here for.’
Charles thought maybe at last he had got a supporter. But Robert Chubb soon dispelled the idea as he went on. ‘The only comment I would have is that it does seem to me rather a pity that the only member of the cast for whom you managed unstinting praise was one of our newest members and that you were somewhat dismissive of some of our most experienced actors and actresses. Particularly of a lady to whom we all owe many splendid performances, not least her Lady Macbeth last year.’
This spirited defence of Mary Hobbs produced another warm burst of applause. Charles was tempted to ask what relevance a performance in a production of Macbeth he couldn’t possibly have seen should have to a production of The Seagull he had seen, but there didn’t seem any point.
He had misjudged the nature of the meeting entirely. All that had been required of him had been a pat on the back for all concerned, not forgetting the charming young man who tore his ticket and the good ladies who made the coffee for the interval. All he could do now was to insure that that meeting ended as soon as possible and get the hell out of the place. And never come back.
Mentally he cursed Hugo for ever letting him in for it, or at least for not briefing him as to what to expect.
He then realized with a slight shock that Hugo wasn’t there. Nor was Charlotte. Nor Clive Steele. It seemed strange.
As he thought about it, he started again to feel guilty about the way he had left Hugo the night before. He hated to let things like that fester. Stupid misunderstandings should be cleared up as soon as possible. He was too old to lose friends over trivialities. Once he’d stopped the Backstagers baying for his blood, he’d go round and see Hugo and apologize.
But there was still more Critics’ Circling to be weathered. It was hard work. There was no common ground for discussion. The Backstagers were only capable of talking about the Backstagers. When Charles made a comparison with a West End production of The Three Sisters, someone would say, ‘Well, of course, when Walter directed it down here When he praised the comic timing of Michael Hordern, someone would say, ‘Oh, but Philip’s a wonderful actor too. If you’d seen him in The Rivals…’ It was like talking to a roomful of politicians. Every question was greeted, not by an answer, but by an aggrieved assertion of something totally different.
It did end. Eventually. Reggie gave an insipid vote of thanks with some vague remarks about ‘having been given lots of food for thought… interesting, and even surprising, to hear the views of someone from the outside.’
Charles prepared his getaway. He thanked Geoffrey and Vee for the meal and made for the exit, hoping that he was seeing the last of the Breckton Backstagers.
As he reached the door, he overheard a lacquered voice commenting, ‘Don’t know who he thinks he is anyway. I’ve never seen him on the television or anything.’
Charles Paris knew who they were talking about.
Hugo opened the front door. His eyes were dull and registered no surprise at the visit. He was still wearing the clothes he had had on the day before and their scruffy appearance suggested he hadn’t been to bed in the interim. The smell of whisky which blasted from him suggested that he hadn’t stopped drinking either.
‘I came round to apologize for going off like that last night.’
‘Apologize,’ Hugo echoed stupidly. He didn’t seem to know what Charles was talking about.
‘Yes. Can I come in?’
‘Sure. Have a drink.’ Hugo led the way, stumbling, into the sitting room. It was a mess. Empty whisky bottles of various brands bore witness to a long session. He must have been working through the collection. Incongruously, the scene was cosily lit by an open fire, heaped with glowing smokeless fuel.
‘Was cold,’ Hugo mumbled by way of explanation. He swayed towards the fire and removed the still burning gas poker. ‘Shouldn’t have left that in.’ He unscrewed the lead with excessive concentration. ‘Whisky?’
‘Thank you.’
Hugo slopped out half a tumbler of Glenlivet and handed it over. ‘Cheers.’ He slumped into an armchair with his own glass.
Charles took a long sip. It was welcome after the idiocies of the Critics’ Circle. ‘Where’s Charlotte?’
‘Huh. Charlotte.’ Hugo spoke without violence but with great bitterness. ‘Charlotte’s finished.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Charlotte — finished. The great love affair, Charlotte and Hugo — over.’
‘You mean she’s left you?’
‘Not here.’ Hugo was almost incoherent.
‘She wasn’t here when you got back last night?’
‘Not here.’
‘Where do you think she’s gone?’
‘I don’t know. To see lover boy.’
‘Is there a lover boy?’
‘I suppose so. That’s the usual story. Pretty young girl. Middle-aged husband. Don’t you read the Sunday papers?’ Hugo spoke in a low, hopeless mumble.
‘Have you been in to work today?’ Hugo shook his head. ‘Just drinking?’ A small nod.
They sat and drank. Charles tried to think of anything he could say that might be helpful. There was nothing. He could only stay, be there.
After a long, long silence, he started to feel cold. The fire was nearly dead. Charles got up briskly. ‘Where’s the coal, Hugo? I’ll go and get some more.
‘You’ll never find it. Let me. Come on, I’ll show you.’ Hugo led the way unsteadily into the kitchen. He picked up a torch and fumbled it on.
They went out of the back door. There was a shed just opposite. ‘In there,’ said Hugo.
Charles opened the door. Hugo shone the torch.
In its beam they saw Charlotte. She was splayed unceremoniously over the coal. A scarf was knotted unnaturally round her neck. She was very dead.
CHAPTER SIX
Charles rang the police and stayed beside Hugo in the sitting room until they arrived. Hugo was catatonic with shock. Only once did he speak, murmuring softly to himself, ‘What did I do to her? She was young. What did I do to her?’
When the police arrived, Charles steeled himself to go out once again to the coal shed. The beams of their torches were stronger and made the colour of Charlotte’s cheeks even less natural, like a detail from an over- exposed photograph.
The richness of her perfume, which still hung in the air, was sickly and inappropriate. The staring eyes and untidy spread of limbs were not horrifying; the felling they gave Charles was more one of embarrassment, as if a young girl had been sick at a party. And his impression of callowness was reinforced by the Indian print scarf over the bruised neck, like a teenager’s attempt to hide love-bites.
The bruises were chocolate brown. On one of them the skin had been broken — and a bootlace of dried blood traced its way crazily up towards Charlotte’s mouth.
Hugo remained dull and silent and Charles himself was dazed as they were driven to the police station. They were separated when they arrived and parted without a word. Each was taken into a separate interview room to make a statement.
Charles had to wait for about half an hour before his questioning began. A uniformed constable brought him a cup of tea and apologized for the delay. Everyone was very pleasant, but pleasant with that slight restraint that staff have in hospitals, as if something unpleasant is happening nearby but no one is going to mention it.
Eventually two policemen came in. One was in uniform and carried a sheaf of paper. The other was fair- haired. early thirties, dressed in a brown blazer and blue trousers. He spoke with the vestiges of a South London twang. ‘So sorry to have kept you waiting. Detective-Sergeant Harvey. Mr. Paris, isn’t it?’
