A Series of Murders (8 page)

It was a typical piece of nudging copy, but it confirmed what Mort Verdon had told Charles. And confirmed Sippy Stokes's fairly lowly profile in the entertainment industry. The columnist had presumably tried without success to identify her. Just as well, from Jimmy Sheet's point of view, that no one had made the connection between the mystery girl at Stringfellow's and the dead actress whose photograph was all over Thursday's newspapers.

Still, the paragraph offered an intriguing new sidelight on the character of Jimmy Sheet. Hmm, thought Charles, maybe newspapers do sometimes contain news that's interesting.

CHARLES sometimes wondered who found television rehearsal rooms. Was there an elite band of dedicated men whose sole mission was to scour London for boys' clubs and rugby clubs and church halls and drill halls that passed the stringent tests of suitability for their purpose? How many potential venues were rejected on the grounds of being too comfortable or insufficiently dispiriting? How many were rejected for being too convenient for public transport or because they had adequate parking? How many failed selection because they were actually congenial places in which to spend one's time?

The conjectural band of searchers had clearly excelled themselves when they found the St. John Chrysostom Mission for Vagrants Lesser Hall, in which the rehearsals for
Stanislas Braid
took place. This was the apotheosis of the television rehearsal room, the one for which every other hall in London must have been rejected.

Situated a good twenty minutes' walk from the nearest tube station, jammed in an alley between a cement works and a timber yard, whose lorries were a perpetual hazard to anyone foolish enough to risk leaving their car outside, the Lesser Hall's high windows were so begrimed that what light did filter through had an unhealthy, diluted pallor about it. The lights inside, kept constantly switched on, apologetically illuminated walls the colour of baby shit. As Charles looked around the room on the Monday morning of the second read-through, he realised with delight that he had finally found a context in which to use one of his favourite words: ‘fuscous'.

The only bright colours in the room, apart from the clothes of the cast and production team, were the strips of variously coloured tape with which the outlines of the different sets had been marked on the floor by assiduous stage managers. But these were largely covered by the long chain of tables, surrounded by chairs, at which the read-through was to take place.

W. T. Wintergreen – or Winifred Railton – had acknowledged Charles with an inclination of her head but made no reference to their conversation of the previous Friday. She had a script open on her lap and, with her sister, Louisa, as ever, close beside her, was deep in conversation with Dilly Muirfield. From the expression on the script editor's face, she was getting yet more complaints that the script of this episode, ‘The Italian Stiletto Murder,' had diverged too far from the original book and that, as Louisa Railton recurrently complained in fierce whispers to her sister, ‘Stanislas Braid just wouldn't do that.'

Charles spared a few moments of sympathy for Dilly Muirfield's role. She was the mediator; it was she who had to listen to the endless cavils of the writer of the books, the writers of the scripts, the stars, the producer, and the director. She then, rather as the floor manager did in the studio, had to translate the complaints into acceptable demands for the people against whom they were made.

Charles had heard this process in action more than once. He had heard Russell Bentley denouncing the script to Dilly with the words ‘It's a load of shit – the work of an absolute incompetent. I mean, the character of Stanislas Braid virtually disappears for the whole middle of the episode.'

And he had heard Dilly relaying the message to Will Parton in conciliatory tones: ‘I was just wondering whether it might be better if we inserted a little extra scene for Stanislas Braid in the middle here, you know, just to remind the audience how he's proceeding with his investigation?'

He had also heard Will Parton's response to this suggestion, and though the object of the writer's vilification had been Russell Bentley, it was Dilly Muirfield who had to listen to all the foul language. She really was in a no-win situation.

Working for a producer like Ben Docherty, whose daily Jekyll and Hyde act made him quite capable of spending the whole afternoon reversing all the decisions he had made in the morning, can't have made the script editor's job any easier.

What was striking about that morning in the St. John Chrysostom Mission for Vagrants Lesser Hall was how little impact the death of Sippy Stokes had made on the production. Rick Landor, the one person who might have been personally affected, was not there, and for the new Director it was ancient history, something that had happened the week before, nothing to do with him.

The new Director was only in his late twenties. This was his first major production, and he was very much on his dignity, determined to impose his authority on the proceedings. His mind was too full of the professional challenges of the coming fortnight to have any room for thoughts of the previous week's death.

But the rest of the cast and production team, those who had been working with the dead girl only a few days before, seemed equally unaffected. The ripples caused by her death had quickly smoothed themselves out, and the surface of the production was just as it had been before.

Or, to be truthful, it was rather better than it had been before. Previously, the knowledge of what a bad actress Sippy Stokes was had infected everyone with a kind of unease, the feeling that her incompetence might be sabotaging the chances of their series.

The new girl, Joanne Rhymer, it was immediately evident, would be a very different proposition. For a start, she looked much better for the part. Sippy Stokes, though an attractive girl, had had a gypsy, almost tarty quality about her. Her dark hair and sensuous lips had seemed too knowing for the innocent Christina, and the woodenness of her performance had given some of her lines an unwanted air of innuendo, as if she were sending up their naiveté.

But Joanne Rhymer, although dressed as fashionably as befitted a twenty-year-old actress, had about her a timeless quality. Her face was heart-shaped, and her blond hair showed off flashes of auburn even in the muted lighting of the St. John Chrysostom Mission for Vagrants Lesser Hall. She had a trim figure that would suit the range of thirties dresses so painstakingly assembled by Wardrobe.

Above all, she had about her an air of credible innocence. The potentially twee lines of Christina, the cloying relationship between her and her father, might become almost believable when expressed by this child-woman.

Charles couldn't help speculating about how much her character reflected the innocence of her appearance. His conversation with Maurice had reminded him of Gwen Rhymer's fabled nymphomania. Was it by any chance a characteristic that the daughter had inherited? Was he looking at another Blue Nun in the making?

You're a disgusting, prurient old sod, he told himself. Real classic dirty old man. But this self-administered admonition didn't stop his speculations. The trouble was, you see, he had once been the beneficiary of Gwen Rhymer's ‘proclivities', and while not approving of her behaviour or reputation, he couldn't help remembering that he had enjoyed the experience enormously. So he felt justified in having more than a passing interest in her daughter's character.

As soon as the read-through started, it was clear that Joanne Rhymer's talent was equal to her looks. She brought a kind of resilience to the character's naiveté. Lines that looked hopelessly sentimental on the page managed, through her delivery, to become charming.

Everyone in the rehearsal room was aware of the contrast from the first read-through. At that stage they had suspected that Sippy Stokes was, like a lot of actresses, just a bad reader. The full deficiency of her talent had not then been exposed. But it had still made for an edgy atmosphere.

With Joanne Rhymer in the part, though, everyone could relax. Charles watched as she read her first scene and saw the relief growing on various faces around the table.

Will Parton looked positively triumphant, finally vindicated in the knowledge that his lines would work if played in the right way. W. T. Wintergreen and Louisa also beamed; for the first time they seemed to be happy about the way one of the
Stanislas Braid
characters was being portrayed. Russell Bentley seemed at ease, too. He probably wasn't aware of why he felt better; the habit of not noticing what the rest of the cast did prevented him from realising how well his lines were being fed to him; but at last he seemed able to play the part of Russell Bentley.

And Ben Docherty's face glowed with benevolence, as if he were a proud father watching the performance of his favourite daughter.

Yes, there was no doubt about it. Joanne Rhymer's performance worked. She
was
Christina Braid.

Except, of course, she wasn't. She was Elvira Braid, just back from finishing school in Switzerland. Her sister, Christina, thanks to the inspired invention of Will Parton, had ‘gone to Paris to nurse an old school friend recovering from a nasty bout of influenza'.

They got through the whole of the first Stanislas Braid/Christina scene before Russell Bentley interrupted the reading. ‘Look, there's something wrong here.'

‘Sorry, could we read straight through?' said the new Director. ‘We're doing this on the watch. We'll pick up any notes afterward.'

‘No, this is important. We've got to sort it out before we go on.'

‘I'm sorry. Read-through first,' insisted the director, unaware that he was entering his first battle of wills with his star.

‘No,' said Russell Bentley firmly.

The P.A. gave a short-tempered sigh and clicked off her stopwatch.

‘Look, I'm the Director,' said the new Director, ‘and if I say we continue the read-through, then we continue the read-through.'

‘No,' Russell Bentley repeated.

‘Come on, you're a professional actor. Surely you know how to behave at a rehearsal?'

This was dangerous ground. The worst insult that can be thrown at an actor is the accusation that he's unprofessional. And for a new director to throw it at his star on a first read-through showed a lack of diplomacy that verged on the suicidal.

Russell Bentley's face flushed with anger. ‘Are you saying that I'm not –'

Ben Docherty realised the gravity of the situation and fulfilled his producer's role by interrupting. ‘Now just a minute. Don't let's get heated about this. I think Russell may have a point.'

‘I'm the Director,' the new Director insisted doggedly, ‘and I say we should get on with the read-through.'

‘Well, I'm the Producer,' said Ben Docherty, ‘and I say we should hear what Russell has to say first.'

‘All right.' The new Director flung his script petulantly down on the table. ‘If you're one of those producers who constantly undermines his director's authority . . .'

Ben Docherty didn't rise to this bait. Instead, he turned to his star in a conciliatory manner and said, ‘Now, what was your point, Russell?'

‘Simply this, Ben. This lovely young girl – what was your name again, dear?'

‘Joanne.'

‘Yes, Joanne . . . is playing a part just like that of Christina, my daughter, and yet –' Russell continued, repeating for emphasis ‘– and yet we keep referring to the character as “Elvira”.'

‘Yes, Russell, and you know the reasons for that. Look, I agree, the characters are virtually interchangeable, but that makes things even simpler. All you have to do is to say the different name.'

‘It's not just that. I also have a bit of meaningless drivel about finishing schools in Switzerland and friends with influenza. Why can't I just cut all that and call the character Christina?'

‘You know why. Because we've already got two-thirds of an episode in the can with a different actress playing Christina.'

‘A rather dreadful actress, I may say.'

‘That, Russell, is a matter of opinion. All I know is that W.E.T. can't afford to write off what we've already done on the first episode.'

‘Well, I think they should.'

Charles had been aware of considerable muttering between the two Railton sisters during this exchange but was surprised when W. T. Wintergreen's voice was suddenly heard, firmly announcing, ‘I couldn't agree more.'

The Producer turned wearily to the crime writer.

‘Look, W.T. . . . Miss Wintergreen . . . Miss Railton.' He was always at a loss as to how to address her. ‘I know it would be very nice if we could just scrap the last two weeks' work, but I'm afraid it's a matter of economics.'

‘No, it's not. It's a matter of what the public expect from a series called
Stanislas Braid
. My readers are already going to be deeply distressed and disappointed by the number of gratuitous changes which have been made to my books, but when it comes to changing the names of one of the major characters, one of the best-loved characters indeed, the character of Christina . . . well, I just don't think they'll stand for it.'

‘Think yourself lucky they haven't changed her sex and made her black,' Will Parton muttered to no one in particular.

‘Miss Railton,' Ben Docherty began, homing in on the name with infinite patience, ‘I'm rather afraid you may flatter yourself about the power of your readers. You say they won't stand for it. . . . Well, how do you suppose they're going to express the fact that they don't stand for it? Anyway, Miss Railton, we're not talking about books. As I've told you many times before, we're talking about television. A whole different ball game. Do you realise that
one
showing of
one
of the episodes of this series will be seen by more people than all the readers of all your books put together? Most of the viewers, I'm afraid, will never have heard of W. T. Wintergreen. A large number of them probably never read books, anyway. So, for them, whether a character is called Christina or Elvira will not make the blindest bit of difference.'