Sicken and So Die (24 page)

‘Huh. Someone always thinks every unexplained death is murder. But why would anyone want to murder Sally? Was she screwing some other woman's husband, or what?'

If this was a pretence of innocence, it was a very convincing one. But then, Charles reminded himself, he was dealing with a consummately good actor.

‘There are motives other than sexual jealousy,' he said.

‘I'm sure there are.' Russ now sounded simply bored.

‘Professional jealousy, for example. Or professional advantage.'

‘I don't know what you're talking about.'

‘Russ, when did you first meet Alexandru Radulescu?'

‘Hmm? I don't know. Six months ago . . .'

‘And did you talk together about
Twelfth Night
then?'

‘We talked about a lot of plays. Alex has got a lot of exciting ideas.'

‘But did the idea of doing
Twelfth Night
with Sebastian and Viola doubling come up then?'

‘I can't remember. It may have done.'

‘Did it?'

‘Yes, I think it did. Just as a speculative idea. I certainly never thought it'd happen.'

‘But now it has happened . . .'

‘Yes.'

‘. . . thanks to Sally Luther's death.'

‘Yes.' Russ Lavery was silent for a moment as the idea took root. ‘Good God. You're not suggesting Alex killed her, are you?'

‘No, I'm not.'

‘Then I don't see what you're talking about, Charles.' He looked genuinely puzzled.

‘Russ, on the evening of Sally's death, you were seen holding a syringe . . .'

Up till this point Russ Lavery's cool had been unchallenged, but Charles's words really shook him.

‘Oh, God,' he murmured. ‘How did you find out? You didn't see me.'

‘No, somebody else did.'

‘Look, Charles, you mustn't shop me about this.' Now there was a naked plea in Russ's voice.

‘Why shouldn't I?'

‘Because it'd ruin my career.'

‘Yes, I think it probably would,' Charles agreed evenly.

‘But you don't know the pressures that drive someone to that kind of thing. Oh yes, I've been doing well the last few years, and everyone's jealous and thinks what a lucky fellow Russ Lavery is. But in this business doing well is not good enough. You have to do
better
all the time, have something new on the horizon, always be moving on.

‘So, yes, at the moment they're still talking of further series for
Air-Sea
Rescue
, but the ratings only have to fall half a million and they'll pull the plug on it as quick as breathing. Look what happened to Sally's series – just suddenly, thank you very much, goodbye. And actors who haven't got something else lined up when that happens can have a very sticky few years.'

‘So is that why you did it?'

‘Yes. It made me feel better.'

‘Really?'

‘And it still does make me feel better. Look!'

Suddenly Russ Lavery pulled up the sleeve of his doublet. The reason for his tantrum with the wardrobe mistress was now clear. He didn't dare to show a forearm that was a wasteland of scars and punctures. ‘I'm ruining my body. I'm putting my life at risk. But it helps – it really helps me! Without this my whole life's a mess. With it I can just about cope.'

‘Ah,' said Charles Paris. ‘Right. That's what you used the syringe for?'

‘Yes. What else?'

‘And Sally Luther?'

‘Sally Luther wasn't into drugs.' Russ's bewilderment was so genuine that Charles's suspicions crumbled away. ‘No, she somehow managed to cope with all the pressure, when it was all happening for her, and during the even more difficult time, when it all started to fall apart. I admired her for that, because I'm afraid . . . when it all goes wrong for me – and it will, it will, it does for everyone – well, I'm worried that I'll just do more of this.' He gestured feebly at his ravaged arm.

Charles Paris looked at the handsome wreck in front of him. Russ Lavery wasn't a murderer, just an actor paying the price of his celebrity. That was what Sally Luther had done too, though in a different way. She had died because she had inspired too much public affection. Russ Lavery was killing himself because of his fear that the public affection he inspired would one day trickle away.

There are times, Charles Paris thought, when there's a lot to be said for being an unsuccessful actor.

SIR TOBY BELCH had to do his first scene of the second half, Act Three, Scene Two, before Charles Paris could go into action. He found DI Dewar waiting in the administrative office Portakabin. Moira Handley was not there, though another detective was.

‘You're not watching the show?'

The curt headshake showed exactly what the inspector thought of the theatre.

‘Listen,' said Charles. ‘I've got an idea . . .'

Both detectives looked sceptical, but did at least hear him out.

‘I'm very doubtful it'll work,' said DI Dewar finally.

‘But isn't it worth trying? It can't do any harm, can it?'

The inspector was silent for a moment, then conceded, ‘Well, I suppose not. All right, you can have a go.'

‘I mean, who have you talked to so far? Who does actually know why you're here?'

‘Just the company manager.'

‘Oh,' said Charles. ‘If you told him, then probably everyone
does
know already.'

But they didn't seem to. There was genuine surprise from the actors to whom he murmured the reason for their call after the show. Mind you, he only had to mention it to a couple and he knew it'd be round the whole company within minutes.

The sitar-player's enunciation had improved over the run, and the final moment of
Twelfth Night
still retained its magic. The Great Wensham audience, having greatly enjoyed their picnics, erupted into applause.

As the cast came forward to do their curtain calls, Charles counted them. All present and correct. If the murderer was going to make a move, it hadn't happened yet.

The cast had been told to get out of their costumes and reassemble on stage as quickly as possible. Charles, as he had arranged with DI Dewar, stayed in his Sir Toby Belch gear and hurried down the side of the auditorium to the box office, a rectangular shed which stood by the gates into the theatre field.

The inspector was in there, looking out over the mass of Great Wensham folk trooping towards the car-park laden with rugs and garden furniture. Overhead working lights beamed down on the faces as they passed. One or two were talking about
Twelfth Night
; the majority were discussing their picnics.

‘If this doesn't work, it's a bloody waste of time,' he grumbled to Charles. ‘Or if the person we're looking for has already left.'

‘Everyone was at the curtain call.'

‘Hmm. Well, we'll see . . .'

It was hard to concentrate on the individual faces that streamed past. Charles was tempted by a couple of blond heads, but neither looked quite right. DI Dewar's grumbling about time-wasting grew more vociferous.

Charles had almost given up when he saw what he had been hoping to see. The audience flow had dwindled to just a few stragglers. Be-sashed usherettes and festival volunteers in Mutual Reliable anoraks milled around the seating, picking up rubbish, chatting and giggling.

And someone with their anorak hood up was walking briskly towards the exit. The face was hidden, but a wisp of blond hair escaped the hood.

‘There,' Charles murmured.

He slipped out of the box office and waited in the shadows beside it. Then, just when the hooded figure was about to pass, he stepped out into its path.

‘Good evening,' said Charles Paris.

The speed with which his throat was grabbed stunned him. He felt himself pushed back against the counter of the box office, and could feel his assailant fumbling for something in his pocket.

In the glare of the working light he saw a syringe raised to stab at him.

‘You bastard! This time you won't get away!' the murderer screamed.

Charles Paris closed his eyes.

‘I'll have that, thank you very much.'

It was DI Dewar's voice. Charles opened his eyes and saw his assailant's wrist caught in the inspector's vice-like grip. The two arms swayed in conflict for a moment, as if wrestling.

Then the inspector's started to win. It forced the other down towards the box office counter. As it drew close it slammed the loser's hand against the wood.

There was a little cry as the syringe dropped, and Charles felt the pressure on his throat slacken.

He reached across and grabbed the free arm. The murderer was now held by DI Dewar across the box office counter and by Charles from outside. In the struggle, the anorak hood slipped back, pulling the blond wig with it.

Charles found himself looking into the furious face of Benzo Ritter.

HIS ATTACK on Charles, witnessed by DI Dewar, was sufficient cause for the police to arrest the boy, and while he was in custody his other crimes were investigated.

His handwriting was matched to the threatening letters Sally Luther had received at the height of her television fame. Faced with that fact, he confessed to everything.

Yes, he had been the ‘woman' who trailed the star. He loved her, he needed to be near her. But, he explained, he'd been very immature at the time. Later he realised that the only way to be with his idol was to earn her respect as an equal.

That was why he had gone into show business. When she met him as one of her profession rather than an anonymous admirer, he knew she was bound to succumb, to feel as much for him as he did for her.

But that was not what had happened. In the event, when he declared his passion, she had laughed at him. He couldn't tolerate that. Other people might find out, they might laugh at him too.

So it was only logical that Sally Luther would have to die.

He'd always been fascinated by poisons. Indeed, his school nickname ‘Benzo' had been based on an illicit experiment he'd done in the chemistry lab with nitro-benzene. Mind you, he told his interrogators proudly, he'd used atropine from belladonna when he'd poisoned Sally's cat.

He'd used the mercuric chloride in powder form in the Indian restaurant, surreptitiously shaking some over one of the Chicken Dupiazas in the confusion of the food's arrival. The fact that he had poisoned the wrong person he regarded as an inconvenience rather than a tragedy.

Then he had employed the same poison in solution to inject Sally Luther and adulterate the Bell's whisky. The reason for his turning his murderous attentions to Charles Paris, it emerged, was due to another misunderstanding. It happened when, a few days previously, Charles had raised the subject of Sally Luther's death in the dressing room caravan. To defuse a potential confrontation with Vasile Bogdan, he had quoted from
Twelfth Night
: “‘Now Mercury endue thee with leasing, for thou speakest well of fools!”'

Benzo Ritter had taken this reference to ‘Mercury' as evidence that Charles knew the poison he was using, and that had led him to doctor the half-bottle of Bell's. The boy had been extremely irritated that Charles Paris survived that attempt.

At no stage during his questioning and subsequent trial did Benzo Ritter demonstrate any feelings of guilt or remorse.

At the trial, psychological reports ruled him to be insane, and he was committed to a secure institution.

Benzo Ritter's absence made little difference to the Asphodel production of
Twelfth Night
. A new Second Officer was found and the play set off from Great Wensham on its triumphant tour.

Charles Paris did not enjoy the experience. His performance moved a little closer to what Alexandru Radulescu wanted, but Charles felt uncomfortable eternally marooned between two stools. He still longed to play Sir Toby Belch as Shakespeare had intended the part to be played, but didn't think he was likely ever to get another chance. As Moira Handley had said in a different context, the moment had passed.

Charles didn't really feel part of the tour. His resistance to the communal hero worship of Alexandru Radulescu isolated him. John B. Murgatroyd had been his closest ally in the company, and though the invalid made a full recovery from his poisoning, he did not rejoin the show. As
Twelfth Night
criss-crossed the United Kingdom – with a diversion to the Czech Republic – Charles Paris felt marginalised and lonely.

Alexandru Radulescu did not return to Romania, but stayed on to impose his personality and perversity on more classic English texts. He continued to be hailed as a genius, until one day a new
enfant terrible
took the British theatre by the scruff of its neck, and the Radulescu style seemed suddenly meretricious and old hat.

Russ Lavery's career went from strength to strength. He managed to combine television popularity with serious critical respect for his theatre work. And the British public adored him even more after his much-publicised battle with heroin addiction.

Julian Roxborough-Smith added another artistic directorship to his portfolio. He was appointed to run the West Bartleigh Festival and thereafter, in his usual dilettante fashion, spent his time rebooking the same artistes for all three festivals. Since he still acted as agent for many of these artistes, he made rather a good living.

And Moira Handley, needless to say, continued to do all the work.

Gavin Scholes' cancer required surgery, granting him his lifelong wish of being able to talk about ‘
my
operation'. It was followed by a course of radiotherapy, which seemed to work. He apparently made a complete recovery, though, as he kept telling his new wife – and anyone else incautious enough to listen – ‘it might just be a temporary remission.'