and the loose ends were wound firmly round a large wooden cleat on the wall. No danger there. Charles tried not to feel a fool and went off to the pub.
That morning’s run-through had all the animation of a bus queue. Nothing went wrong, but, God, it was dull. Everyone seemed to feel this and there was a great sag as they came to the end of the final reprise. ‘Excellent,’ said David Meldrum’s voice from somewhere near the Camping Gaz glow. ‘Two hours, fifty-seven minutes,’ as if the stopwatch were the only criterion of theatrical excellence. ‘Right, well done, everybody. Now we must clear the theatre as soon as possible. I’ve got one or two notes on that run, but I’ll give them to you before the Tech. run on Sunday. Okay. See you all in Leeds. That run was really super, loves.’
The cast, who didn’t agree and didn’t think saying ‘loves’ suited him, dispersed grumbling. There was a communal feeling of apathetic gloom. The Sex of One… stage crew came onstage to start rebuilding their set for a few coachloads of sweet-paper-rustling pensioners. Dickie Peck arrived and started to talk in an undertone to Christopher Milton. The star’s driver, who had also appeared from somewhere, stood at a respectful distance. The cast hurried off to tie up the loose ends of their shopping, or sex lives, which had to be done before they left London. Charles made for the exit.
It was at that moment that all the working lights went out again. This was greeted by the usual curses and cheap jokes. Then suddenly there was another sound, an ominous heavy scrape of wood. It merged into a thud and a scream of pain. Voices, suddenly serious, shouted, ‘Lights!’
The working lights revealed a silent tableau. The pile of flats had toppled forward from the wall and lay almost flat on the ground. Protruding from under them was the torso of Mark Spelthorne. Christopher Milton, his driver and Dickie Peck were frozen where the flats had just missed them. Other members of the cast and stage crew stood aghast.
Suddenly everyone rushed forward and started heaving at the wood and canvas to lift it off Mark’s body.
‘It’s all right,’ came the familiar drawl. ‘Don’t fret.’
The helpers stood back as Mark extricated himself. He stood up and rubbed his shoulder.
‘Are you all right?’
‘I think I’ll have a bit of a bruise tomorrow, but otherwise, fine.’
‘God, you were lucky,’ said Spike, who was looking at where the top edges of the flats had come to rest. ‘Look.’
The wall had been Mark’s salvation. Because the flats had been a little longer than the floor on which they fell, they had been stopped short when they met the wall, which had taken their weight. Scraping and chipping on the brick showed the force with which they had fallen.
‘No one else under there, is there?’
Spike crouched and looked into the triangle of darkness under the flats. After what seemed a long time he straightened up. ‘No. Look, could some of you lads help me to get these back?’
‘Certainly. Let me give a hand.’ Mark Spelthorne, having inadvertently been cast in the role of hero, continued to play it.
‘That could have been a very nasty accident,’ said Christopher Milton.
‘All in a day’s work for Flying Officer Falconer of The Fighter Pilots,’ said Mark Spelthorne smugly.
‘Whoever tied up those flats should get his cards,’ Spike grunted with professional disgust.
‘Don’t know who did it,’ mumbled one of the Sex of One… crew.
‘Ah well. It happened, not much we can do about it now,’ said one of the dancers brightly. ‘Don’t want to cry over spilt milk, do we? Just mop it up and squeeze the rag back into the bottle, eh?’
This seemed to break the atmosphere. They all helped to push the flats against the wall again and went off laughing and chatting.
Except for Charles Paris. He had seen how firmly the restraining ropes had been fixed to the cleat. He knew what had happened had not been an accident.
PART II
CHAPTER SIX
On the train up to Leeds that Sunday afternoon Charles cursed his lack of detective instinct. He had been present at what was probably a crime and just when his mind should be flashing up an instant recall of every detail of the scene it was providing only vague memories and woolly impressions. Perhaps it was Oliver Goldsmith’s fault. By delaying Sir Charles Marlow’s entry until the fifth act, he had ensured that Charles Paris had had at least two pints too many at the Saturday lunch time, so that the ideal computer printout of facts and details was replaced by a child’s picture in Fuzzy Felt.
He couldn’t even remember exactly who had been there. Christopher Milton, certainly, and Dickie Peck and the driver. And David Meldrum and Gwyneth were somewhere around, though he couldn’t remember whether they were on stage or in the auditorium at the time of the accident. Mark Spelthorne had been there, of course, and Spike and some of the King’s Theatre stage staff… And then who else? Two or three male dancers — Charles didn’t know their names, but he’d recognise them again — and the two girl dancers. Then one or two of the supporting actors and actresses. Charles screwed up his eyes and tried to see the scene again. Lizzie Dark certainly, she’d been there, and Michael Peyton, and some others. The edges of the picture were cloudy.
‘Damn!’ he snapped, and opened his eyes to find that the word had attracted the gaze of a large Bradford- bound Pakistani family. Embarrassed, he closed his eyes and tried to concentrate again. A little chill of anxiety about seeing Ruth kept getting in the way.
Well, the identity parade of suspects wasn’t very impressive, because it was incomplete. But, assuming a crime had been committed, it must have a motive and that might give a clue to the criminal.
The first question — was Mark Spelthorne the intended victim or was it just chance that caught him? Christopher Milton was not far behind and it was possible that the criminal was after him, but misjudged his timing in the dark. Or it could have been meant for any one of the people on stage. Or just a random blow for whoever happened to he there. The last would tie in with Gerald’s original view that someone was trying to wreck the show and didn’t mind how. If it was a personal vendetta against Christopher Milton, then why had the perpetrator bothered to make his first attacks on the pianist and Everard Austick? Why not go straight to his quarry? And why not use a more selective method than a tumbling pile of flats? If, on the other hand, Mark Spelthorne was the intended victim…
Oh dear. He knew it wasn’t getting him anywhere. Any of the people on stage at the time of the accident could have unwound the rope from the cleat. Equally, any of them could have been the intended victim. And since he couldn’t remember exactly who had been there, the possibilities were infinite. Add the difficulty of tying the motivation for that crime in with the other two and the problem was insoluble, or at least insoluble to a forty-eight- year-old actor who had spent too long in the bar at King’s Cross and who was having serious misgivings about going to stay with a woman with whom he had had a brief and not wholly glorious affair seven years previously.
He looked out of the window at the matt flatness of the Midlands. He closed his eyes, but sleep and even relaxation kept their distance. A new question formed in his mind — Did the 15.10 train from King’s Cross to Leeds have a bar? He set out to investigate.
Ruth was disagreeable. As soon as he saw her again he remembered. Not disagreeable in the sense of being unattractive; her trim body with its sharp little breasts and well-defined calf muscles remained as good as ever; she was disagreeable in the sense that she disagreed with everything one said. Charles never had known whether it was a genuine defence from a reasoned feminist standpoint or sheer bloody-mindedness. But it came back to him as soon as she spoke. Her voice was marinated in cynicism. Charles felt a great swoop of despair, as if all his worst opinions of himself were suddenly ratified, as if the thoughts that infected him in his lowest moods had suddenly been classified as gospel. He saw himself as an Everard Austick, an alcoholic whose failure in his chosen profession
