Murder Unprompted

‘Three generations of us have lived in this house. Three generations have passed through this room, slept here, argued here, made love here, even picked up a passenger in Shaftesbury Avenue to take out to Neasden. . ’

There was silence in the theatre. The star, suddenly aware of what he had said, looked pitifully puzzled. Charles wondered if Alex Household had carried out his threat of feeding the wrong lines. If so, he had chosen a singularly inappropriate moment for the experiment.

It was some time before the cause of the error was identified. The transmitter was on the same wave-length as a passing radio-cab.

Somehow the Technical Run ended. Somehow a Dress Rehearsal was achieved on the Monday afternoon. And somehow, not too long after eight o’clock on the Monday evening, the curtain rose for the first time on the London production of The Hooded Owl by Malcolm Harris.

It was just competent. To say more would have been to overstate the case, but as a first preview it got by. The West End had witnessed many worse first previews.

The house was about a third full and they were respectful if not ecstatic in their reaction. Those of the cast who remembered the euphoria of Taunton were disappointed, but they comforted themselves with the fact that they were at least on,something which three days previously had looked most unlikely.

Michael Banks managed his lines fairly well, with only a couple of mishearings and one awfully long thirty seconds where he totally lost the thread. Perversely, George Birkitt seemed to have lost his lines completely and had to take at least half a dozen prompts. Charles Paris was heard to remark cynically that George, having seen that the star had got a deaf-aid, thought he ought to have one too.

Though he got the lines, Michael Banks’s performance was very subdued, only a vestige of what he could achieve. That was just the result of fatigue. The strains of the last fortnight were catching up with him, and he looked every one of his sixty-four years.

No one was too worried about it. After all, these were only previews. Wait till the first night they thought, and watch ‘Doctor Theatre’ do his work.

Two more previews to go, and then, at seven o’clock on the Thursday (early so that the critics could get their copy in), the curtain would go up on the first night proper of The Hooded Owl.

‘Hello, it’s me.’

‘Charles.’

‘Sorry to ring you at school, but I wanted to get hold of you and I’m in the theatre in the evenings.’

‘Yes.’

‘Can you talk, Frances?’

‘Well, I’ve got someone with me, but if you’re quick. .’

‘It’s about the first night.’

‘Oh yes. Of your play. When is it?’

‘Thursday.’

‘Ah.’

‘I wondered if you could come. .’

‘Thursday. Hmm. I am actually meant to be going to a meeting. .’

‘Frances. .’

‘But I suppose I could. . Yes, all right, Charles. After all, I don’t want to miss your opening in this wonderful part you told me about.’

‘Ah.’

‘What?’

‘Hmm. It is a long time since we spoke, isn’t it?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’m afraid you won’t have the pleasure of seeing me on-stage. Instead you will have the no doubt greater pleasure of sitting beside me.’

‘Why? What’s happened?’

‘I’ll explain all on Thursday. See you in the foyer of the Variety Theatre in Macklin Street at quarter to seven.’

‘All right.’

‘Goodbye.’

‘Goodbye.’

He shivered. Was it imagination, or did she really sound colder towards him?

There was a small reception after the Tuesday night preview. This was not Paul Lexington pushing the boat out for the cast, which would have been very out of character; it was for the ticket agencies.

Charles had forgotten how important these now were to the survival of a West End show. As transport costs rose and London’s reputation for violence after dark grew, business was increasingly dependent on coachloads of theatre-goers coming in from the provinces. So the ticket agencies and the people who organised the coaches were very important and managements were wise to make a fuss of them.

Hence the reception, with bottles of wine and the odd crisp provided by Paul Lexington Productions. It was typical of the outfit that before the performance, the Company Manager, Wallas Ward, had come round the dressing rooms with a message from the management. The message had been that the reception was for the ticket agencies, and the cast were requested to ration themselves to one glass of wine each. It was like the old admonition at nursery teas, F.H.B. (Family Hold Back).

Charles thought it was appalling. He wouldn’t have minded the meanness of only allowing one glass each, if it hadn’t been that the reception was so timed as to prevent that vital half-hour in the pub before closing time, which was so much a part of the necessary wind-down from giving of himself in performance. (The fact that, as understudy, he wasn’t giving a performance did not reduce the necessity for the wind-down.)

But the cast were all very professional and knew the importance of the agencies’ backing, so they presented their most charming fronts. Needless to say, the focus of the visitors’ attention was Michael Banks, who, in spite of his fatigue, made himself most affable and approachable. Charles admired the skill with which the old pro conveyed an air of ease and relaxation, of the company having been one happy family, of the great fun he had had rehearsing for the show. At one point he overheard the star laughing and saying, ‘Long time since I’ve done theatre. Even had a little trouble learning the old lines. Still, got that sorted out now.’

As an exercise in the skills of understatement and of giving the wrong impression without actually lying, Charles thought that took some beating.

He himself got landed with a boring little man from Luton, who was a great stalwart of the local amateur dramatic society there and clearly, though he didn’t quite put it into words, thought The Hooded Owl a pale shadow of their recent production of When We Are Married. ‘Also,’ he said expanding his criticism, ‘your show’s too long.’

‘Oh really?’ said Charles mildly. ‘You mean it sags?’

‘No, but it finishes too late. Coach party’d be very late back to Luton, and they don’t like that.’

‘Oh.’

‘What you want to do. .’ The man paused, then magnanimously decided to give the benefit of his expertise, ‘What you want to do is chop ten minutes out of it. Then you may have a show.’

‘Oh,’ said Charles. ‘Thank you very much.’

It was Paul Lexington’s party, and since courting the ticket agencies was very much a management job, Charles was surprised to notice that the Producer wasn’t there. Wallas Ward was filling in, exercising his rather effete charm on the guests, but it wasn’t the same. Charles heard more than one question as to where Paul was. The ticket agents felt they weren’t getting the full treatment.

The Producer did finally arrive about half an hour into the party, and he scurried around meeting everyone, making up for his earlier absence. He did so with his customary boyish bounce, and yet there was something strange in his manner. His face had the dead whiteness of someone in shock. Charles wondered what new disaster had hit the production, or which of the Producer’s dubious deals had just blown up in his face.

He was soon to find out. The guests were eventually ushered out at about eleven forty-five. This took some doing, as they seemed prepared to stay all night. They didn’t seem to share their clients’ reservations about getting