Everard Austick’s address was a block of flats in Eton College Road, near Chalk Farm Underground Station. Charles found it in the phone book and went along on the off-chance that its owner would be out of hospital. He could have rung to check, but felt disinclined to explain his enquiries on the telephone. Also there was a chance that the dry agony of his hangover might have receded by the time he got there.
In fact the tube journey didn’t help much and, as he stood in the old lift gazing ahead at its lattice-work metal door, he felt in need of a red-hot poker to burn out the rotten bits of his brain. The only coherent thought he could piece together was the eternal, ‘Must drink less’.
The block of flats was old, with long gloomy corridors interrupted by the stranded doormats of unwelcoming doorways. Number 108 was indistinguishable from the others, the same blue gloss paint, the same glass peep-hole to warn the inmate of approaching burglars, rapists, etc.
Charles’ pressure on the door-bell produced no reaction. Perhaps it wasn’t working. He pressed again, his ear to the door, and caught the distant rustle of its ring. Oh well, maybe Everard was still in hospital, or away convalescing. One more try.
This time there was a distant sound of a door opening, a muttered curse and the heavy approach of a plaster-cased foot. The door opened and Everard Austick peered blearily out into the shadows of the corridor. He looked a mess. His grey hair stuck out in a series of Brylcreemed sheaves as he had slept on it. He had only shaved sketchily for a few days and the areas he had missed sprouted long bristles. A dilapidated camel dressing-gown was bunched around his large frame. His right leg was grotesquely inflated by its plaster. He was probably only in his fifties, but he looked an old man.
‘Can I help you?’ he asked in a public school voice furred with alcohol.
‘Yes. I’m sorry to trouble you. My name’s Charles Paris.’
Fuddled incomprehension.
‘We worked together once for a season in Glasgow.’
‘Ah. Ah yes, of course.’ But he didn’t remember.
‘Look, I’ve taken over the part you were playing in Lumpkin!’
‘Oh. Do you want to come in?’
‘Thank you.’ Everard Austick backed away and Charles moved past him into the dim hall. A door gave off on to a large sitting-room and he made towards it. ‘Er, not in there if you don’t mind.’
Charles had seen the smart decor of the room and looked back quizzically at Everard. ‘Fact is, old boy, I don’t use all the flat. No point in using it all when I’m away so much… I… er, there’s a young couple who also live here. Just on a temporary basis. Helps out with the old rent, what?’ The jovial tone could not hide the facts. Everard Austick was so hard up that he had to rent out almost all his flat to keep his head above water.
This impression was confirmed when Charles was led into Everard’s bedroom, obviously the smallest in the flat. The air tasted as if it hadn’t been changed for a fortnight. A pile of dusty magazines against them showed that the windows hadn’t been opened for months, and the bed was rumpled not just by one night’s occupation, but by long days and nights of simply lying and staring at the ceiling rose.
A half-empty bottle of vodka on the dressing-table was evidence of the only activity the room had seen for some time. ‘Sorry it’s a bit of a tip,’ said Everard, attempting to play the line with light comedy insouciance. ‘Can I offer you a drink? There’s only the vodka, I’m afraid. Well, I suppose I could make some coffee, but…’ His mind was unable to cope with the incongruity of the idea.
‘A little vodka would be fine.’ A hair of the dog might possibly loosen the nutcrackers on Charles’ head.
He received a clouded tooth mug half-full of vodka. Everard Austick’s hand shook as he passed it over and topped up his own tumbler. ‘Down the hatch, old boy.’ The long swallow he took was not an action of relish, but of dependence. He grimaced, shuddered and looked at Charles. ‘Now, what can I do for you, old man? Want a bit of help in your interpretation of the part, eh?’ Again the cheerfulness sounded forced.
‘No, actually I just wanted to pick your brains about something.’ Charles paused. It was difficult. He did not want to reveal his role as an investigator into the show. He realised that he had not done enough preparation for the encounter; he should have worked out some specious story to explain his interest, or even made the approach in some other identity. Still, too late now. Better to try the direct question and hope that Everard’s bemused condition would prevent him from being suspicious. ‘You know when you broke your leg — what happened?’
‘I fell down the stairs.’
‘Just an accident?’
‘Oh, God knows. I’d had quite a skinful the night before, met a few chums, celebrating actually being in work, it had been a long time. And I had a few more in the morning, you know, to pull me round, and I managed to leave late, so I was hurrying, so I suppose I could have just fallen.’
‘Or?’
‘Well, there was this chap on the stairs, ran down from behind me, I thought he sort of jostled me. I don’t know though.’
‘And that’s what caused you to fall?’
‘Could have been. I don’t know.’
‘Did he stop to help you when you fell?’
‘No, he seemed to be in a hurry.’
‘Hmm. Did you see what he looked like?’
‘No.’
‘Not even an impression?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Did you tell the police?’
‘No. Who’s going to believe me? I’m not even sure it happened myself. Could just have fallen.’
‘Yes.’ The interrogation did not seem to be getting anywhere. Everard Austick was so fogged with alcohol that he didn’t even trust his own memory. No one was going to get anything else out of him. Charles drained his glass and rose to leave.
‘You’re off?’ Everard seemed to accept the departure with as little surprise as he had the arrival. Nothing seemed strange in his half-real world. ‘Actually, there is one thing, old boy.’
‘Yes?’
‘This damned leg, I find it so difficult to get about, you know, get to the bank and so on, a bit short of cash, for the… er… you know, basic necessities of life.’
The expansive gesture which accompanied the last four words was meant to signify a whole range of food and domestic essentials, but it ended up pointing at the nearly-empty vodka bottle.
Out of guilt or something, Charles gave him a fiver. Then a thought struck him. ‘Everard, why didn’t you use the lift that morning?’
‘Wasn’t working.’
‘Sure?’
‘I pushed the button for it and it didn’t come for a long time. I told you I was in a hurry.’
‘Yes. Thank you.’
Charles walked slowly along the dim corridor until he came to the lifts. He looked at them closely. Both were the old sort with sliding doors. A notice requested users to close both doors firmly. Otherwise the lifts would not function. So it would be possible to immobilise both by calling them to another floor and leaving them with their doors ajar. It would then be possible to linger in the gloomy corridor until Everard Austick staggered out of his flat, watch him call unsuccessfully for the lift and then help him on his way when he started downstairs. Unlikely, but possible.
‘Hello, Gerald, it’s Charles. I got your message at the rehearsal rooms and I’m afraid this is the first chance I’ve had to call.’
‘Okay. How’s it going?’
‘Nothing to report really. Nothing else has happened.’
‘No tension in the company?’
‘No more than in any show with Christopher Milton in it which starts its pre-London tour in a week.’
‘Hmm. Maybe I was being alarmist’
‘Maybe. Anyway, thanks for the job.’
‘Any time. Keep your eyes skinned.’
‘Okay. Though I don’t know what for. There’s nothing to see.’
‘Unless something else happens.’
‘Hello, is that Ruth?’
‘Yes. Who’s speaking?’
‘Charles Paris.’
‘Good God. I thought the earth had swallowed you up long ago.’
‘No. Still large as life and twice as seedy.’
‘Well, to what do I owe this pleasure? Tidying out your room and just found a seven-year-old diary?’
‘No.’
‘Joined Divorcees Anonymous have you, and they gave you my number?’
‘Actually I’m still not divorced.’
‘Separated though?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘And you just phoned for the Recipe-of-the-Day, did you? It’s stew.’
‘No, the fact is, I’m in a show that’s about to start a pre-London tour and our first week’s in Leeds and, with true actor’s instinct, I thought, well, before I fix up any digs, I’ll see if I’ve got any old friends in Leeds…’
‘You’ve got a nerve.’
‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. I’ll — ’
‘No. It might be quite entertaining to see you after all these years. At least a change from the sort of men who hang around divorcees in Leeds. When do you arrive?’
‘Sunday.’
As Charles put the phone down, Ruth’s voice still rang, ominously familiar, in his ears and he had the feeling that he had done something stupid.
If all went well on the tour, Lumpkin! was to take over the King’s Theatre from a show called Sex of One and Half a Dozen of the Other, which had long outstayed its welcome. It had been put on in 1971 by Marius Steen and had celebrated a thousand performances just before the impresario’s mysterious death in which Charles Paris had become involved. As the Steen empire was slowly dismantled, the show had continued under different managements with increasingly diluted casts until even the coach party trade began to dwindle. It limped through the summer of 1975 on tourists, but had no chance of surviving the pre-Christmas slump. The theatre-going public had been too depressed by rising ticket prices and the fear that the terrorist bombs might return with the dark evenings to make the effort to see a tired old show. Sex of One… had made its London killing and was now off to pick up the residuals of national tours, the depredations of provincial theatre companies and finally the indignities perpetrated by amateur dramatic societies. On Saturday, October 25th, the last day of London rehearsals, the Lumpkin! cast assembled for a pre-tour run-through in the King’s. The idea was to gain familiarity with the place before the ceremonial entry on November 27th.
The call was for nine o’clock, so that everything should be ready when Christopher Milton arrived at his contractual ten-thirty. Time was tight. Sex of One… had a three o’clock matinee and their set (most of which had been dismantled and piled up against the naked brick walls at the back of the stage) had to be reassembled by two-thirty. This meant that an eleven o’clock start would just allow a full run, with only half an hour allowed for cock-ups.
The run was not to be with costume or props. Everything had been packed up into skips and was already on its way to Leeds. The set was in lorries on the Ml, scheduled to arrive for the get-in at ten-thirty that night when the current show at the Palace Theatre (a second-rate touring revival of When We Are Married) finished its run. Spike, the stage manager, was going to see the run-through, then leap on to the five-to-four train to Leeds and maybe grab a little sleep in anticipation of the all-night and all-day job of getting the set erected and dressed. The actors’ schedule was more leisurely. After the run, their next call was at seven o’clock on the Sunday evening for a technical rehearsal. At eleven the next morning there was a press conference in the bar of the Palace Theatre, a dress rehearsal at one, and at seven-thirty on Monday, October 27th, Lumpkin! was to meet a paying audience for the first time.
The audience in the King’s Theatre on the Saturday morning had not paid. They were all in the circle. David Meldrum, with a rare display of personality, had taken over all of the stalls and set up a little table in the middle. A Camping Gaz lamp was ready to illuminate his interleaved script and notes when the lights went down. Two chairs were set there, one for him and one for Gwyneth, ever efficient, never passing comment.
Up in the circle were some of the backers, who joked nervously like racehorse owners, frightened of coughs, lameness and nobbling. Dickie Peck was there, salivating over his cigar until it looked like a rope-end. There was a representative of Amulet Productions, who looked as if he had gone to a fancy-dress ball as a merchant banker. Gerald Venables was too cool to turn up himself and reveal his anxiety, but a junior member of the office was there representing the interests of Arthur Balcombe. Some other seats were occupied by press representatives and a few girl and boy friends who had been smuggled in.
The stage manager had imposed dress rehearsal discipline and the cast were not allowed out front. Nor were they encouraged to make themselves at home in the dressing-rooms, so there was a lot of hanging around in the green room and the wings. Charles decided that once the run started he would adjourn to the nearest pub. Even with a totally trouble-free run, Sir Charles Marlow could not possibly be required onstage until one o’clock. He knew he should really hang about the green room listening to the gossip and trying to cadge a lift up to Leeds. But he hated cadging and would rather actually spend the travel allowance he had received on a train ticket than try it.
He listened to the beginning of the run-through on the Tannoy. It sounded pretty pedestrian. He left a message as to his whereabouts with one of the stage management and started towards the pub.
But just as he was leaving the green room, he met Mark Spelthorne. ‘Good God, Charles, it’s pitch dark out there on the stage. There’s just some basic preset and no working lights on in the wings. I just tripped over something and went headlong.’
‘What did you trip over?’ he asked, suddenly alert.
‘Don’t know. Something just by the back exit from the stage.’ Charles moved quietly in the dark behind the black tabs which represented the limits of the Lumpkin! set. He had a chilly feeling that he was about to discover something unpleasant.
His foot touched a soft shape. Soft cloth. He knelt down in the dark and put his hands forward reluctantly to feel what it was.
Just at that moment someone became aware of the lack of light backstage and switched on working lights. Charles screwed up his eyes against the sudden brightness, then opened them and looked down.
It was a cushion. A large scatter cushion, part of the set dressing for Sex of One…, which had been dropped when the set was cleared. Charles felt sheepish and looked round, embarrassed. He was alone. He shut off the flow of melodramatic thoughts which had been building in his head.
Still, he was there in a watchdog capacity. Better safe than sorry, he argued in self-justification. To reinforce this illusion of purpose he went across to the pile of tall, heavy flats leant haphazardly against the brick wall. They did not look very safe, some nearly vertical, some almost overhanging. He inspected more closely. Oh, it was all right, there was a pair of thick ropes crossed over the flats, restraining them. They were fixed to rings at the top 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.