Simon Brett - Murder Unprompted

He reached for the case and took it in both hands.

‘Well, I’m not going to be spied on any longer!’

He dashed the Hooded Owl down on to the middle of the stage, where it shattered satisfyingly.

In the audience no one breathed. He had them exactly where every actor who ever lived wants his public, watching his every movement, letting him dictate their lives for a little moment.

He knew the speech had worked.

Probably it was because of what had happened in the play at that point on the previous night.

But was perhaps a little part of its success, he dared to hope, because he had done it rather well?

It was only when he got back to the star dressing room after the performance that Charles fully took in its luxurious appointments. It was wallpapered in a pleasing pattern and the chairs were painted gold with red velvet seats. There was an attractive screen in one corner. On the make-up table was that incredible rarity backstage — a telephone. And, as if that wasn’t enough, the dressing room turned out to be two rooms. Through a door was another little compartment, with a bed and a fridge .

Charles kept looking round for the room’s occupant. He still couldn’t believe it was him.

Members of cast rushed in and out, throwing their arms round him effusively. It wasn’t what usually happened to him after a performance. To his fury, he found he was crying.

Paul Lexington came in. ‘Terrific, Charles. Really bloody marvellous!’ And he thrust a brown paper parcel into his hands.

It felt like a bottle. It was a bottle. And a better bottle than he had dared hope. A large bottle of Bell’s whisky.

Charles realised that he had previously underestimated the young Producer’s sensitivity.

‘You like one now, Paul?’

‘No, thanks. Look, I’ve booked us all into the Italian place round the corner. Sort of thank you. See you there as soon as you can make it.’

‘Terrific. Thank you.’ Charles poured himself a large slug of whisky and downed it. It didn’t touch anything till his stomach, whence it sent out radiance.

Then he noticed that there was an envelope on his make-up table. Addressed ‘Charles Paris’, he was sure it hadn’t been there at the interval.

He tore the envelope open, his mind full of various pleasing conjectures. The letter lived up to none of them, though its contents were not unpleasing.

The notepaper was headed with a Knightsbridge address.

Dear Charles,

I gather that you are taking over tonight from poor Micky. Just wanted to drop you a note to say break a leg and all those other theatrical cliches. You are very brave to step into the breach.

Be nice to see you some time. If you’d like to meet up for a drink or something, do give me a call on the above number.

All the best for tonight, Dottie

Try as he might, he could not read the letter without feeling sexual overtones. Just as when she had spoken to him, the invitation seemed overt. And, in the heightened mood brought on by the success of his performance, it was an invitation he felt inclined to take up.

On the other hand, it was strange. . If he was reading it right, it was hardly the behaviour of a recently widowed woman, particularly one who had lost her husband in such dramatic circumstances. Even if they lived apart, surely. . Perhaps he was fantasising.

He looked at it again, searching for another reading. He found one, but didn’t like it, because it hinged on the word ‘brave’. Micky Banks had been shot dead on stage. Might his successor be ‘brave’ because he was laying himself open to the same fate. .?

There was a tap at the door. ‘Come in.’

He saw Frances in the mirror. With an instinctive and depressingly familiar reflex, he pushed Dottie’s letter under a towel and turned to greet his wife.

‘Good God. Were you out front?’

She nodded. ‘Charles, you were wonderful.’

Her arms were round his neck and her lips against his. Unwelcome tears threatened again to expose him for a big softie.

‘Oh, Frances.’

‘Charles.’

They swayed together. Very together.

‘You really did it. I knew you could. I’ve always known you could be much better than the sort of parts you usually play. And tonight you proved it.’

‘Thank you very much, Frances.’ He meant it. She was a shrewd lady and not over-generous with praise, so, when it came, he appreciated it the more.

‘I was really proud of you tonight, Charles.’

He felt embarrassed. ‘Would you like a drink or. .?’

‘No, thanks.’

‘We’re all going out for a meal. Now I come to think of it, I haven’t eaten anything all day. Nothing’s passed my lips since that cup of tea this morning.’

‘What about your old friend?’ Frances pointed to the bottle of Bell’s.

‘I’ve only just had one slug of that. Five minutes ago.’ Again his mind was clouded by the heresy that had struck him after the first night in Taunton. ‘Do you realise, Frances. .’ he said slowly, ‘I did that performance tonight without having had a single drink all day. .? And it was all right, wasn’t it?’

‘It was wonderful.’

‘Good Lord.’ He had to sit down because of the shock.

‘Perhaps.’ But the shock stayed with him. He had to have a long swig of Bell’s to shift it. ‘Well, what about coming out for a meal with all of us?’

‘No. Thank you, Charles. I have eaten and I’ve got to get back. Anyway, this’ll really be a cast thing. I’ll just be out of place.’

He didn’t attempt to deny it. Frances had been married to an actor long enough to know what she was talking about.

‘Well, look, we must meet soon.’

‘I’d like that. Incidentally, I rang Juliet today.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘To tell her what you were doing. You know, taking on this part. She was very proud.’

‘Oh.’ It had never occurred to him that his daughter might be proud of him.

‘She and Miles’d love to see you.’

‘Oh, I’d love to see them.’

‘I’m going down Sunday week. It’s my half-term. I don’t know if you’d like to. .’

‘Oh. Oh well, yes, I might. I’ll give you a buzz.’

‘Fine,’ said Frances without excessive confidence. Charles’s buzzes were not notorious for their reliability. ‘And, incidentally, what I suspected is true.’

‘Ah,’ Charles observed knowingly. But there was no point in pretending with Frances. ‘Er, what did you suspect?’

‘Juliet’s pregnant again.’

‘Oh, is she?’

The theory that Charles Paris might be a better actor without alcohol was not put to the test any further that night. Like all good scientists, he knew that one should not rush experiments, so a great deal of Italian red wine and a good few Sambucas were consumed before he finally tottered into a taxi and gave the driver (with some difficulty) his address.

The meal had been fun. He had needed to wind down after the spiralling tensions of the day, and once again he felt the company warmth and support that had sustained him through the day. Meals after shows, with a company who all got on, Charles found, were the moments he most enjoyed of being an actor. They did not happen that often — at least the meals happened, but not often with such unanimity of good humour. But when they did they were wonderful, and some of Charles’s happiest memories were of Italian or Chinese or Indian restaurants after hours in quiet provincial towns.

In spite of the alcohol and the fatigues of the day, he did not feel sleepy when he got back to his bed-sitter. His mind was too full. Every time he lay down, some new thought or memory would excite him, and he would start walking round the room.

He knew he should sleep. The next day was Saturday, which meant two performances, and he was already nearly on his knees from exhaustion. But sleep didn’t come and round about half past three he realised it wasn’t going to come.