Simon Brett - Murder Unprompted

‘What’s up?’ he asked Salome Search, who was draped over a sofa doing Mrs. Siddons impressions.

‘It’s Lesley-Jane,’ the actress breathed dramatically.

‘What? What’s happened to her?’

‘She passed out in the wings after her last exit.’

‘Good God!’

‘Yes, she was in a dead faint.’

‘Where is she?’

‘She’s been taken up to her dressing room. The St. John Ambulance man’s up there with her.’

‘Do you know what it is?’

‘No. But. .’ Salome Search’s three years at R.A.D.A. had taught her that the pause before a sensational line can be extended almost infinitely. ‘There was blood in the wings.’

‘Oh, my God!’ Charles turned towards the Green Room door and the stairs to the dressing rooms.

But the doorway was blocked by the figure of Wallas Ward, holding up limp hands for attention.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said the Company Manager, ‘you may already have heard that Miss Decker was taken ill at the end of the first act. It seems that she will not be well enough to proceed with the rest of the play, and so her understudy will be taking over the role. Now it’s not going to be easy for the girl, so I hope you will give her all the support you can. I will be making an announcement to the audience before the curtain rises.’

‘Is she all right?’ asked Charles desperately.

‘Yes, she’s fine. Just weak. We’ve rung for her mother who’s going to come and take her home. The St. John Ambulance man doesn’t reckon she needs to go to the hospital.’

‘What’s wrong with her? Do you know?’

The Company Manager looked embarrassed. ‘Women’s things,’ he said with distaste.

‘Is she on her own up there?’

‘No, the St. John Ambulance man’s still there. And Paul went to see what was up. Oh, and I think Malcolm Harris was one of the ones who helped her up. He may still be up there. So she’s got plenty of people.’

‘I think I’d better go up and see her.’

But before he could, the Company Manager stopped him with an admonitory ‘Incidentally, Mr. Paris. .’

‘Yes?’

‘I gather you were late for the “half” tonight.’

‘Yes. I was in a train that got delayed.’

‘Where were you coming from?’

‘Taunton.’

Wallas Ward tutted, spinster-like. ‘Mr. Paris, you should have left more time. While you are contracted for a West End show, it is very irresponsible to go such a long way. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if there were a clause in your contract forbidding that kind of journey on a performance day. Remember, you are under contract to Scenario Productions and — ’

‘I thought I was under contract to Paul Lexington Productions.’

‘No, Paul is now working through a new company.’

‘Why?’

‘That is not at the moment relevant,’ reprimanded the Company Manager. ‘I am talking about your lateness for the “half”.’

‘Yes, all right. Well, I’m very sorry. Won’t do it again. Now if you’d — ’

‘And another thing,’ Wallas Ward continued inexorably. ‘The lines in the first act were very sloppy this evening. I had a note from Malcolm Harris who was out front and was very annoyed about it. You got badly lost in the dinner party scene.’

‘Yes, that was because Lesley-Jane was giving me the wrong cues. Her lines were all over the place tonight.’

‘Yes, Malcolm Harris mentioned that, too. Presumably that was because she was unwell. But in your case, when you have every line being repeated in your ear, it’s unforgivable.’

‘But if you get the wrong cues, you have to adjust the lines to make sense of the dialogue.’

That’s as may be, but Malcolm Harris said — ’

‘Look, come on. Every author is obsessed about his lines. You don’t have to — ’

‘It is my job as Company Manager,’ said Wallas Ward primly, ‘to listen to points from everyone in the company and the author is just as important as — ’

‘I would have thought it was also important for you to keep the author informed of everything that’s going on. Do you know, on the first night, Malcolm Harris didn’t know about the cuts we’d had to make for time. He thought Micky Banks was just randomly slashing great chunks out of his script.’

‘I agree. He should have been told. And he was extremely annoyed that evening when he came round at the interval. But I pointed out to him that Mr. Banks was not making cuts himself — he was merely repeating the lines he heard in his earphone.’

‘And you said that Alex was reading from a cut script?’

‘I didn’t have time to do that. Mr. Harris rushed off in something of a paddy.’

‘I’ve got to get upstairs and see Lesley-Jane!’ hissed Charles.

Wallas Ward stepped aside with mock-deference.

But as soon as his foot was on the first step of the stairs, Charles heard the fatal summons over the loudspeaker.

‘Beginners, Act Two, please.’

He froze. It was rarely that he felt such a direct clash between his twin roles as actor and detective.

But there was no doubt which triumphed. Thirty-two years of professional conditioning left him no alternative.

He turned round and walked towards the stage.

The father was on for the whole of the second act of The Hooded Owl and never had that part of the play passed as slowly as it did that evening. Mechanically going through the motions, repeating his words, hardly aware of the small Monday night audience, hardly aware of the new girl hesitantly feeding him Lesley-Jane’s lines, he was in an agony of apprehension throughout the performance.

But he had to play his part through to the end.

The end of the play, one curtain-call, and then, sod it, he’d risk another slap on the wrist from the arch Mr. Ward. He rushed offstage and up to Lesley-Jane’s dressing room.

He tapped on the door and entered.

There were four people inside.

And one of them was Michael Banks’s murderer.

Lesley-Jane lay on the daybed in her kimono. She was drained of all colour and animation, but alive.

Her mother, Valerie Cass, was busying herself, packing things into a small overnight case.

Paul Lexington (now of Scenario Productions) was looking at Lesley-Jane anxiously and asking if he should arrange an ambulance.

Malcolm Harris sat disconsolately in a chair, chewing his fingernails.

‘No, for the last time, she’ll be quite all right,’ said Valerie Cass, in reply to Paul. She looked round to see Charles. ‘Oh, not another man. Really. Just leave us alone, will you, all of you? Lesley-Jane’s quite all right now I’m here. Only a woman can understand what’s wrong, and there’s nothing any of you could do. So thank you for your concern, but will you now please go.’

‘Look, we’re worried about her,’ grumbled Malcolm Harris.

‘If you don’t want me to call an ambulance, I’ll drive her to the hospital, if you like,’ offered Paul Lexington.

‘No, thank you very much. We needn’t involve hospitals.’

‘I think she should be seen by a doctor,’ the Producer insisted. ‘Look, I’m employing her. I have to know how long she’s likely to be out of commission.’

‘Oh, I should think she’d be all right,’ said Charles. And then, deciding that it was time to start dropping bombshells, ‘Some actresses have continued acting well into the eighth month of pregnancy.’

He should have realised it before, but it was only when he had seen Juliet that the obvious had appeared in all its blatancy. The same strained paleness. Even the detail of needing a sleep in the afternoon.

Lesley-Jane herself was the only one who didn’t react. The two men looked at him open-mouthed. But Valerie Cass’s response was the most interesting. She turned to Charles with an almost beatific expression and said, ‘Well done. Yes, the little secret is out. I am to become a grandmother.’