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.
There were other uncomfortably appealing elements in the theory. Russ did not just have Felicia’s promptings as motivation to kill Warnock. The old actor’s advances had clearly upset the boy. The vehemence with which Russ had asserted his heterosexuality to Charles betrayed an insecurity about his sexual identity. He was emotionally immature, as his puppy-like courtship of Felicia revealed, and he must have been deeply unsettled by Warnock Belvedere’s overt importuning. He needed to remove that disturbing challenge from his life.
Charles suddenly recalled Russ’s appearance in the store-room during the Saturday morning run-through. So there was no doubt that the boy knew what the room was. And, with sickening logic, Charles also remembered Russ saying he had supplemented his grant by working as a bar-man. He would therefore know all about changing beer barrels and be aware of the potentially lethal presence of carbon dioxide in the gas cylinders.
It was beginning to look painfully likely that Russ Lavery had murdered Warnock Belvedere. The way to check of course was to talk to the poor boy’s Lady Macbeth.
‘God, I’m just having such difficulty sleeping,’ Felicia announced, producing yet another parallel for anyone wishing to compare her situation with that of the character she was playing. Charles found himself half-expecting her to continue, ‘Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much beer on him’, or to sniff distractedly at her fingers and murmur, ‘Here’s the smell of beer still. All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. Oh! Oh! Oh!’
‘Yes, everyone’s getting a bit tense. The thought that we open Tuesday week and there’s so much to do.’
‘You can say that again. It’s just never going to happen. I mean, I knew it was insane to try and do such a complex piece in three-and-a-half weeks. We need three-and-a-half weeks just talking about it before we even start rehearsal.’
‘It’ll happen,’ Charles reassured. ‘It always does happen. Somehow.’
‘Not always,’ Felicia disagreed gloomily. ‘Some productions don’t open on time. Particularly of the Scottish Play.’
‘Oh, come on, you don’t believe all that rubbish, do you?’
Her reply came back in a tone of pious reproof. He had challenged one of the articles of her faith in the theatre. ‘There must be something in it. That sort of rumour doesn’t build up for no reason. You hear such terrible stories . . .’
‘Like what?’
‘Well, this is absolutely authentic, because I know the people involved. Girlfriend of mine was playing Second Witch in Glasgow, and she had a thing with the Banquo. She got pregnant and . . .’ the voice dropped to an awestruck murmur ‘. . . she lost the baby.’
‘That could be regarded as a coincidence.’
‘Maybe, but I think there’s something else behind it. The Witches’ incantations are supposed to be real black magic, you know.’
‘Yes, I’ve heard that.’ Charles spoke dismissively.
‘And then I heard of a production when, in the fight at the end, Macduff’s sword got knocked out of his hand and flew into the auditorium . . . and impaled someone to their seat in the front row.’
‘Yes, I’ve heard that story. Everyone’s heard that story. But I’ve yet to come across anyone who can name the production in which it occurred. It’s always something heard from a friend of a friend. I’m sure it never really happened.’
‘Well, what about this production then?’
‘You think this one’s got a jinx on it?’
‘Oh, come on, Charles. Look at the things that have gone wrong. First, a three-and-a-half week rehearsal period . . .’
‘Ah, now I know you think that’s hopelessly inadequate, but it’s a bit extreme to see that as a manifestation of malign influences. You can blame Gavin’s judgement, you can blame the hard economic facts of running a theatre, but to blame the Powers of Evil is really excessive.’
‘It’s not just that, though. Other things . . .’
‘Like . . .?’
‘That Macduff’s Son not being allowed to continue with the part . . . George being delayed in Paris . . .’
‘Those are inconveniences, yes, but they’re the kind of things that happen in lots of productions. I don’t think they’re evidence of a curse on the play.’
‘And then . . .’ The wonderful voice swooped even lower ‘. . . there’s Warnock Belvedere’s death.’
‘Yes,’ Charles agreed, glad the conversation had moved to that subject of its own accord. ‘There is something strange about that, certainly . . .’
They were sitting in the bar at the end of the Friday’s rehearsal. They had worked hard and knew that they would have to work harder the next day. Gavin was insisting on another Saturday run-through to fix the shape of the whole play and consolidate what they had done during the week. Straight through the play in the morning, then notes and detailed repair work on bits that weren’t right in the afternoon.
Russ Lavery was not in the bar. He had been at rehearsal and done his work, but made no social contact with anyone. Whenever Charles had come near, the boy had taken evasive action.
Charles and Felicia were both sipping chaste Perrier water. Felicia, in her nun-like devotion to her art, very rarely drank alcohol during a rehearsal period. And Charles, of course . . . well, he’d made his pledge, hadn’t he?
On his fourth alcohol-free day, after excursions to various other sickly fluids, he had come back to Perrier. With a decent-sized chunk of lemon, it almost began to have a taste.
It wasn’t the same, though. Nothing was the same. He looked wistfully across to the bar, where other actors swilled their carefree pints or sipped convivial scotches.
His resolution wavered. The disgusting image of Warnock Belvedere’s beer-soaked body was fading. So was the memory of the Tuesday’s hangover. One drink wouldn’t hurt, surely . . .?
But no. He had made a vow. Not until he had solved the case. When he knew who the murderer was, then he’d have a drink.
‘What were you thinking of doing about eating?’
Felicia’s voice brought him out of his alcohol nostalgia. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘Eating. I wondered if you had any plans.’
‘Not particularly, no.’
‘Would you like to come back to the cottage? I could rustle up something . . .’
‘Oh, that’s very kind.’
‘I always find cooking takes my mind off work. If you don’t mind something pretty basic . . .’
‘I’d be delighted.’
‘And I’d like to talk,’ Felicia said earnestly.
Yes, thought Charles. I’d like you to talk, too.
It had to be a cottage. It was the R.S.C. background. The villages around Stratford-upon-Avon are full of rented cottages in which actors and actresses stay up late into night performing microsurgery on Shakespeare’s plays and discussing their art, to them so infinitely various and to outsiders so infinitely the same.
So, when Felicia looked for digs for the Pinero job, she homed in on what she knew, and rented a cottage. Her London base was a tiny studio flat in Maida Vale, but she hadn’t even gone back there on the free Sundays in the Macbeth rehearsal period. She did not want her attention distracted from her ascent of the North Face of Lady Macbeth.
It was a pretty, chintzy little cottage and on arrival she allowed herself the indulgence of a glass of white wine and Perrier. Charles, though sorely tempted, had one without the white wine. In a way, that was the most difficult moment he had encountered in his campaign of temperance. It just seemed so against nature not to have a drink while sitting down waiting to eat.
What Felicia rustled up was lasagne and salad. Very nice, too. Not shop-prepared. The pasta came from a packet, but she cooked it all herself.
Charles could see her through the open kitchen door as she prepared the meal, but she was too far away for continuous conversation. He looked around the room. Let furnished, of course, so she had had little opportunity to impose her personality on the environment.
But there were a few characteristic touches. On a low table in front of the sofa books were piled randomly, some opened, some not. There were at least three different editions of Macbeth. The Cambridge A New Companion to Shakespeare Studies, Shakespeare’s Macbeth, A Selection of Critical Essays, Edited by John Wain, Terence Hawkes’ Twentieth Century Interpretations of Macbeth. Felicia Chatterton certainly believed in doing her homework.
On a dresser there was a book on aerobics and another on how to deal with back pain. A couple of cards on the mantelpiece. Charles managed to read their messages without snooping too overtly. Both wishing her good luck for rehearsals. Both evidently from actors and, judging from the in-jokey tone, actors who had been her colleagues at Stratford.
In the otherwise empty fireplace stood a tall vase containing a dozen red roses. A gesture of affection from someone. But there was no sign of a card. A few red petals lay wrinkling on the hearth, so the gesture had probably been made the previous week. By whom? Russ? That would have made heavy inroads into his Equity minimum. But it would have been typical of his romantic naïveté.
As Felicia had said it would, the cooking seemed to relax her, and when she came in holding the two loaded plates and balancing a wooden salad bowl between them, she looked more human and accessible than Charles had ever seen her.
And astonishingly pretty. There must have been a bathroom off the kitchen, because she had clearly titivated herself a bit. For the first time in their acquaintance, she had released her blond hair from its severe knot and it swung, silky and just-brushed, a couple of inches above her shoulders. She had also touched up her lips with the palest of lipsticks, and a breath of expensively-fresh perfume preceded her.
Charles wondered whether she made these changes every evening when she returned from rehearsal, or if they were for his benefit.
She gestured to him to rescue the salad bowl, which he placed on the floor. She put the plates beside it and reached for the wine bottle. ‘Sure you won’t, Charles . . .?’
Ooh, it hurt. But he managed to refuse. Gosh, wouldn’t Frances be proud of him. He must ring and tell her of this new miracle. When? Maybe when he’d done it for a week . . . Yes, a week had a good, solid feel to it.
The thought of Frances made him think of sex. Funny, he hardly had thought about it at all in the last week. The shock of Warnock’s death, and the hard work of rehearsal seemed to have driven it, atypically, from his mind. At least, he hoped that was the reason. It could, of course, just be that he was getting old. Like many men before him, he suffered a momentary panic at the idea that something he’d so frequently cursed as a troublesome distraction might be about to cease troubling him.
Or maybe it was because he was off the booze . . . Now that really was a terrifying thought. He tried to recall whether previous bouts of abstinence had had this bromide effect on his libido. Trouble was, he couldn’t recall any previous bouts of abstinence.
Felicia sat beside him on the sofa. She didn’t suggest moving her Macbeth library from the low table and they ate off their knees.
The lasagne was good, creamy and spicy. They were both hungry after the day’s hard work and ate in silence. Charles chased the last strip of lettuce round his plate and leaned back in satisfaction.
‘That was really good. Thanks.’
‘Would you like some fruit? I’ve got apples and kiwi-fruit. Or there’s yoghourt . . .?’
‘No, thanks. That was fine. Just right.’
‘Coffee? You do drink coffee, don’t you?’
‘Yes. In a minute, if you’re having some. But there’s no hurry.’
She finished her last mouthful and put the plate down on the floor. She too leant back, grimacing as she stretched against the sofa.
‘Back bad?’
She nodded. ‘Hmm. I know it’s just tension. Always happens through rehearsals. Every vertebra seems to lock into the next one. I do exercises, but it still seizes up.’
‘Has it ever stopped you going on?’
She looked at him in amazement. ‘Good heavens, no. As soon as I get on stage I don’t feel a thing. I can do really elaborate movement stuff without a twinge.’
‘Doctor Theatre strikes again.’
‘That’s right. Oh, I know it’s psychosomatic, really. Doesn’t make it any the less painful.’
‘No.’
‘What kind of symptoms do you get?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Anxiety symptoms. You know, running up to a first night.’
‘Oh.’ Charles would have liked to say he got none. His pose of world-weary cynicism should put him above such self-indulgent frailties. But he knew that it didn’t. ‘Tends to go to my stomach. Always think I’m about to throw up just before a first night.’
‘Do you ever?’
‘Have done. Not for a while.’
‘Do you know any actors who don’t get nervous?’
Charles shook his head. ‘Nope. I always feel with the ones who keep insisting that they don’t, it’s just their own way of expressing the nervousness. They go on about it so much.’
‘Yes.’
There was a companionable lull in the conversation. Their mutual confession of nerves seemed to have made a bridge between them. Charles wondered how he was going to steer the conversation round to Russ Lavery and Warnock Belvedere’s death. But he didn’t wonder with any great urgency.
He glanced across at Felicia’s head, near his on the sofa. Her eyes were closed as she relaxed and the little furrows, which during rehearsal became a fixture on her brow, had been smoothed away. She looked very young. Such soft, smooth skin.
He realised, with ironical relief, that the anxiety he had had before the meal was groundless. He was quite capable of thinking about sex without alcoholic prompting.
In fact, he was thinking about it quite a lot.
To divert his thoughts from that particular track, he deliberately moved the conversation back to his murder investigation. He must behave himself. Perhaps his new image of abstinence should carry over into his sex-life, too. Mr. Clean. No vices. Proper little Sir Galahad, he thought. ‘My strength is as the strength of ten, because my heart is pure.’ Hmm. It had some appeal. Not much, though. Sir Galahad’s life may have been jolly pure, but it never sounded as if it had been much fun. All very well, in principle, devoting all your time to one long-term Grail; Charles preferred the idea of picking up a few nice little lesser Grails on the way.
As if it couldn’t have mattered less, he floated a new topic of conversation. ‘Felicia, about Wamock Belvedere’s death . . .’