Murder Unprompted

home late. It was only when the bottles of wine had been firmly put away and the last glass drained that they got the message. (Charles also got the message that he wasn’t going to get the quick slurp of wine at the end of the evening that he had been promising himself.)

Etiquette had demanded that none of the cast should leave until the last of their guests had gone, but, as soon as the final raincoat disappeared round the door of the theatre bar, the entire company leapt for their belongings to make a quick getaway.

‘Shall we go, Micky?’ Charles heard Lesley-Jane Decker say to the star.

Which was in itself interesting.

But they were all stopped by Paul Lexington clapping his hands. ‘Listen, everyone. I have some news. I’m afraid once again it’s good news and bad news. The good news is that we’ve got the ticket agencies on our side. They like the show and they’re going to recommend it to their clients — on one condition.

‘That condition is that we cut ten minutes out of the running time.’ This was greeted by a ripple of protest. Malcolm Harris, who would have been the most vigorous protester, was not present, but Peter Hickton, acting on the author’s behalf, remonstrated. ‘Look, we can’t do that. The play’s really tight now. We’ll ruin it.’

‘Sorry,’ said Paul. ‘Got to be done. Anything’ll cut down if it has to. Peter, see me in the production office at ten and we’ll go through the script. Then we’ll have a full cast call at two to give you the cuts. O.K., Wallas?’

The Company Manager nodded.

‘We should let Malcolm know,’ protested Peter Hickton. ‘It is his play.’

‘There isn’t time. Anyway, it’s not his play now. I’ve got the rights. I’m sorry it’s necessary, but it is. We won’t get the coach parties if the show ends as late as it does now.’

If anyone needed evidence of the power of the ticket agencies, there it was. Grumbling slightly, but accepting the inevitable, the cast once again made to leave, but Paul Lexington again stopped them.

‘Then there’s the bad news.’

They froze. They had all thought the cuts were the bad news.

‘I’ve just come from a meeting with Bobby Anscombe. I am afraid we could not agree over certain. . artistic matters. As a result, he has decided to withdraw his backing from the production.’

This hit them like a communal heart-attack. As the shock receded, Charles found himself wondering what the disagreement had really been about. He felt certain that Paul Lexington had been trying to pull a fast one on his Co-producer. Maybe the missing contract had finally appeared and Bobby Anscombe hadn’t liked its provisions. It must have been something like that; Charles was beginning to understand the way Paul Lexington worked. But if he had tried to dupe the wily Bobby Anscombe as easily as the innocent Malcolm Harris, it was no wonder that he had come unstuck.

But, like the eternal Wobbly Man, the young Producer bounced back. ‘Now this is a pity, but it’s not a disaster. I would rather lose Bobby’s backing than compromise my artistic integrity over this production.’

The fact that no one laughed out loud at this remark suggested to Charles that they didn’t all share his view of the man. For most of them, his plausible exterior was still convincing.

‘There are other investors, and don’t worry, I’ve still got plenty of backing for this show. I’m not going to go bankrupt. Don’t worry about a thing. The Hooded Owl will go on, and, what’s more, it’ll be a huge success!’

But, in spite of the stirring words, in spite of the cast’s cheers, Charles could see panic in Paul Lexington’s eyes.

And when he thought about it, it didn’t surprise him He didn’t know the details of the funding of the show, but he could piece a certain amount together. Paul Lexington Productions had been able to mount The Hooded Owl at Taunton, but had been unable to bring it into town without Bobby Anscombe’s support.

And that support had been bought at the cost of considerably increasing the budget. With the Taunton cast, it remained a comparatively cheap show. But with Michael Banks’s — and indeed George Birkitt’s — names above the title, it was a much more expensive proposition.

And now the support, whose condition the cast changes had been, had been withdrawn.

Michael Banks was suddenly a very expensive albatross around Paul Lexington’s neck.

CHAPTER NINE

The Understudy’s is a strange role, and never is he made more aware of its strangeness than on a first night. He is caught up in the communal excitement, without the prospect of release that performance gives. He cannot quite detach himself or even avoid nerves; he has to be eternally in readiness; only when the final curtain has fallen can he be sure he will not have to go on. During the ‘half’ before the curtain rises, he has his twitchiest moments. He has to watch the actor he would replace for signs of strain or imminent collapse and wonder nervously whether he could actually remember the lines if he had to go on. Sometimes the worst happens, and the actor does not appear for the ‘half’. Then the understudy goes through agonies of indecision before the Company Manager gives him the order to get into costume and make-up. And how often, as the understudy trembles in the wings awaiting the rise of the curtain, does the real actor appear, full of apologies about a power failure on the Underground or the traffic on the Westway.

It is almost impossible for the understudy to achieve mental equilibrium. His thoughts sway constantly between the desire to go on and the desire to settle down for a relaxed evening with a book in the secure knowledge that he won’t have to go on. (This at least is true of aspiring understudies, those who really wish they had parts. There is a breed of professional understudy, often, if female, actresses who have semi-retired to bring up families, for whom the job is all that they require. It gives them the contact with the theatre that they crave, without the total commitment which acting every night demands.)

Charles Paris was not a professional understudy. He still had dreams. And, though those dreams had taken something of a battering since the heady days of Taunton, they were resilient and survived in amended form. The image of suddenly being called in to take over from George Birkitt and astounding the critics with his unsung brilliance was one that would not go away, however hard he tried to suppress it.

He knew that that was one of the reasons why he went to see George Birkitt first on his back-stage round at the ‘half’. The vulture instinct would make him acutely observant for any signs of imminent cerebral haemorrhage in the actor.

George Birkitt, however, looked remarkably fit. He was gazing into his make-up mirror, playing the same game that he always did on the monitor screens in television studios — in other words, deciding which was his best profile.

‘Hello, George. Just dropped in to say all the best.’

‘Oh, thanks, Charles.’ He seemed completely to have forgotten that Charles had ever played the part. ‘I think the director and some of the cast of Fly-Buttons should be out front tonight.’

He couldn’t resist mentioning the television series, just in case anyone should forget he was in it.

‘Oh great. I’ll be out there.’

‘Good. Then you could do me a favour. You know in the dinner party scene, when I’m down-stage doing my incest speech. .’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, could you tell me what Micky’s up to during that? I’m sure he makes some sort of reaction I can’t see. Could you watch out for it? I mean, I know he’s the star and all that, but I’m damned if I’m going to be upstaged, even by him. .’

The Star Dressing Room was Charles’s next port of call. Its door was guarded by Cerberus in the form of Micky Banks’s dresser, Harve, a redoubtable old queen who had been with his master for years. Recognising the visitor, he said, ‘O.K., just a quick word. Don’t want him tired.’

‘Fine.’

In spite of his dresser’s cares, Michael Banks did look absolutely shattered through his heavy make-up.

‘All the best, Micky.’

‘Thanks, Charles old boy.’ The star smiled graciously.