What Bloody Man Is That (15 page)

And then . . . Well, presumably he was saving money.

And he was probably helping his long-term health prospects.

And, um . . .

No, that seemed to be all the advantages.

What was there to be said on the other side?

Well, he missed it desperately. Not in an agonised, physical way – he really didn't think he was chemically dependent – but he just missed the reassurance of a glass in his hand and the comforting warmth of whisky burning down his throat.

He also missed the punctuation of his day. For almost all his life he been attuned to the soothing diurnal rhythms of opening times and closing times. Without them he felt disoriented and dispossessed.

He missed the conviviality of getting drunk at the same pace as other people. He missed the communal element of drinking. In fact, not drinking took away the central pivot of his social life.

Also, further experiments with grapefruit juice, cherryade, Tizer and other highly-priced and highly-sweetened fluids had reinforced his opinion that all other forms of beverage, except for tea and coffee, tasted absolutely vile.

It really was becoming very important that he found out quickly who had murdered Warnock Belvedere.

Russ Lavery had the advantage of one of the biggest of the Pinero's dressing rooms, which was set on the corner of the building and therefore had a splendid view out over towards Salisbury Plain.

He also had the disadvantage that the dressing room was rather full. As well as Fleance/Young Siward, it housed Malcolm, Donalbain/Seyton, Mentieth and Caithness/Second Murderer. Since all of these were doubling various messengers, attendants, apparitions and soldiers, the dressing room was going to be even fuller after the costumes had been issued.

When Charles slipped in at the end of the Thursday rehearsal, Russ was sitting somewhat gloomily over in a corner of the dressing room by the window. Mentieth and Caithness/Second Murderer were packing their day's belongings into shoulder bags and talking in that loud, flamboyant manner of young actors which could be gay or could be just theatrical.

They seemed to be ignoring Russ and, as they left the room, nodding at Charles, they pointedly did not say goodbye to the younger actor.

‘Wonder if we could have a word . . .?' said Charles. He hadn't yet worked out how he was going to play the scene, so his opening gambit wasn't particularly original.

But at least Russ responded. ‘Sure.' He moved a chair to make space for his visitor.

‘You don't look your most cheery,' said Charles, stating no more than the truth. Close to, Russ looked like a vulnerable fourteen-year-old, his eyes moist as if on the verge of tears.

‘No,' he concurred.

‘What is it? Anything you can talk about?'

‘Not really.'

‘You didn't seem to be getting a lot of support from Mentieth and Caithness.'

‘No.'

Charles felt a sudden insight. ‘They being tough on you because you're new in the business?'

‘You could say that.' The expression in the boy's eyes told Charles that his guess had been correct.

‘I'm afraid that happens. A couple of years out of drama school and they think they know everything.'

‘And that nobody else knows anything,' Russ said bitterly.

‘They're getting at you?'

The boy nodded.

‘What, saying that the stuff you've done in drama school doesn't count for anything? That you don't know a thing about professional theatre?'

‘All that. And then when I tell them things, they think I'm showing off.'

‘What sort of things?'

‘Well, like about my agent . . .'

‘Ah.'

‘I mean, you know, I just mentioned that Robbie Patrick saw me in an end of term show and signed me up, and they think I'm bragging about it.'

‘He's a very good agent.'

‘I know.'

‘I mean, it really is good that he signed you up.'

‘Yes, I know it is. But they seem to think I go on about it too much. I don't mean to.'

‘They're just jealous. Who are their agents?'

Russ mentioned a couple of names.

‘Oh well, they certainly are jealous,' said Charles encouragingly. ‘Those two are way down the league.'

‘Yes, so I've heard.' Russ managed a weak smile. ‘Almost as bad as being with Maurice Skellern.'

‘Oh?' said Charles casually. ‘Do you know any of Maurice Skellern's clients?'

‘No. I've only heard the name.'

‘In what context?'

‘Oh, just as a joke, you know. He's proverbial as the worst agent in the business.'

‘Ah.' Charles decided they might perhaps not pursue this topic further. ‘So, basically, the others in the dressing room are making you aware of your junior status?'

Russ nodded his head, plunged back into gloom.

‘Just saying unpleasant things, or are they doing things too?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Practical jokes, anything of that sort . . .?'

By way of answer, Russ Lavery reached into his jacket pocket and held a folded letter towards Charles.

The notepaper was headed ‘Robbie Patrick Associates' and Charles read:

‘Dear Russ,

Hope you're knocking them dead in Warminster.

Wanted to pass on the great news that the producers want you to test for a part in the new Bond movie. Ring me for details of time, etc.

Yours ever,

Robbie.'

He looked up. Now the boy's tears were really flowing. Charles had forgotten just how cruel young actors could be to each other.

‘Little sods,' he said. ‘Where did they get the paper from?'

‘Easy enough these days with photocopiers,' Russ sobbed. ‘I think they nicked one of Robbie's real letters from my pocket and copied the letterhead.'

Yes, there was a faint line across the paper above the typewritten text.

‘And you fell for it?'

Russ nodded glumly. ‘Right in. Talked about it, too.'

‘Oh dear. And rang Robbie?'

‘Yes. He thought I was mad. So now I expect I've screwed things up with him as well.'

‘No, of course you haven't. You've just been the victim of a practical joke. You're sure it was them who did it?'

Russ nodded. ‘Can't prove anything. But they've been sniggering all day, the bastards.'

‘Well, look, it's done now. You've given them the satisfaction of falling for it, now you've got to make sure you don't give them any more satisfaction.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Just never mention it again.'

‘I suppose you're right. But I'd really like to get my own back on them.'

‘No. That won't help. Honestly. You'll soon forget all about it.'

But Charles's soothing words disguised his very real anger. It had been a vicious trick, and its crudeness simply reinforced the viciousness. Only someone as naive in the business as Russ would have fallen for it. To think that an unknown out of drama school should be screen-tested for a Bond movie.

And yet Charles could empathise. He knew that silly bubble of hope trapped inside all actors, which can burst to the surface through any amount of logic and common-sense. He knew that, if he had received that letter, his first reaction would have been to believe it. Then experience and a native cynicism would have dampened his enthusiasm and he would have recognised the cheat.

But poor Russ Lavery hadn't got that protective armour. All he had was the boundless enthusiasm and vulnerability of youth.

‘And is that all that's wrong . . .?'

Charles asked tentatively, remembering the purpose of his visit.

The boy shook his head. ‘Oh, I don't know. There's money . . .'

‘There's always money . . .' But it must be hard for a boy trying for the first time to budget on the pittance of Equity minimum. Particularly hard if he's trying to squire around an actress ten years his senior. A couple of flamboyant gestures of buying meals for Felicia could have written off most of his week's pay-packet.

‘Well, Russ, I haven't got much, but if you need a fiver to help you out till Friday . . .'

‘No, it's all right. I'm okay. I don't want to get into debt.'

‘Very wise.' Charles himself always tried to avoid the endless circle of borrowing from other actors. It so quickly got out of hand, and the reputation of being a sponger was easily acquired.

‘No other problems, though?'

Russ looked up defiantly. ‘Why, what should there be?'

Charles shrugged. Two-and-a-half days into his abstinence, he could now once again shrug with impunity. Maybe that was another of the advantages of not drinking . . .? On reflection, though, it did seem a pretty small advantage.

‘Well, there's always sex . . .' he ventured in answer to Russ's question.

‘What do you mean?'

‘All the old clichés of sexual angst. Somebody you like rejecting your advances . . .? Someone you don't like making advances . . .?'

The boy turned abruptly to look out of the window. ‘I don't know what you're talking about.'

‘Listen, I saw the way Wamock was behaving to you that first night.'

Russ's eyes flashed back at Charles. ‘I'm not gay!'

‘I never said you were. In fact, just the reverse. I'm saying how embarrassing it must have been for you to have that old queen pawing at you.'

The boy shuddered. ‘Yes, he was horrible. I think the most evil person I've ever come across.'

It was quite possible that, in Russ's limited experience, that was true.

‘The only good thing that's happened in the last few days,' the boy continued, his eyes burning, ‘is that old bastard's death. He certainly deserved it.' This last sentence was spoken in an intriguing tone of satisfaction.

But Charles decided not to probe in that direction for the moment. Instead, infinitely gently, he said, ‘And then, of course, there's Felicia . . .'

Russ seemed about to flash further defiance at this intrusion, but then subsided into misery. ‘Yes, there's Felicia. I love her,' he confessed abjectly.

‘She's a very beautiful girl.'

‘Yes, but I . . . I think I misunderstood her.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Well, have you ever . . . I mean, with a woman, have you ever sort of thought you were getting signals from her, and thought you understood those signals, and thought she wanted you to do something . . . and then you've done it – and suddenly realised that wasn't what she meant at all?'

‘Yes, I've known that happen. Is that . . . with Felicia . . .?'

The boy's tears were once again flowing. ‘I did what I thought she wanted . . . and now she's turned against me . . .'

‘Are you talking about Monday night?'

‘Yes. Oh, it's just awful. I ruined everything.'

‘What, you mean you went back to her digs and –'

‘No,' Russ interrupted fiercely. ‘No, I didn't.'

‘Where did you go?'

‘I didn't go anywhere. I stayed round the theatre. I don't know what I did.'

‘Russ, you must tell me if –'

Abruptly Russ Lavery rose to his feet. ‘I've said too much.'

‘It's good to talk.'

‘No. You can't trust people. They suddenly turn on you and then you . . . have to get your own back.'

Charles rose from his seat to bar the boy's access to the door. ‘I'm not going to turn on you, Russ. You can trust me.'

‘That's what Warnock said,' the boy snapped bitterly.

Then in an instant he turned and, reaching for the catch of the window, opened it and slipped out on to the path that skirted the theatre. He was running and out of sight almost before Charles had time to register the movement.

Charles went forward and looked at the window. At the bottom of the frame was an anti-theft device that should have locked down into the sill. But the screw had broken.

In other words, anyone who knew about that window could escape from the theatre when everything was supposedly locked.

Just as it had been on the night of Warnock Belvedere's murder.

So the problem of the murderer's getting out of the locked building had suddenly evaporated.

And, as he had just demonstrated, Russ Lavery clearly knew about the broken window-lock.

HE KNEW IT was silly to be influenced by
Macbeth
, and yet there was a kind of logic about it. A crime committed by a man, but instigated by a woman. The idea of Felicia Chatterton as an unwitting Lady Macbeth to Russ Lavery's callow Macbeth made an ugly kind of sense.

From the very start of rehearsal, she had found Warnock Belvedere difficult. He had been extremely rude to her in front of the entire company on more than one occasion. Even worse than that from Felicia's point of view, he had threatened the single-minded concentration which was so essential in her build-up to a part.

And she was so obsessive about her work that she would want all obstacles to its progress removed.

No doubt she had said as much to Russ. The poor boy, absolutely besotted with her, excited at the thought not only of embarking on his professional career but also of having an affair with a
real actress
, would have done anything to gain her favour. And, though she probably did no more than express a wish that Warnock might be got out of the way, Russ might have taken her too literally and seen the murder as the ultimate proof of his devotion.

That would tie in with what the boy had said about getting signals from Felicia and misinterpreting them.

‘I did what I thought she wanted . . . and now she's turned against me . . .' Yes, it fitted horribly well. After he had committed the murder, Russ had gone to her, figuratively presenting his beautiful Salome with the head of Warnock Belvedere, anticipating presumably some sexual reward for realizing her desires. And she, when she understood what he had done, had recoiled in horror. That would explain the marked estrangement between them after the Monday night.