It was warm.
Depression flooded through him like fatigue. He didn’t quite know why he’d hoped that Alex could be cleared of the murder, but the confirmation of his friend’s guilt sapped him of all energy.
He left the gun where it was. The police would find it soon enough. Back at the Stage Door, Frances looked at him and, instantly reading his emotional state, took his hand.
‘Shall we go?’
‘I don’t know. I feel I should stay around, try and find out what’s happened and. .’
But the decision was made for him. The police had arrived while he had been on stage, and a uniformed constable was now clearing the growing crowd round the Stage Door.
‘All right, if you could move along, please. There’s nothing to see, and we’ve got a lot to do, so we’d be very grateful if you could just go home. Come on, move along, please.’
He came face to face with Charles and Frances. ‘On your way, please. On your way. Unless you’re connected with the show, could you go home, please.’
‘I’m a member of the cast,’ said Charles.
‘Oh. Were you backstage during the show?’
‘No, actually I was in the auditorium.’
‘Well, in that case, could you go home, please. You’ll hear anything there is to hear in the morning.’
Not only excluded from performing, the understudy was not even to be allowed to take part in the murder investigation.
‘Come along,’ said Frances. ‘Come home with me.’
Back at the house in Muswell Hill, they went upstairs and stood on the landing. ‘I think the spare room, Charles,’ she said.
He nodded. She hadn’t said it unkindly, and, in the state he was in, it seemed appropriate. And, in spite of it, he felt closer to her than he had for months.
The tensions of the week had taken their toll and he slept instantly. He had no dreams. But when he woke at quarter past six, his mind was full of ugly images, of Alex trembling, of the gun, and, most of all, of the expression of bewilderment and betrayal on Michael Banks’s face as he clutched at his chest and sank to the ground.
To frighten off these visions, and because further sleep was out of the question, he went downstairs to make some tea. It was strange being in the kitchen of the house they had shared. He was aware of the parts of it that remained unchanged and equally of the innovations. Nothing could he view without emotion. He saw Frances had bought a dishwasher. Yes, time was precious. She was a busy lady these days.
And she wanted to sell the house. That thought disturbed him almost more than the events of the previous night.
The kettle boiled. He warmed the pot, instinctively found the tea in the caddy Frances’s Auntie Pamela had given them as a wedding present, and brewed up. He arranged two mugs and a milk-bottle on a tray with the pot, and took them upstairs.
The door was ajar, and he pushed it gently open. Frances was still asleep. She lay firmly in the middle of their double bed, as he supposed she must do every night. In repose her face looked relaxed, but the fine network of wrinkles round the eyes showed her age.
He felt great warmth for her. Not desire at that moment, just warmth. He must never lose touch with her.
He put the tray down on the dressing table, and the noise woke her. She started, unaccustomed to anyone else in the house, but when she saw him, she smiled blearily.
‘Charles. Good gracious. A cup of tea in bed. I can’t think when you last did that for me.’
‘When you were pregnant with Juliet, maybe.’
‘Probably.’
He poured the tea. He felt slightly awkward, as though he were in a strange woman’s room. He passed a mug to her and she propped herself up on the pillows to accept it.
‘You feeling better this morning, Charles?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘You looked terrible last night.’
‘Yes, I felt it. Thank you for salvaging me.’
‘Any time.’
They were silent. There was still a restraint between them. Frances moved over positively to switch on the radio. ‘See what’s happening in the world,’ she said breezily.
‘Hmm.’ Radio Four murmured earnestly from the speaker. ‘Are you still thinking of selling the house?’ Charles blurted out.
‘Yes. It’s with the agents.’
‘Oh.’
‘Mind you, they say the market’s pretty slack at the moment. And the trouble is I’m only here in the evenings to show people around. So I think it may take some time.’
‘Yes.’ This information made Charles feel disproportionately cheerful, as though he had suddenly been reprieved from something.
He became aware that the radio was talking about Michael Banks. Someone was giving an appreciation of his career. They must have worked fast to get it together, Charles thought. A busy night for them.
And no doubt a busy night of police questioning for
The appreciation of Michael Banks was made up of interviews with his friends in the business. It was remarkable how many eminent names had allowed themselves to be woken up in the middle of the night to talk about him. And remarkable with what unanimity of love they spoke.
But, as Charles knew, Michael Banks had been a person who inspired love. For the first time since the shooting, Charles felt, not shock, but a sense of the tragic waste of his death.
For Alex he felt nothing but pity. The killing had not been a rational act; when he did it, Alex Household had been mentally ill. Charles felt guilty for not having recognised the seriousness of the actor’s state. Maybe he could have done something to avert the tragedy.
Paul’s familiar voice came on, tired but as confident as ever.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
