Murder Unprompted

‘Sure you’ll knock ’em dead tonight.’

‘Hope so, hope so.’

There was a tap at the door and Harve grudgingly admitted Lesley-Jane Decker. As at Taunton, she was bearing gifts. The shape of the parcel she put on Michael’s make-up table showed that, for him at least, she had graduated to full-size bottles of champagne.

She put her arms around his neck and said, ‘All you wish for yourself, darling.’

‘Thank you, love. Same to you.’ Michael Banks grinned indulgently. ‘Is the redoubtable Valerie Cass up in your dressing room ready to give you lots of tips?’

Lesley-Jane laughed. ‘She’s out front where she should be. With Daddy.’

‘She’ll be round before the evening’s out.’

Charles felt awkward, excluded from their scene. ‘Well, I’ll. . er. .’ He edged towards the door, which Harve obligingly — indeed, pointedly opened for him.

Outside stood Alex Household.

‘Break a leg, Micky,’ he said with a rather strained intonation. ‘I’ll be out there supporting you.’

‘Bless you.’ The star turned round to his understudy. ‘Couldn’t do it without you, you know.’

‘I know.’ Alex Household gave the words perhaps too much emphasis.

Lesley-Jane could not keep her back to the door indefinitely and turned. Charles noted how pale she looked, almost ill.

‘Bonne chance, Lesley-Jane,’ pronounced Alex formally. ‘See you’re doing your rounds with the first night presents.’

He said it deliberately to make her feel awkward. And succeeded.

‘Yes. . yes. I’m. . er. . afraid I didn’t get round to doing anything for the understudies.’

‘No,’ Alex Household snorted with laughter. ‘No, of course not.’

And, slamming the door, he left the Star Dressing Room.

Charles caught up with him in the Green Room. Alex’s strange position in the production must have been making all of the usual understudy agonies even worse. Charles wanted to say something to help, but all he could think of was ‘Break a leg’.

‘Oh, you think you should wish luck to people who merely feed lines, do you? People whose job could be equally well — and probably better done — by a tape recorder.’

‘We all need luck,’ said Charles gently.

Alex laughed. ‘Yes, we do, don’t we?’

Then he started trembling. His whole body shook uncontrollably. His teeth chattered and he whimpered.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes, I’m. . Yes, I’m. . Yes, I will be.’

And, sure enough, he soon had control of himself again. The shivering subsided.

‘Sure you’re O.K.? There’ll be St. John Ambulance people out front.’

‘No, I’m all right.’ But Alex’s eyes belied his words. They were wide with fear. ‘This is how it started last time.’

‘How what started?’

‘The breakdown.’ And he was seized by another spasm. The worst of it passed, but his teeth still chattered feebly.

‘Are you cold or. .’

‘Cold? No. Or if I am now, I won’t be later. I’ll be roasting. Have you any idea how hot it gets in my little solitary nest on the O.P. side? Don’t worry, I’ll be hot enough. In fact, I’ll take this off while I think.’

He hung his jacket on a hook in the Green Room. As it swung against the wall, there was a thud of something hard in the pocket.

Alex Household gave a twisted smile and announced ironically, ‘Right, here we go. Tonight will be the climax of my career. Twenty-three years in the business has all been the build-up for this, as I take on my most challenging role ever — bloody prompter!’

‘Come on, Alex. It’s not so bad, it’s — ’

‘Isn’t it? What do you know about how bad it is?’

Charles retreated under this assault. ‘I just meant. . Never mind. Back to what I said first — break a leg.’

‘I should think that will be the very least I will break,’ said Alex Household, and walked towards the stage.

Charles knew it would be unprofessional to use the pass-door from backstage to the auditorium once the house had started to fill, so he went out of the Stage Door to walk round.

The first thing he came across outside was Malcolm Harris being sick in the gutter.

‘Are you O.K.?’

‘Yes, I. . will be.’

‘Don’t worry. It’s going fine. And at least Micky’s deaf-aid thing guarantees that he does actually say the lines you wrote.’

‘Yes, I suppose so.’ The schoolmaster looked up at him pitifully. ‘I just don’t think I can sit out there and watch it all. I’m so jumpy, I’ll be sick again or. .’

‘Then don’t sit there. Stand at the back, go backstage, go out for a walk, do whatever makes you feel most relaxed.’

‘But if I don’t sit in my seat, I’ll be leaving my wife and my wife’s mother on their own.’

‘Well, you could do that, couldn’t you?’

‘Yes, I suppose I could.’ But obviously it was an idea that had never occurred to him before, and his mind would take a little while to accommodate it.

‘Frances, I’m sorry I’m late.’

‘When were you ever otherwise?’

‘I wasn’t late for that meal in Hampstead.’ Even as he said it, he wished he hadn’t. There was something about the memory of that evening that made him uneasy. He kissed her clumsily to change the subject.

‘Anyway, what is all this? Why aren’t you going to be on-stage? When we last met, you told me. .’

‘I’ll explain. Have we got time for a drink?’

They would have had, but there was such a crush in the bar, there was no prospect of getting served before the curtain went up. Which was annoying.

While they reconnoitred the bar and found their seats (on the aisle, so that, if his services as an understudy were required, Charles could be quickly extracted), he gave Frances a brief resume of how he had lost his part.

‘Well, I think that’s rotten,’ she said, with genuine annoyance. It cheered Charles, to hear her angry on his behalf. He took her hand and felt the scar on her thumb, legacy of an accident with a kitchen knife in the early days of their marriage. Accumulated emotion made him weak, needing her.

‘Charles!’

‘Well, if it isn’t that naughty Charles Paris. .’

‘With his lovely wife. .’

‘Frances, isn’t it? Oh, it’s been so long. .’

‘An absolute age. .’

This stereo assault on them came from two men in late middle age, bizarrely costumed in matching Victorian evening dress. Instantly Charles recognised William Bartlemas and Kevin O’Rourke, a pair of indefatigable first- nighters.

‘And how are you, Charles?’ demanded Bartlemas.

‘Yes, how are you?’ echoed O’Rourke.

Neither waited for a reply as they galloped on. ‘Are you still up to your naughty detective things we hear so much about?’

‘Yes, are you?’

‘No, not at the moment. I — ’ was all he managed to get out.

‘Another first night. I don’t know. .’