Simon Brett - Murder Unprompted

To frighten off these visions, and because further sleep was out of the question, he went downstairs to make some tea. It was strange being in the kitchen of the house they had shared. He was aware of the parts of it that remained unchanged and equally of the innovations. Nothing could he view without emotion. He saw Frances had bought a dishwasher. Yes, time was precious. She was a busy lady these days.

And she wanted to sell the house. That thought disturbed him almost more than the events of the previous night.

The kettle boiled. He warmed the pot, instinctively found the tea in the caddy Frances’s Auntie Pamela had given them as a wedding present, and brewed up. He arranged two mugs and a milk-bottle on a tray with the pot, and took them upstairs.

The door was ajar, and he pushed it gently open. Frances was still asleep. She lay firmly in the middle of their double bed, as he supposed she must do every night. In repose her face looked relaxed, but the fine network of wrinkles round the eyes showed her age.

He felt great warmth for her. Not desire at that moment, just warmth. He must never lose touch with her.

He put the tray down on the dressing table, and the noise woke her. She started, unaccustomed to anyone else in the house, but when she saw him, she smiled blearily.

‘Charles. Good gracious. A cup of tea in bed. I can’t think when you last did that for me.’

‘When you were pregnant with Juliet, maybe.’

‘Probably.’

He poured the tea. He felt slightly awkward, as though he were in a strange woman’s room. He passed a mug to her and she propped herself up on the pillows to accept it.

‘You feeling better this morning, Charles?’

‘Yes, thank you.’

‘You looked terrible last night.’

‘Yes, I felt it. Thank you for salvaging me.’

‘Any time.’

They were silent. There was still a restraint between them. Frances moved over positively to switch on the radio. ‘See what’s happening in the world,’ she said breezily.

‘Hmm.’ Radio Four murmured earnestly from the speaker. ‘Are you still thinking of selling the house?’ Charles blurted out.

‘Yes. It’s with the agents.’

‘Oh.’

‘Mind you, they say the market’s pretty slack at the moment. And the trouble is I’m only here in the evenings to show people around. So I think it may take some time.’

‘Yes.’ This information made Charles feel disproportionately cheerful, as though he had suddenly been reprieved from something.

He became aware that the radio was talking about Michael Banks. Someone was giving an appreciation of his career. They must have worked fast to get it together, Charles thought. A busy night for them.

And no doubt a busy night of police questioning for The Hooded Owl company at the Variety Theatre. A lot must have been happening while he had slept.

The appreciation of Michael Banks was made up of interviews with his friends in the business. It was remarkable how many eminent names had allowed themselves to be woken up in the middle of the night to talk about him. And remarkable with what unanimity of love they spoke.

But, as Charles knew, Michael Banks had been a person who inspired love. For the first time since the shooting, Charles felt, not shock, but a sense of the tragic waste of his death.

For Alex he felt nothing but pity. The killing had not been a rational act; when he did it, Alex Household had been mentally ill. Charles felt guilty for not having recognised the seriousness of the actor’s state. Maybe he could have done something to avert the tragedy.

‘But what of the show?’ asked the radio presenter. ‘Needless to say, no reviews of The Hooded Owl have appeared in the papers today, but from all accounts the play was being very well received when the tragedy occurred. But surely Michael Banks’s death must end the run before it had even started. Apparently not, according to the show’s producer, Paul Lexington .’

Paul’s familiar voice came on, tired but as confident as ever. ‘No. Of course, we are all shattered by what has occurred, but we are professionals. It is our job to entertain the public and that is what we will continue to do. Don’t worry, the show will go on .’

‘How soon?’

‘Tonight. There will be a performance of The Hooded Owl tonight.’

‘Tonight? But can you replace Michael Banks at that sort of notice?’

‘Yes, we can.’

‘But I understood. .’ The interviewer picked his way carefully around the sub judice laws. ‘I understood that Mr. Banks’s understudy is. . nott available .’

‘That is true. The part will be taken by another member of the company.’

‘May I ask his name?’

‘Certainly. His name is Charles Paris.’

‘Who?’ asked the interviewer.

‘WHO?’ echoed Charles Paris.

The nerves on the first night at Taunton had been bad; so had the understudy nerves of the first night at the Variety; but they were nothing to the sheer blind terror that attended Charles Paris as he waited to go on stage in the role in which Michael Banks’s career had been so tragically cut short the night before.

Charles had not really believed it would happen. After hearing his name on the radio, he had thought it must be just bravado on Paul Lexington’s part, the young producer falling into cliche, insisting that the show must go on when all logic showed it was impossible. He must have been interviewed during the night of panic following the murder; in the rational light of dawn he would recognise that his words had been just heroics.

Charles had so convinced himself of this that he didn’t ring in to the production office until ten-thirty, deliberately giving the producer time to sober up his intoxicated imagination.

‘Charles!’ said Paul Lexington’s voice. ‘Where the hell have you been? I’ve been ringing your number for hours.’

‘Ah. Well, I didn’t actually spend the night at home.’

‘Well, now you have rung, get in here as quickly as you can. Where are you?’

‘Muswell Hill.’

‘Get a cab and charge it.’

‘But what’s the hurry?’ asked Charles, deliberately obtuse.

‘You’re going on tonight playing the father.’

Charles took a deep breath, mustering the arguments he had prepared. ‘Paul, I don’t know if you have realised this yet, but I am not the understudy to the part of the father. I am understudying George Birkitt, who, when I last saw him, was looking as fit as a flea.’

‘Charles, this is an emergency! It’s not the time to argue about the small print of your contract. I’ll sort out the extra money with your agent.’

‘That is not what I’m arguing about. If I could play the part of the father for you tonight, I would be happy to oblige. But the point you seem to have missed is that I don’t know the lines.’

‘Nor did Michael Banks.’

‘No, but. . Good Lord, you don’t mean. .?’

But that was exactly what Paul Lexington did mean. If Michael Banks could get through the part having his lines relayed to him by radio, then so. the Producer’s reasoning ran, could any other actor. And since Charles knew the production so well, he’d be able to remember the moves and. .

Anyway, the show had to go on that night. Paul had given public undertakings on national radio and television that it would. His boast would also be in the later editions of the evening papers. It was a God-given publicity opportunity.

Charles was prepared to contest the definition of ‘God-given’ under the circumstances, but Paul didn’t give him time. ‘Find that cab and be here ten minutes ago!’ he ordered before putting the phone down.