Simon Brett - Murder Unprompted

‘Oh, what a terrible tragedy.’ Valerie Cass made an elaborate gesture, reminding Charles once again what a bad actress she had been. ‘It was so awful for all of us. Lesley-Jane was desolated, but desolated. I was so glad that I was up here when she came off stage. If ever there was a moment when a girl needed her mother, that was it. And to sort of protect her during all that police interrogation. I was just glad I could be of help.’

She smiled beatifically. She seemed to have new confidence in her hold over her daughter. It’s an ill wind, thought Charles. Micky Banks’s death and Alex Household’s disappearance were tragedies, but at least they had removed possible rivals for Valerie’s daughter’s affections.

And Lesley-Jane didn’t seem to mind her mother’s renewed take-over. In her shocked lethargy, she seemed content to let Valerie run around after her and do everything for her.

But Michael Banks’s memory remained sacred. Perhaps, after all, Valerie hadn’t resented him, grateful for his reflected glory. That seemed to be the case from what she said next. ‘Poor, dear Micky. Such a terrible tragedy. And just when he and Lesley-Jane were getting close. Oh, I know some people would say it was May and December, but I thought it was a lovely relationship. He just seemed so delighted, so rejuvenated to meet my little baby. What might have been. .’

She sighed the sort of sigh that drama teachers spend three years eradicating from their students. Lesley-Jane, perhaps from long experience of having her mother going on about her or perhaps just from exhaustion, did not seem to be listening.

‘Oh yes, I think Lesley-Jane could have mixed with some very eminent people. She is just the sort of girl to stimulate the artistic temperament. Don’t you agree, Charles?’

Charles, who shared G. K. Chesterton’s opinion that the artistic temperament is a disease which afflicts amateurs, grunted. He could well believe that Lesley-Jane could stimulate male lust; but he found her mother’s visions of her, launched in society as a kind of professional Laura to a series of theatrical Petrarchs, a little fanciful.

‘Mind you, at the same age, I myself. .’ she blushed, ‘. . was not without admirers in the. . world of the arts. If I hadn’t been trapped by marriage so young. . who knows what might have been. .? Though of course I wasn’t half as attractive as Lesley. .’

This was said in a voice expecting contradiction, which Charles wilfully withheld.

The confidence to ring Dottie Banks, absent over the weekend, came after the Friday’s performance. The show had gone well, and Charles felt his acting had matched it. There was even a slight swagger in his stride as he entered the star dressing room. (In spite of his enduring understudy status and certain representations that George Birkitt had made to the Company Manager, Charles was still in there.)

Once inside, he saw that great perk, the telephone, and remembered Dottie’s note. He also remembered that he’d said he’d ring Frances about the possibility of going down to Miles and Juliet’s on the Sunday, but decided to do that the next morning.

He dialled Dottie’s number, trying not to dwell on thoughts of the times Michael Banks must have done the same from the same phone.

No, she didn’t mind his ringing so late. And yes, she was glad to hear from him. And yes, she had meant what she had said in her note, that it’d be nice to get together for a chat and. . things. And why didn’t he drop round to her flat in Hans Crescent for a drink after the show tomorrow?

Charles conceded that he would be free, and graciously accepted the invitation.

Drinks with strange women after the show fitted well into the fantasy of himself as the big West End star that the night’s performance had engendered.

Even as he thought it, he couldn’t help remembering that West End stars tended to be paid a bit more than he was getting with his humble understudy-plus-supplement deal. He really must have a word with the company Equity representative about that contract. Surely Equity wouldn’t approve it.

On the other hand, since his agent had accepted the terms so avidly, he thought there might be problems in getting them changed.

Still, there was plenty of time to sort that out. His main priority was Dottie Banks. When he thought of their forthcoming encounter, he felt the guilty excitement of a schoolboy sneaking into the cinema to see an ‘X’ Certificate movie.

The block of flats in Hans Crescent was expensive and discreet. The porter who rang up to Mrs. Banks and directed Charles to her flat was also no doubt expensive, and would have been discreet if he had refrained from accompanying his directions with a wink. Charles got the impression that perhaps he wasn’t the first to have followed this particular route.

The Dottie Banks who opened the flat door was looking expensive; as to her discretion, he would no doubt soon find out. The black satin trousers, the fine black silk shirt and the black lace brassiere which was meant to show through it; they too were expensive. And just about discreet.

‘Charles, how nice to see you.’ She threw her arms round his neck and kissed him on the lips, enveloping him in discreetly expensive perfume. ‘Come in and have a drink.’

The same adjectives which had applied to everything else applied to the flat. Charles was unused to moving in circles where interior designers were used; most of his friends just accumulated clutter and wielded emulsion brushes when things got too tatty; but he recognised the genuine article when he saw it. And he had to admit it was well done.

There was a great deal of Michael Banks memorabilia about. Photographs, framed posters, the odd award statuette. Whatever the nature of their relationship, it was clear that husband and wife had shared the same flat.

Charles was looking at a film still of Banks in one of his most famous roles as the captain of a doomed frigate, when Dottie came back from the kitchen with a bottle of champagne.

‘You open this.’

‘Fine.’

‘There are some things I always feel men do better than women.’

Charles recognised that there would come a point when one found this relentless sexual innuendo irritating. But he knew he hadn’t reached that point yet. He put down the still and took the champagne bottle.

‘Yes, poor Micky.’ Dotty Banks sighed. ‘Poor, poor Micky.’

It was said without any sense of tragedy, but with affection.

‘It must be pretty awful for you, having lost him.’ The cork popped and Charles caught the spume in a tall glass.

‘Yes, of course I miss him. Not as much as I would have expected, in some ways.’ Dottie shrugged. ‘I mean, as a marriage, it wasn’t, well, it wasn’t a marriage in the conventional sense. We got on well, we went around together quite a bit, we were nice to each other, but we always. . had our own friends.’

She looked at him unequivocally, so Charles asked the direct question. ‘You mean you both had affairs?’

I did.’

‘But Micky didn’t?’

‘He had. . friendships.’

‘I see.’ So perhaps Lesley-Jane had been telling the truth in her description of the relationship. Just a few meals.

‘What I mean, Charles, is that sex wasn’t very high on Micky’s list of priorities.’

‘Ah. . Well, some people don’t have much of a sex-drive,’ Charles observed fatuously, aware that his own was revving up like mad.

‘In Micky’s case, he didn’t have any.’

‘Sex-drive?’

‘None at all.’ She shook her head to punctuate the words. ‘He couldn’t do it anymore.’

‘Ah.’ Charles wasn’t sure whether to say he was sorry or not. He didn’t know the correct etiquette for replying to a lady who’s just told you her recently-murdered husband was impotent.