What Bloody Man Is That (12 page)

‘Are you sure of that, Mr Paris?'

‘Well, yes, I . . .' But suddenly he wasn't sure of anything. The night before was disappearing into a jumble of alcoholic images. ‘I'm fairly sure.'

‘Fairly, eh?' Detective Inspector Dowling grimaced. ‘We in the police force prefer things to be a bit firmer than “fairly”, you know. But let's say for a moment you're right . . . What you're suggesting is that someone set up the whole thing, got Mr Belvedere drunk, broke into the store-room, laid him on the floor, fractured the beer- and gas-lines . . . all getting pretty elaborate, isn't it, Mr Paris?'

‘Yes, I agree, but –'

‘And then of course if you are talking in those terms, it raises the question of who, doesn't it? Who are you suggesting set up this complicated scenario?'

‘Well . . .'

‘Mr Paris, if you'll pardon my saying it, you are not what the police regard as an ideal witness. During the period of what you like to think of as the murder, you were, not to put too fine a point on it, incapable with drink. I've spoken to other people who were in the bar with you last night . . . apparently you couldn't even stand up when you left. So I think anything you say about your encounter with the late Mr Belvedere must be a little suspect, don't you . . .?

‘I'm sure he had a bottle then. He said that a generous friend had given it –'

‘There is another point, too, Mr Paris, which I'm sure you will in time work out for yourself . . .'

‘What's that?'

‘If we are talking about a murder, so far as we know there was only one other person in the theatre at the time that Mr Belvedere died. Wasn't there, Mr Paris?'

The implications of Detective Inspector Dowling's words sunk in, as Charles went down to join the rehearsal.

He just didn't know. The policeman's manner was so deceptive. Maybe he genuinely did think that the death had been accidental. Or maybe that was just a ploy to disorient Charles, to put him off his guard.

One thing was clear, though. If the police were thinking in terms of murder, they had only one suspect.

And that was Charles Paris.

‘YOU'RE NO fun any more, Charles Paris,' said John B. Murgatroyd, slurping a lunchtime pint in the bar. Charles squinted down at his Perrier water.

‘No.'

‘I mean, what you need is a hair of the dog.'

‘That's what I had yesterday. I had so many hairs of the dog I could have knitted myself my own St. Bernard. And it didn't do me any good.'

‘No. But that was yesterday. Today's today.'

‘I know. I'm still laying off.'

‘But, after the shock of discovering old Warnock's body, you need something.'

‘That's true.'

‘What'll it be?'

‘I'll stick with this.' He looked again at the Perrier water. It didn't get any less pallid and uninspiring. Had he been a vodka drinker, or a gin drinker, perhaps it wouldn't have looked so strange. But to a man whose familiar spectrum of beverages ranged only from the gold of Bell's whisky to the russet of bitter, there was a mental jolt each time he looked at it.

John B. shook his head in mixed pity and disbelief. ‘Sad to see a good man go.'

‘Sad to see Warnock go . . .?' Charles ventured.

‘Well, yes. Sad to see anyone go, obviously. But I don't think the old bastard's going to be mourned that much.'

‘No.'

‘Couldn't be a more appropriate end, though, could it? Drowned in alcohol.'

‘That isn't quite what happened.'

‘Well, to all intents and purposes. I mean, it was the booze that got him . . . or at least, the desire for the booze.'

‘Yes.'

Something in Charles's tone made John B. look at him sharply. ‘Oh, I understand. That's it. Seeing him lying there's put you off.'

‘I suppose so. I mean, I've heard the expression “old soak” enough times, but I never thought I'd see it so literally demonstrated. The beer was just dribbling over him. His suit was like a wet dishcloth.'

‘Yuk. Still, a few people round the theatre won't be sorry.'

‘Who were you thinking of in particular?' asked Charles, suddenly alert.

‘You name them. Little Ms. R.S.C., certainly. Now perhaps she'll get a Duncan who will allow her to . . .' John B. dropped into a parody of her thrilling intensity ‘. . . concentrate on the subtext of her part.'

‘Hmm.'

‘I've come to the conclusion that what would sort her out is a really thorough screwing. By an expert.'

‘Are you volunteering or just giving your considered medical opinion?'

‘Bit of each.'

‘Well, good luck. I'll know when you've succeeded by your bent ears. Incidentally, Doctor, could I just ask why it is that you always recommend the same treatment for every female complaint?'

John B. dropped instantly into a cod Viennese accent. ‘In my experience, Herr Paris, it seems to work wiz most of them.'

‘You are a sexist pig and I shouldn't be listening to you.'

‘Please yourself.'

‘Who else, though?'

‘Who else what?'

‘Who else do you think will be glad to see the back of Warnock?'

‘Well, everything Felicia does and thinks, someone else does and thinks, doesn't he?'

‘Yes,' said Charles ruminatively, remembering the embarrassments of the first evening when Warnock Belvedere had made a pass at Russ Lavery.

‘And dear old Gavin was having enough disciplinary problems without Warnock constantly undermining his authority.'

‘True.'

‘But, as I said, basically anyone in the company. One of the most popular deaths in the annals of the theatre, I'd say. A blessed accident.'

Charles didn't question this. No one in the company seemed to have thought of any possibility other than accident. Again he wondered how much Detective Inspector Dowling believed that conclusion, or how much he was playing his chief suspect along. Giving him enough rope.

‘Come on, let me get you another drink, Charles. What's it to be? You can't pretend you're enjoying that Perrier.'

‘No.'

‘Go on, have a pint.'

‘No, I won't.'

‘A Bell's?'

‘No. I am really on the wagon.'

‘Dear oh dear. Well, what then – Coke, grapefruit juice, lemonade, cherryade, Tizer . . .?' John B. pronounced each name with mounting distaste.

‘All of those are so bloody sweet, that's the trouble.'

‘I know the solution,' said John B. triumphantly. ‘I bet Norman's got one of those alcohol-free lagers tucked away somewhere.'

Charles raised a hand of restraint. ‘No. I may have few principles, but the idea of alcohol-free lager offends one of my deepest. It's like . . . yuk, I don't know . . . like the idea of making love to an inflatable woman.'

John B. chuckled. ‘See, there's nothing else you like. You're going to have to have a proper drink.'

‘No,' said Charles resolutely.

‘If you don't, I am going to leave you on your own and start my campaign to winkle my way into Felicia Chatterton's knickers.'

‘Off you go then. Good luck. I'm going to stick to my Perrier.'

‘Sissy.' John B. started to move away.

‘Just a minute.' Charles gestured his friend close and whispered, ‘I think your best approach is to find a subtext that proves Lady Macbeth was having an affair with Lennox. Then she'll leap into bed with you, no problem . . . you know, Stanislavsky, “Method”, all that . . .'

‘Hey, thanks. That's a brilliant idea. You can't think of any particular lines of Lennox's that'd be suitable, can you?'

‘'Fraid not. There doesn't seem to be a moment where he suddenly says, “How about it then, Lady Macbeth? Get 'em off”.'

‘No.' For a moment John B. looked downcast. Then inspiration struck. He raised a finger in triumph. ‘I've got it. I'll tell her those lines were in the original text, but they got cut from the First Folio. Can't fail. See you, Charles.'

When John B. Murgatroyd had sauntered off, Charles was left once again with his own thoughts. And they weren't very comforting ones.

Also he did very desperately miss having a drink. Usually the worst effects of a hangover could be temporarily suspended by a lunchtime top-up, but his vow had forbidden that option. He thought back to the old joke about a drunkard having the advantage over a teetotaller that he knew from the moment he woke up, his day could only get better. What faced Charles was a long plateau of boredom.

But he was determined to stick with it. Enough people had told him over the years to lay off the booze. How gratified they would all be to know that he was finally taking their advice.

Frances, in particular. She'd be glad. From the start of their marriage, she'd been on at him, subtly but inexorably, to cut down. And now he was doing it.

That might be a good way of making contact again . . . Ring her and tell her he was on the wagon. He could offer his great sacrifice as a peace-offering.

Good idea, yes. He could go straight away and ring her at school. She was usually free to take phone-calls at lunchtime.

But he curbed his enthusiasm. It remained a good idea, but it would probably be even better if he waited a few days. Frances might not think giving up drink for fourteen hours was really worth crowing about. But when it got to fourteen days, yes, then it could be a useful reopening gambit.

It didn't take long for his thoughts to move from his magnificent self-denial back to Warnock Belvedere's death.

He'd really got himself into a cleft stick over that. If he accepted Detective Inspector Dowling's view of the death as an accident, then he had to deny certain memories he had of the night before. He knew he had been pretty fuddled, but he was sure that Warnock had had a bottle of Courvoisier before the store-room was forced, and also that the old actor had said it was the gift of ‘a generous friend'.

But if he continued to maintain that memory, the only effect would be to concentrate the Detective Inspector's suspicions on him. Better, in that sense, to let sleeping dogs – or asphyxiated old queens – lie.

On the other hand, if Dowling was simply trying to put him off his guard, then he was still in danger. Any allegation of murder immediately pointed the finger at him as the murderer. So far as the police knew, he was the only person who had had the opportunity. The means were easily organised and, as for motive, well, everyone hated Warnock. He was sure members of the company could recall insults directed at Charles Paris as much as at anyone else.

So, in a sense, the only way he could protect himself against a charge of murder was by proving that someone else had committed it.

Because, however much he fudged round the issue, Charles Paris kept coming back to the certainty that Warnock Belvedere had been murdered.

It wasn't just the brandy bottle which he was now certain he had seen in the old actor's hand while the store-room door was still intact. There were a couple of other details.

First, there was Warnock's mention of ‘a generous friend'. That implied that someone had given him the bottle, secure in the knowledge that the actor was likely to swig away until it was empty.

But more significant was another fact, which Charles had omitted, by genuine oversight, to mention to the police. Now, not wishing to encourage them towards suspicions of murder, he was quite glad of that oversight.

The second important fact was that when he went into the store-room, the light had been off. If Warnock Belvedere had followed the course of action which Detective Sergeant Dowling described, there was no way that he would have done it in the dark.

Which meant that someone else had switched the light off.

The show, as theatrical cliché and the economic health of the Pinero Theatre, Warminster, demanded, had to go on. Warnock Belvedere had been quickly replaced. One phone-call from Gavin had procured an elderly actor of benign competence contracted to start rehearsal on the Wednesday morning. No extravagant, inventive casting this time. The director had gone for someone who lived locally and with whom he had worked many times before. Given only two weeks to the opening night, he opted for safety. And there was a general relieved feeling in the cast that the production would be more relaxed without the flamboyant malignancy of Warnock Belvedere.

As it had on Charles (though in his case more literally), the death had had a sobering effect on the whole company. They had all felt slightly guilty about the lack of discipline which had been creeping into rehearsals, and slightly schoolboyish over the way they had taken advantage of Gavin's weakness. Warnock's demise had been a well-timed slap on the wrist, and they all settled down with renewed concentration to make sure that
Macbeth
would be ready in time for the paying public to enjoy.

It was just as well that they were prepared to work hard, because there was a long way to go. Apart from the problems of integrating a new Duncan and a new Macduff's Son into the production, there was also the problem of George Birkitt. His sojourn in Paris seemed to have wiped from his mind all trace of the previous week's rehearsal, and certainly very few of Shakespeare's lines appeared to have taken any lasting hold on the slippery surface of his memory. For him, the Tuesday rehearsal was like starting again at Day One.

Felicia Chatterton's concentration, of course, could not be faulted, but at times Gavin Scholes wished it could have been differently channelled. Since her approach to acting required that every intonation and movement should ‘feel right', rehearsal was frequently interrupted by long silences while she tried to make the mental adjustment that one of Gavin's instructions necessitated.

On the Tuesday afternoon, for example, they were working on the Sleepwalking Scene. Felicia's neurotic trauma was very convincing; Charles could feel the power of her talent whenever he was on stage with her.