‘But,’ said Charles, ‘It’s going to curtail her theatrical career a bit, isn’t it?’
‘Oh no.’ Valerie Cass looked at him radiantly. ‘I’ve got it all worked out. I will be able to look after the baby. Lesley-Jane’s career will be hardly interrupted. No, no, my little girl’s talent will still take her right to the top.’
The prospect realised Valerie Cass’s most exotic dreams. Her daughter would be perpetually in her debt, perpetually chained to her, and she would have the new stimulus of another baby to bring up. Best of all, there would be no father around to challenge her supremacy over either her child or her grandchild.
‘Hmm,’ grunted Paul Lexington. ‘I still think she should see a doctor.’
‘I’ll get our family doctor to take a look at her in the morning. There — will that satisfy you?’
‘I suppose it’ll have to. Let me know what the prospects are.’
‘I will.’
Paul Lexington moved towards the door.
Charles stood aside, and let him go.
‘Well, now, Charles. As you see, everything is fine. I’m now going to take my little baby home. So there’s nothing to keep you here.’
‘Oh, but there is,’ said Charles. ‘I want to talk about Alex Household.’
‘I can’t think what relevance he has to anything.’
‘Can’t you? He’s the child’s father.’
‘As I say, I can’t think what relevance he has to anything.’ In those words Valerie Cass expressed everything she felt about the relationship between the sexes.
‘You think the father is irrelevant?’
‘Yes. It’s the woman who carries the child, the woman who does the work, the man does nothing.’
Charles restrained his anger, and started on a new tack. ‘It was on the first night that Lesley-Jane told you she was pregnant.’
Valerie Cass was silent, surprised by the change of direction. ‘She told you Alex was the father, and suddenly you saw the awful vision of history repeating itself. You saw Lesley-Jane’s career being cut short by pregnancy, just as yours had been. And all your hatred of men, all the anger you have used to make your own husband’s life a misery, it all became focused on Alex Household. Not only did he threaten your daughter’s career, he also threatened to take her away from you.’
Valerie Cass now looked as pale as her daughter. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘I’m talking about the death of Michael Banks. I’m talking about the taking of human life. I’m talking about murder.’
There was a wail from the bed and, for the first time since Charles had entered the room, Lesley-Jane spoke. ‘I have taken human life,’ she cried. ‘I am the murderer!’
They both looked at her in amazement. Tears were running freely down the girl’s face. She clutched at herself to claw away a sudden pain.
Charles understood. He hadn’t known until that moment, but now he understood. ‘But the life you have taken,’ he said gently, ‘was not that of Michael Banks. Was it?’
The girl shook her head tearfully.
‘No, the life you have taken is the life of your baby. You had an abortion today, didn’t you?’
She nodded.
‘Which is why you passed out. Why you are in this state now.’
‘No!’ screamed Valerie Cass. ‘No, you didn’t!’ Lesley-Jane looked at her mother. The tears were receding and there was a hardness in her eyes.
But Valerie refused to believe their message. ‘It’s a woman’s sacred duty to bear children. That’s what we were put here for.’
‘Listen, Mummy.’ Lesley-Jane had control of herself again and spoke evenly. ‘The child effectively had no father.’
‘But it would have had you. And me.’
‘I didn’t want it. I got pregnant because you spent all my life filling my head with romantic ideas rather than giving me any practical advice. If I had had the baby, I would never have been able to pick up my career again.’
‘But as I said, I would have looked after it.’
‘What?’ hissed Lesley-Jane. ‘And turned it into another confused, neurotic mess like me?’
‘But, darling, suppose I had done the same when I was expecting you? Suppose I had had an abortion?’
Lesley-Jane looked at her mother without any trace of affection. ‘It would have been the best thing you could ever have done for me. Someone like you is not qualified to bring up children.’
Valerie Cass sank back into a chair as if she had been slapped. There was no resistance left in her, just a void of pain.
Charles said what he had to say, softly but firmly.
‘What you did after you heard about your daughter’s pregnancy was hardly rational. You went down towards the stage, vowing revenge on her. . her what?. . seducer? You looked for him in the Green Room, but found only his jacket. In its pocket you found the gun.
‘You went into the wings on the O.P. side of the stage to shoot Alex Household. He saw you coming and begged for mercy, not realising that his words were being transmitted and repeated by Michael Banks on stage. At the moment you fired the gun, Alex dodged, and Michael was killed.
‘Alex rushed off. You left the stage, abandoning the gun as you went. Then I should think you came up here, and that was probably the first time you realised what had happened. Also the first time you realised how unlikely your crime was ever to be discovered. No one had seen you, you were wearing gloves so there were no fingerprints on the gun, and Alex Household’s flight looked like an admission of guilt.
‘If he had never been found, you’d have got away with it. But I spoke to Alex today, and he confirmed what I’ve just described to you.’
‘He’s alive?’ asked Lesley-Jane softly.
‘Yes, he’s alive.’
There was a long silence. Then Valerie Cass looked at Charles. There was a new glow of resolution in her eyes, and he feared she was about to deny everything. If she did, he didn’t know what he would do; he had not a shred of evidence.
But no.
‘Very well,’ she announced. ‘I admit it. I killed Michael Banks.’ She spoke boldly, like Charlotte Corday, like Joan of Arc. Charles understood what had caused her new surge of spirit.
Valerie Cass had found a new role to play. It was the one she had been rehearsing for all her life — that of martyr.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
During the ensuing week,
The performances gained in strength. On the Thursday, Lesley-Jane Decker came back into the cast. After the abortion and her mother’s arrest, she seemed to have matured. She approached her work with a new single- mindedness, and acted better than ever.
Charles Paris got better, too. On the Tuesday night, as an experiment, without telling anyone (least of all Wallas Ward), he had a word with the A.S.M. before the show, and asked him not to feed the lines until absolutely necessary. To Charles’s amazement, he managed to get through the whole show without a single prompt. The constant repetition had fixed the lines indelibly in his mind.
The loss of this crutch did not, as he had feared, diminish his confidence. Instead, it made him feel more relaxed, stronger, more in control. And he knew this improvement was reflected in his acting.
