Murder Unprompted: A Charles Paris Murder Mystery by Simon Brett Page B
Authors: Simon Brett
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murmur of mixed reaction from the cast. They were sorry, yes, angry, yes, but inside each felt relief. In each mind was the thought: It wasn’t
me
.
‘I’m sorry, this is very painful,’ Paul Lexington continued, with the same hint of relish. ‘It’s not the part of the producer’s job that I enjoy.
‘I mentioned cast changes.’
They were all struck dumb again. In their relief they had forgotten that. The axe was still poised overhead. Eyes again slid round to Salome Search.
‘Charles,’ said Paul Lexington, ‘I’m sorry . . .’
CHAPTER FIVE
CHARLES WAS no less hurt than Alex Household at losing his part in
The Hooded Owl,
but his way of showing the hurt was different. He was not quick to anger and confrontation; shocks caught up with him slowly and he usually faced them in solitary depression rather than by throwing a scene. A bottle of Bell’s was the only witness of his lowest moods.
It was just the two of them. The rest of the cast had survived the axe. Charles stayed at the meeting long enough to hear when the rehearsal call was for the Monday; if he accepted Paul’s offer of an understudy job, then he’d have to be there. But he wasn’t sure whether he was going to accept. He said he’d think about it over the weekend, and let Paul know on the Monday.
When he left, the other actors offered him clumsy commiseration, as to someone who had been bereaved. And, as to the bereaved, their words glowed with the grateful confidence that their own worlds were still intact.
It was when he got outside into the sunlight of a newly-trendy Covent Garden that the disappointment hit him. His armour of cynicism was shown up as useless; all he could feel was how desperately he had wanted the job and how bitter he felt at the injustice that had taken it away from him.
Because it was injustice; he knew it wasn’t a matter of talent. He had played that part well, certainly at least as well as the actor taking over from him.
George Birkitt.
He knew George Birkitt, had worked with him on a television sit. com. called
The Strutters.
He liked George Birkitt and thought he was a good actor. But to lose the part to George Birkitt . . . that he found hard to stomach.
And why? Simply because George Birkitt was a better-known name from television. After
The Strutters,
he had gone on to play a leading part in another sit. com. called
Fly-Buttons.
That had just started screening as part of the ITV Autumn Season and so suddenly George Birkitt was a familiar name. The sort of name which, on a poster – particularly if placed directly beneath that of Michael Banks – would in theory bring the punters in.
Whereas Charles Paris, who knew that he had given one of the best performances of his career in
The Hooded Owl,
was a name that the punters wouldn’t know from a bar of soap.
So he was out, and George Birkitt was in.
Charles just walked. Walked through the streets of London. He often did at times of emotional crisis. He didn’t really notice where he was going, just plodded on mechanically.
The sight of an open pub told him how much time had passed and also reminded him of his normal comfort in moments of stress.
But he didn’t want to sit in a pub, listening to the jollity and in-jokes of office workers.
He went into an off-licence and bought a large bottle of Bell’s.
But he didn’t want just to go back to Hereford Road and drink it on his own.
He needed someone to talk to. Someone who would understand what he was going through.
There was only one person who would really understand, because he was going through exactly the same. And that was Alex Household.
The new flat was at the top of a tall house in Bloomsbury, round the back of the British Museum. Alex opened the door suspiciously and, when he saw who was there, was about to shut it again.
‘I don’t want your bloody sympathy, Charles!’
‘That’s not what I’m bringing. I’ve got the boot too.’
‘Oh Lord.’ Alex Household drew aside to
me
.
‘I’m sorry, this is very painful,’ Paul Lexington continued, with the same hint of relish. ‘It’s not the part of the producer’s job that I enjoy.
‘I mentioned cast changes.’
They were all struck dumb again. In their relief they had forgotten that. The axe was still poised overhead. Eyes again slid round to Salome Search.
‘Charles,’ said Paul Lexington, ‘I’m sorry . . .’
CHAPTER FIVE
CHARLES WAS no less hurt than Alex Household at losing his part in
The Hooded Owl,
but his way of showing the hurt was different. He was not quick to anger and confrontation; shocks caught up with him slowly and he usually faced them in solitary depression rather than by throwing a scene. A bottle of Bell’s was the only witness of his lowest moods.
It was just the two of them. The rest of the cast had survived the axe. Charles stayed at the meeting long enough to hear when the rehearsal call was for the Monday; if he accepted Paul’s offer of an understudy job, then he’d have to be there. But he wasn’t sure whether he was going to accept. He said he’d think about it over the weekend, and let Paul know on the Monday.
When he left, the other actors offered him clumsy commiseration, as to someone who had been bereaved. And, as to the bereaved, their words glowed with the grateful confidence that their own worlds were still intact.
It was when he got outside into the sunlight of a newly-trendy Covent Garden that the disappointment hit him. His armour of cynicism was shown up as useless; all he could feel was how desperately he had wanted the job and how bitter he felt at the injustice that had taken it away from him.
Because it was injustice; he knew it wasn’t a matter of talent. He had played that part well, certainly at least as well as the actor taking over from him.
George Birkitt.
He knew George Birkitt, had worked with him on a television sit. com. called
The Strutters.
He liked George Birkitt and thought he was a good actor. But to lose the part to George Birkitt . . . that he found hard to stomach.
And why? Simply because George Birkitt was a better-known name from television. After
The Strutters,
he had gone on to play a leading part in another sit. com. called
Fly-Buttons.
That had just started screening as part of the ITV Autumn Season and so suddenly George Birkitt was a familiar name. The sort of name which, on a poster – particularly if placed directly beneath that of Michael Banks – would in theory bring the punters in.
Whereas Charles Paris, who knew that he had given one of the best performances of his career in
The Hooded Owl,
was a name that the punters wouldn’t know from a bar of soap.
So he was out, and George Birkitt was in.
Charles just walked. Walked through the streets of London. He often did at times of emotional crisis. He didn’t really notice where he was going, just plodded on mechanically.
The sight of an open pub told him how much time had passed and also reminded him of his normal comfort in moments of stress.
But he didn’t want to sit in a pub, listening to the jollity and in-jokes of office workers.
He went into an off-licence and bought a large bottle of Bell’s.
But he didn’t want just to go back to Hereford Road and drink it on his own.
He needed someone to talk to. Someone who would understand what he was going through.
There was only one person who would really understand, because he was going through exactly the same. And that was Alex Household.
The new flat was at the top of a tall house in Bloomsbury, round the back of the British Museum. Alex opened the door suspiciously and, when he saw who was there, was about to shut it again.
‘I don’t want your bloody sympathy, Charles!’
‘That’s not what I’m bringing. I’ve got the boot too.’
‘Oh Lord.’ Alex Household drew aside to
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