of the character, justified by a couple of new lines.

The performances were all up, with the possible exception of Lesley-Jane Decker, who seemed to be giving a little less than usual. Probably the result of nerves at her first West End opening.

But what also shone through was how good a play The Hooded Owl was. It was very conventional, even old-fashioned, but its tensions built up in just the right way, and it gripped like a strangler’s hand.

Charles looked round to where he knew Malcolm Harris should be, but the seat between the ferret-faced women was empty. The author had taken his advice and was presumably prowling around somewhere. His ferret-faced women looked unamused by his absence.

Charles and Frances joined the exodus to the bar and met another couple coming towards them. The man was unfamiliar, but there was no mistaking the woman with her subsidised red hair.

‘Charles, darling!’

‘Oh. Valerie. I don’t think you know my wife, Frances. .’

‘But of course I do. We met in Cheltenham.’

‘Did we?’ asked Frances, clueless as to whom she was addressing.

‘Yes, yes, all those years ago.’

‘Oh.’

‘And this. .’ said Valerie Cass, with no attempt to disguise her contempt, is my husband.’

He was twenty years older than his wife and looked meek and long-suffering. As indeed he would have to be. Either that or divorced. Or dead.

‘Oh God,’ Valerie Cass cooed. ‘I know what you must be feeling, Charles. I feel it myself. Just aching to be up there with them. Only we who have worked in the theatre can understand the ache.’

She raised one hand dramatically to her forehead. She was wearing long evening gloves, indeed seemed to be fully dressed for a ball.

‘Oh, it’s not so bad,’ Charles offered feebly.

‘And I’m so worried about Lesley-Jane,’ she emoted.

‘Why?’

‘The performance just isn’t there.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that. She’s a bit subdued, but she’s — ’

‘No, it’s more than that. I know that girl, know her as only a mother can, and I know she’s not well. I think I’d better go backstage and see what’s the matter.’

‘Oh, I don’t think you should,’ her husband interposed mildly. ‘Wait till the end. I’m sure you shouldn’t go round in the middle of a performance. Not the thing at all.’

‘And what. .’ she withered him with a glance, ‘what do you know about it?’

And she stalked off to the foyer.

Mr. Decker grinned weakly, made a vague gesture with his hand and moved off down the aisle to buy an ice-cream.

The crush in the bar was worse than before the show, but this time Charles was luckier. Lucky to the extent of meeting a friend who had had the foresight to order a bottle of champagne for the interval.

‘Gerald!’

The solicitor looked immaculate as ever, in perfectly-tailored evening dress. His wife Kate also looked perfect. She and Frances fell on each other. They hadn’t met for years. Used to be great friends, before Charles walked out. Used to go around as a foursome. Guilt was added to the turmoil of Charles’s feelings.

Gerald fought to the bar for a couple more glasses and generously shared the bottle.

‘Doing any detective work, Charles?’ He had helped the actor on one or two cases and found an enthusiasm for investigation which he could never muster for his extremely lucrative solicitor’s practice.

‘No,’ Charles replied with satisfaction. It was pleasant not to have the complexities of crime on his mind for a change.

‘Pity.’

‘But why are you here, Gerald? Got money in it?’

Gerald was quite a frequent ‘angel’, though he kept his investments very secret, and winced at Charles’s question. ‘No, in a sense I’m here under false pretences. I was coming because a client was involved as a backer, but he’s no longer involved and. .’

‘Bobby Anscombe?’

‘Right.’

‘Yes. I gather he had an “artistic disagreement” with Paul Lexington.’

‘“Artistic disagreement” — my foot! You should have seen the contract Lexington tried to get him to sign.’

Charles was glad to have his surmise confirmed. ‘Yes, I shouldn’t think anyone steals a march on Bobby Anscombe.’

‘Or me, Charles. Or me.’

Just as he was returning to his seat, Charles met Malcolm Harris rushing up the aisle. The author had reported in to his ferret-faced women, but was now off again.

‘I should think you’re pleased, aren’t you?’ asked Charles genially.

‘Pleased?’ hissed the schoolmaster. ‘That bastard Banks is just making nonsense of it.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean he’s cutting great chunks. Big speeches — just because he doesn’t like them, just cutting them out.’

‘But, Malcolm, he’s not making the cuts. They were made yesterday for — ’

But the author was already out of earshot.

Oh dear. Another black mark for Paul Lexington’s liaison and diplomacy.

The audience settled quickly after the interval and was soon once more caught up in the mounting dramatic tension of The Hooded Owl. Charles found himself swept along too. He realised that the cuts forced on the production had in fact helped it. By trimming down the first act, they kept the pace going, and the second act benefited.

And Michael Banks was growing in stature by the minute. Once again, Charles was aware of Alex Household’s contribution to the performance. With him timing the lines, the star could concentrate just on the emotional truth of his acting, and the result was very powerful.

The Hooded Owl speech approached, and Charles felt the excitement building inside him. As ever, it would be the climax; this time the climax of one of the finest performances he had ever witnessed.