Simon Brett - Murder Unprompted

‘Oh, er, yes,’ replied Charles uneasily.

She seemed almost to be offering herself to him, and Charles was not in the habit of turning up such offers. And she remained an attractive woman. But something in the desperation of her manner turned him off.

‘I always thought you were the sort of man who understood a woman’s needs,’ she murmured to him.

Definitely time to change the subject. He looked around the bar. ‘No sign of Paul, is there?’

Valerie Cass looked rather piqued, but replied, ‘No, I expect he’s sorting out the details of the transfer.’

So she still believed in it. Presumably, her daughter did, too. It would be in keeping with her habitual breathless optimism.

He didn’t know whether to disillusion Valerie or not, but the decision was taken away from him by the arrival of Paul Lexington.

The cast drew apart to make room for him, drew apart with respect or loathing, as if uncertain whether they were dealing with royalty or with a leper. It all really depended on what news he bore.

Paul Lexington seemed aware of this as he clapped his hands for silence.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to thank you all for all the hard work you’ve put into making The Hooded Owl such a great success in Taunton.’

The silence was almost tangible. Was that all he had to say? Was that it? Was Taunton the end?

The Producer looked absolutely exhausted, but seemed almost to be playing with them, timing his lines to maximise the suspense.

‘And I would like to say,’ he continued after a long pause, ‘that today I have finally persuaded Bobby Anscombe to come into partnership with me to transfer the production to the West End! The Hooded Owl will open at the Variety Theatre on 30th October!’

The last sentence was lost in the cast’s screams of delight. Everyone leapt about, hugging each other, laughing, crying, howling with relief.

Charles Paris joined in the celebration, but he felt a slight detachment, a reserve within him. Because of the conversation he had overheard, Paul Lexington’s words did not quite ring true. The producer had had Bobby Anscombe’s assent a full week before.

Sure, there must have been details to sort out, but Charles couldn’t lose the feeling that Paul Lexington had deliberately prolonged the cast’s agony for reasons of his own.

What reasons? Hard to say. Maybe just to delay sorting out contracts for the West End, to avoid paying an extra week’s retainer or rehearsal money.

Charles regretted his suspicions, and tried to convince himself that they were unworthy. But he couldn’t. After the fast one Paul Lexington had pulled on Malcolm Harris, it was going to be a long time before he regained the trust of Charles Paris.

‘Hello, Frances, it’s me.’

‘Charles! Where are you? How are you?’

‘I’m in London and I’m fine.’

‘I’m so glad you rang. There are things I need to talk to you about.’

‘That sounds ominous.’

‘Not too ominous. Just business.’

‘Business is by definition ominous. Still, if you want to talk to me, I would like to talk to you. Can I take you out to dinner tonight?’

‘Oh, Charles. . I’m meant to be doing some marking.’

‘I thought when you were headmistress you delegated such menial tasks as marking.’

‘Don’t you believe it.’

‘Oh, come on. A quick dinner with me and then you can do the marking when you get back.’

‘I know quick dinners with you, Charles. You’ll get me back late and too drunk to read the stuff, let alone mark it.’

‘Oh, Frances. . I am your husband. Don’t I have any rights to your time?’

Shouldn’t have said that. Not a very good argument, as Frances was quick to point out. Rather frostily.

‘I think you’ve allowed any claims you might have on my time to lapse for too long, Charles.’

‘O.K., forget I said that. Just come out to dinner with me for the pleasure of coming out to dinner with me.’

There was a silence from the other end of the line. Then she gave in. ‘All right. It’d be good to see you. But, by the way, what is all this inviting ladies out to dinner? Not your usual style. Have you won the pools or something?’

‘Better than that, dear. I’m just about to star in a West End show.’

‘Are you? Well, in that case, I’ll expect a big bunch of red roses too.’

He arrived at the Hampstead bistro first (almost unprecedented), with a big bunch of red roses (totally unprecedented), and asked the waiter for a vase to put them in. He then hid behind the foliage, and waited.

The expression on Frances’s face when she saw the flowers showed what a good idea they had been. He was always slightly amazed at how effective such corny old gestures were, and surprised that he didn’t resort to them more often.

‘Charles, how sweet of you.’

‘And how spontaneous,’ he said wryly as he kissed her.

She sat down and saw the glass of white wine he had ordered for her. ‘You even remembered what I drink. You’re in danger of becoming a smoothie, Charles Paris.’

‘Really?’ He was drawn to the idea.

‘No, not really. There’s no danger so long as you keep that sports jacket. Cheers.’

They clinked glasses and drank.

‘So what’s this West End thing?’

‘Well, you know the play I’ve just been doing down at Taunton. .?’

‘No.’

‘But I thought I — ’

‘Charles, it’s three months since you’ve been in touch.’

‘Oh, is it?’ Putting that behind him, he pressed on. ‘Well, I’ve just been doing a play at the Prince’s Theatre, Taunton, thing called The Hooded Owl , and, quite simply, it’s coming in!’

‘That’s terrific. Have you got a good part?’

He smiled complacently. ‘Not bad.’

‘So when do you open?’

‘Thursday, 30th October. We have this week free — well, there’s a meeting on Friday to sort out rehearsal schedules and what-have-you — then start rehearsals on Monday, two weeks of polishing it up, three previews from the 27th — and then the grand opening, which will of course make my fortune, so that, in the evening of my life, I become a grand old man of the British Thea-taaah.’

The irony of his tone was very familiar to her. ‘Don’t you be so cynical, Charles Paris. Why shouldn’t it work?’

‘I have been here a few times before.’

‘And this may be the time that it really takes off.’

‘Maybe.’ And he couldn’t help grinning as she voiced his secret dream.

He told her more about the play and then asked about his daughter, Juliet.

‘Oh, she’s fine. And Miles. And the twins.’

Of course. Juliet didn’t really exist on her own any more. It was Juliet and husband Miles, who was in insurance and, to Charles’s mind, without doubt the most boring man in the world. Not only Miles, but also the twins, their lives already blighted, in their grandfather’s view, by having been christened Julian and Damian.

‘How old are they now?’

‘They were four in April. I sent them presents from both of us.’

‘Ah,’ said Charles awkwardly. ‘Thank you.’

‘I wouldn’t be surprised if Juliet didn’t start another one soon.’

‘Another what?’

‘Baby.’

‘Oh.’

So Miles reckoned the international financial scene could cope with another child. Hmm, maybe the recession was bottoming out.

‘They’d love to see you.’

‘Sure, I’d love to see them,’ he replied automatically. ‘Incidentally — apropos of Miles — you said there was something boring you wanted to talk to me about.’

Frances grinned guiltily. ‘You must stop saying things like that about Miles.’