CHAPTER NINETEEN
This time Clive Steele was at the Back Room bar when Charles went in. The young man greeted him patronizingly and graciously accepted the offer of a drink. ‘Don’t know why I bothered to turn up this evening. I get here to find the rehearsal’s off.’
‘Oh.’
‘Yes, we were meant to be doing all the Florizel/Perdita scenes tonight. But Vee Winter’s cried off. Apparently not well.’
Or too upset over her husband’s arrest to face anyone, Charles reflected. ‘You’re playing Florizel?’
‘Yes. Terribly drippy part. But I suppose I really am too young for Leontes,’ he conceded as if youth were the only possible bar to his being given the lead. ‘Still, it’s parts like Florizel that need real acting. It takes a bit of talent to make something of that kind of weed, so I suppose it’s quite a challenge.’
Charles saw a chance to move the conversation his way.
‘So, but for recent events, it would have been another Clive Steele/Charlotte Mecken partnership. Florizel and Perdita.’
‘Yes.’ Clive looked shaken, childishly near to tears. ‘Oh my God, it was terrible. For her to die — Charlotte who had so much to give — for her just to be strangled by that drunken brute.’
‘Hugo?’
‘Of course Hugo. You know why it was…?’ Clive leaned across to Charles confidingly. ‘Hugo was jealous.’
‘Oh yes. Of whom?’
‘Of me.’
‘You?’
‘Yes. It’s no secret that Charlotte and I got pretty close over The Seagull. There was a very strong mutual attraction. I think Hugo must have realized and killed her in a fit of jealousy.’
Charles was almost amused by the young man’s arrogant assurance. Are you saying you were having an affair with Charlotte?’
‘Ssh,’ Clive hissed loudly and waved his hand in a rubbing-out movement. ‘Don’t say a word about it here.’ His dramatic behaviour must have drawn the attention of everyone in the bar. Fortunately, for a moment there was no one there.
‘Well, were you?’
‘Not exactly. I mean, nothing had actually happened. You know, she had a few scruples and I didn’t want to rush things, but it was inevitable the way it would go. Only a matter of time.’
This seemed very much at odds with the state of the relationship which Charles had gathered from the conversation he overheard in the car park. He had surmised from that that Clive had misinterpreted Charlotte’s natural niceness as a come-on and that she was disillusioning him in no uncertain terms. But Clive seemed to have forgotten that encounter and retained his belief in his irresistible magnetism for her. Maybe, now she was dead, he found that a reassuring fiction to cling to. It flattered his ego and gave him an opportunity to feel tragic.
He was certainly putting on a performance of feeling tragic. ‘And now she’s dead — it’s awful. She was so young, so ripe for loving. I think love is for the young and beautiful.’ This was clearly a category in which he would include himself. ‘I mean, it was disgusting, the idea of Charlotte being groped by an old man. Someone like Hugo.’
Charles didn’t rise to the implied insult. He was a great believer in letting people ramble on when they were in spate. It was a much easier method than interrogation and often quite as informative.
‘Or Denis Hobbs,’ Clive continued.
‘Denis? Did he grope Charlotte?’
‘Well, he was always putting his arm round her, you know, casually, like it didn’t mean anything, but I got the feeling he was enjoying handling the goods.’
‘There was one night I remember — Wednesday before last it was, first night of The Seagull — we all went round to the Hobbses’ place. I think Denis must have been a bit pissed, but he certainly seemed to be after Charlotte.’
‘Oh.’
‘We’d all decided we wanted to play silly games and Denis kept saying we ought to play Postman’s Knock (which I should think is about his level), because that meant kissing people — and he made a sort of grab at Charlotte to demonstrate.’
‘But you didn’t play Postman’s Knock?’ Charles fed gently.
‘No, we played a much better game that Geoff Winter knew. Dressing up sort of thing. But Denis didn’t give up. I went upstairs with Geoff to sort out some dressing-up clothes and then I came down while he was changing — actually he got himself up as Margaret Thatcher, he was bloody marvellous — anyway, when I got down, there was Denis with his arm round Charlotte. He was pretending it was all casual again and she was sort of joking, but 1 don’t think she really liked it. And I’m damned sure Mary Hobbs didn’t like it. She came out into the hall at that moment and you should have seen the look she gave Denis.’
‘When did you last see Charlotte?’
‘After the cast party.’
‘That was the last time? You didn’t talk to her again or anything?’
‘Well, actually I did. I rang her on the Monday afternoon.’
‘The day she died.’
‘Yes.’ Clive seemed poised to launch into another self-dramatizing lament, but fortunately didn’t. ‘I was trying to fix to meet her that evening. The fact is, we hadn’t parted on the best of terms after the cast party…’
Ah, now the truth, thought Charles.
‘Silly thing, really,’ Clive continued. ‘She was talking about leaving Hugo for me and I was saying no, it was too soon, we should let things ride for a bit… you know, the sort of disagreement you get between two people in love.’
Charles couldn’t believe it. Clive’s self-esteem was so great that he actually seemed to have convinced himself that he was talking the truth. Charles was glad that he had heard the real encounter between the two; otherwise he might have found himself taking Clive seriously.
The young man rambled on mournfully. ‘So I wanted to meet for a drink, you know, to chat, sort it all out. But she said she couldn’t, so I got a bit pissed off and went to the flicks with an old girlfriend.’
‘Did Charlotte say why she couldn’t meet you?’
‘She said someone was coming round.’
‘She didn’t say who?’
‘Some friend from drama school.’
Charles took a taxi from Waterloo to Spectrum Studios in Wardour Street. He told the uninterested commissionaire that he wanted to see Diccon Hudson and was directed to the dubbing theatre.
The red light outside was off to indicate that they weren’t recording at that moment, so he went on through the double door. It was a large room, walls covered with newish upholstered sound-proofing. At one end was a screen above a television which displayed a film footage count. On a dais at the other end was the dubbing mixer’s control panel. On a low chair in front of this Ian Compton lolled.
He looked quizzically as Charles entered. Some explanation of his presence was called for.
Charles hadn’t really thought of one and busked. ‘I was in the area and I thought I’d just drop in to find out about tomorrow’s session. Save the phone call.’
Ian Compton looked sceptical and Charles realized it did sound pretty daft. But no comment was made. ‘No, in fact tomorrow’s off, Charles. Farrow’s not happy with the radio copy and I’m afraid it’s all got to be rewritten. Take a few days. I should think we’d be in touch by the end of the week.’
‘Fine.’
‘And don’t worry, you were booked for the session, so you’ll get paid.’
‘Oh thanks.’ Charles’s instinct was to say, ‘Don’t bother about that,’ but he bit it back. He must develop more
