Simon Brett - Murder Unprompted

‘Oh, it’s very encouraging,’ said the schoolmaster. ‘Salome told me before the show tonight.’

Oh dear, that was a slip-up on Paul Lexington’s part. The author should have been told as soon as the Producer knew, not hear the rumour from a third party. Fortunately, though, Malcolm did not seem aggrieved. His ignorance of the theatre encompassed a great deal of humility (about everything except the actors getting his lines right).

‘Do you think you can cope with fame and all those royalties?’ asked Charles playfully.

The schoolmaster gave a shy smile. ‘I think I’ll manage.’

‘Hmm. Make sure your agent sorts out a good deal for you. Remember this axiom of theatrical business — all managements are sharks.’

‘Oh, I’m sure it’ll be all right.’

‘Who is your agent, by the way?’

Malcolm’s smile grew broader. ‘That’s the wonderful thing. When Paul heard I hadn’t got an agent, he was shocked.’

‘I should think so. And he recommended someone to you?’

‘No, better than that, Charles. He said he’d represent me himself. Keep it all in the family, he said. Isn’t that terrific?’

‘And you’ve signed up with him?’

‘You bet. And no messing about with short contracts. He’s really showing his confidence in me and agreed to let me sign up for three years.’

‘Ah.’ It was all Charles could say. The damage was done; the contract was signed. He found it incredible that every day produced new innocents to fall for the oldest tricks in the business. But there was no point now in telling Malcolm the folly of signing up with the same person as agent and manager, no point in making him think what would happen when he was in dispute with the management and needed an agent to represent his interests. The schoolmaster would have to find out the hard way.

But the knowledge did put Paul Lexington’s image in a different light. If he was capable of that sort of old-fashioned sharp practice, maybe his other dealings should be watched with a wary eye.

Further speculation about the producer was interrupted by the ebullient entrance of Lesley-Jane Decker. ‘Alex, Alex, have you heard? Bobby Anscombe was in tonight.’

‘Was he?’ said Alex and Charles in impressed unison.

‘Who?’ asked Malcolm Harris ignorantly.

But his question didn’t get an answer, so he siddled out into the corridor and away.

The answer he didn’t get was that Bobby Anscombe was a very big theatrical backer, or ‘angel’, whose instincts had directed his money into a string of lucrative hits. He was rich, shrewd, and prepared to take risks, to rush in, indeed, where other angels feared to tread. His style had paid off handsomely in the past, and the fact that he had come all the way to Taunton to see The Hooded Owl was the most encouraging boost so far for the transfer prospects.

Alex Household rubbed his hands slowly together. ‘That is very good news, Lesley-Jane, very good news.’

‘Yes, darling. Let’s hope he liked it.’

‘I don’t honestly see how he could have failed to.’ Alex’s confidence these days seemed to be unassailable. He reached out and took Lesley-Jane’s hand. ‘Tell me, do you fancy a drive in the country tomorrow morning? I could do with some fresh air.’

The way he italicised the words showed they had some private meaning for the couple.

‘Oh, I’d love to, darling, but I can’t. Got to go to the station to meet Mummy.’

‘Oh Lord, is she coming down again?’

‘She’s terribly lonely in town with only Daddy for company.’

‘Of course.’ Alex turned back to his mirror and started rubbing grease on to his face.

‘See you up in the bar?’ asked Lesley-Jane tentatively.

‘Possibly,’ said Alex Household.

‘Oh yes,’ said Charles Paris.

He had a good few drinks inside him as he left the theatre. The quickest way back to his digs was by a path near the car park and, as he walked along, he heard Paul Lexington’s voice from the other side of a wall.

‘Good,’ it said. ‘Excellent. I’m delighted at your reaction.’

‘We’ll talk on Monday about the points I made,’ said an unfamiliar voice, ‘but I think we can assume that, in principle, we have a deal.’

‘Terrific,’ said Paul Lexington’s voice.

A car door slammed, a powerful engine started, and there was a screech of tyres. As Charles came to the end of the wall by the car park exit, he was nearly run over by a silver-grey Rolls Corniche.

As he watched it go off up the road, its BA registration left him in no doubt that it belonged to Bobby Anscombe.

And the conversation he had overheard left him in no doubt that Bobby Anscombe was going to back The Hooded Owl .

He didn’t mention what he had overheard to anyone when he went in the next day for the Saturday matinee. After all, they’d all know soon enough when Paul made an official announcement.

But the Saturday passed and no official announcement was made.

The final week of the run began. The Monday passed, the Tuesday, the Wednesday, and still there was no official announcement. No one would say that the transfer was definite.

Paul Lexington was around that week, though he kept on rushing up to town for unspecified meetings. As the days went past his cheerful face began to look more strained and the shadows around his eyes deepened. His manner was still confident, and, if directly asked, he would say everything was going well, but the old conviction seemed to have gone.

The cast felt it too. As the time trickled away, there was less talk of the transfer, fewer fantasies of what they were going to do when they got to the West End, more discussion of other potential jobs. Though no one dared to put it into words they were all losing their faith.

And by the Saturday night, when the run ended, the atmosphere was one of gloom. The final performance was good and was received with more adulation than ever by the Taunton audience, but all the cast could feel their dreams slipping away. It was over, the play was finished, the right people hadn’t made the effort to come all the way from London to see it, The Hooded Owl was destined to begin and end its life at the Prince’s Theatre, Taunton.

So the mood of the cast party, held in the bar after the last performance, was more appropriate to a wake than a celebration. Still no one would voice the awful truth that faced them, but everyone knew. Any gaiety there was was forced.

Alex Household looked stunned and uncomprehending. Charles Paris was glad to pull out his old armour of cynicism and don it once again. Serve him right. He was too old to be seduced by that sort of childish hope in the theatre. Never mind, his old stand-bys would see him through. Cynicism and alcohol. He made the decision to get paralytically drunk.

He found himself, not wholly of his own volition, talking to Valerie Cass, who had appeared for yet another weekend. ‘You see,’ she was saying, ‘one does lose so much by being married. I mean, realising one’s full potential as a woman.’

She was obviously making some sort of sexual manoeuvre, though he wasn’t quite sure what. He tried to reconstruct their previous meeting back at Cheltenham. Had he made any sort of pass at her then? Was she trying to pick up some previous affair?

But no, surely not. Round that time he had been breaking off with Frances and it had, surprisingly, been a time of celibacy. No, if her motive was sexual, this was something new.

‘Of course,’ she went on, ‘one wouldn’t have had it any other way. I mean, bringing up a child can be very fulfilling, but occasionally, when one stops and thinks, one does realise the opportunities one has missed — I mean, both in career terms and. . emotionally. I think there comes a point where one is justified in being a little selfish, in thinking of oneself and one’s own priorities for a moment. Don’t you?’