Charles apologized. ‘Yes, I’m being unfair. Sorry. How did the telly come about?’
‘Had a call from one of the Alexander Harvey researchers yesterday. Apparently they’re doing some big nostalgia programme. It’s the fortieth anniversary of the valve or something and they’re going to recreate some of the great radio and telly shows of the forties and fifties.’
‘But I wasn’t in any of the great radio and telly shows of the forties and fifties.’
‘No, I know you weren’t. Let me finish. One of the things they want to recreate is one of the old Barber and Pole routines. You remember them. . Lennie Barber and Wilkie Pole. Well, apparently a guy who’s advising on the show, producer called Walter Proud — don’t know if you know him — well, he remembered that you used to do a very good impersonation of Wilkie Pole. . Pole died, incidentally. .don’t know if you knew. .’
Maurice continued his explanation and Charles felt a burning blush spread over his checks. To have thought that he was actually wanted for himself, not just as a convenient comedy feed. He tried to recall if he’d said anything to Maurice that might indicate the way his thoughts had been turning. He decided he was probably safe.
‘I won’t be expected to talk?’ he asked with slight distaste, as if appearing on a chat-show was his idea of a personal hell.
‘Oh, good Lord, no. They’ll have Lennie Barber on for a bit of chat. All you have to do is play Pole in the little sketch at the end. Only one day’s rehearsal and the money’s good.’
They went into some detail over the money. Charles, always amazed by the size of television fees, thought they should ask for a bit more on principle. Maurice was of the opinion that, if any fuss were made, the casting director involved would say thank you very much and find someone else. Charles decided, on reflection, that Maurice was probably right.
They then talked a bit about Bill Peaky’s death and Charles asked if Maurice had any form on the comedian.
‘Not a lot. Only got big recently. I’ve heard he had a bit of a reputation for the ladies. Put it about a bit, as far as I can gather. But that’s all. Think a lot was going to happen for him, though. Big talent. You seen his act?’
‘Not enough of it to make any meaningful judgment.’
‘He was a real live wire, I believe.’
‘You can say that again.’
Tea in the Lounge of the Devereux Hotel had probably not changed for forty years. Charles kept feeling that he was back in rep, playing some antiquated thriller, in which the hostess, wearing a grey blouse and long tweed skirt, dispensed cold tea, while the chief suspect, a bounder in a blazer and flannels, handed round plaster fairy cakes to the juvenile lead and ingenue. He was maybe being a bit flattering to himself and Frances by casting them in the young roles, but Vita Maureen and Norman del Rosa fitted their parts perfectly, even down to the costumes.
And yet it wasn’t a thriller. There was no crime. True, there had just been a violent death, but that had been shown incontrovertibly to be an accident. Maybe something else would happen. Maybe Norman del Rosa would step behind the sofa, cast his eyes down and freeze with an expression of horror at the sight of an old dowager with a knife between her shoulder blades. Maybe Vita Maureen would open the cupboard to get out her Dundee cake and be transfixed by the sight of the under-gardener’s body swaying on a rope inside.
So deeply was he immersed in his fantasy, it was quite a shock to find that the tea was hot and the fairy cakes soft enough to receive his teeth.
‘We always stay at the Devereux when we are in Hunstanton,’ Vita Maureen was saying. ‘They know us here and I think the manager and his wife (charming couple, Bill and Geraldine, you must meet them) are more than a little stage-struck. I mean, most of their guests are. . well, not to put too fine a point upon it, dull, and a lot of them tradespeople, so I think we are a breath of fresh air.’
‘Yes.’ Charles nodded jovially, feeling some sort of response was required.
Vita Maureen continued, telling of other hotels around the country where she and Norman had stayed. Charles’ mind wandered. Frances was keeping up her social facade well, nodding and smiling encouragingly, as if what she was being told actually contained something of interest. He felt a twinge of irritation. Why did Frances suffer fools so gladly? He knew it was unreasonable to condemn her. He behaved just the same himself, but. . but.
Gloomily he recognized the symptoms. Soon the honeymoon would be over again. He and Frances would niggle away at each other until there would be a major row over something minor. Then he would walk out again and the cycle would restart. It was depressing. He’d felt really relaxed with her for the first few days, but since Bill Peaky’s death he was increasingly on edge.
Bill Peaky, Lennie Barber. Comedians. Strange that Lennie Barber should be coming into his life again so soon. Coincidence.
Vita Maureen’s monologue continued. Well, in fact it wasn’t quite a monologue. Every now and then she would refer to Norman for confirmation of a date or the title of a show. And each time he supplied it, she would hurry on, hardly allowing him to finish his sentence.
Charles felt desperately in need of a drink. Maybe he should have had a real skinful at lunchtime, so that he could doze, anaesthetised, through this ritual of gentility.
Maybe he did doze. Certainly it was with a shock that he, realized they were discussing Peaky’s death.
‘It doesn’t do to speak ill of the dead,’ Vita Maureen was saying, with discreet malice, ‘but I’m afraid certain people in the company will not have been wholly sorry to see him go.’
‘Oh,’ said Charles with the same intonation that had greeted her other, less startling revelations.
‘I’m not one to spread gossip, but let’s just say there was a certain young lady in the company with whom he was having a. . thing. Or had been. I gather they broke it off. Somewhat acrimoniously.’ She smiled apologetically. ‘The dressing room walls of the Winter Gardens are disgustingly thin, aren’t they, Norman?’
‘Oh yes, my love.’
‘Of course, a lot of that goes on in the theatre. It’s always a great relief to me that Norman and I work together. It means one doesn’t notice other temptations. So much more satisfactory, isn’t it, Norman?’ She turned on her husband the sort of smile snakes reserve for rabbits.
‘Strange, Bill Peaky dying like that, though, isn’t it?’ Charles mused. ‘I mean, if he was usually so careful to check his equipment every day, you’d think of all days he’d do it when a cable had been replaced.’
‘But he did do it,’ said Norman del Rosa ingenuously. Charles looked at him sharply. ‘What, you mean he did do it on the day he was killed?’
The pianist blushed. ‘No, no, I didn’t mean that. I just meant that he always did. Every other day, except that day. Maybe he didn’t know the cable had been replaced.’
‘I remember there was a terrible accident when we were doing a summer season at Torquay. .’ Vita Maureen swept the conversation on.
But Charles was not deceived by Norman del Rosa’s cover-up. The man had seemed to know something and the way he avoided Charles’ eye confirmed the impression. An instinct for the untoward stirred within Charles. When he got Norman del Rosa alone, he was going to ask what he really knew about Bill Peaky’s death.
The opportunity came surprisingly easily. Vita Maureen, who treated the Devereux Hotel as if it were their home, insisted on showing Frances round. Charles refused the guided tour, which made it difficult for Norman to avoid being left alone with him in the Lounge.
There was a silence. The pianist moved uneasily around the room, as if he knew the question which was coming.
‘What did you mean, Norman?’
‘When?’
‘About Bill Peaky testing the equipment.’
‘He always tested it. His manager said so at the inquest.’