‘Well, yesterday was their first day in the studio and when he got in front of the cameras — he dropped dead.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘Yes, they lost the whole studio day.’
Charles tut-tutted appropriately.
‘They’re going to get Robert Carton in instead. I’m sure he’ll do it awfully well.’
‘Oh, I should think so.’ There was a silence. ‘It’d be nice for us to get together again soon.
‘Charles!’ She looked at him as if he had made an improper suggestion. Which indeed he had. But not one that had worried her before.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘But, Charles, I’m on a different programme now.’
His dilatoriness in getting to Studio B didn’t matter. He had checked with Mort Verdon, who assured him that the samurai sword would be kept locked in the prop store until required for the final scene. ‘Can’t leave things like that lying around, boofle. For a start, it’s worth a few bob, and things have been known to disappear, you know. . Also, it’s an extremely businesslike weapon, dear. Very sharp. If somebody started fooling about with that, there could be a very sudden influx of new members to the Treble Section. .’
Maybe Mort Verdon’s protective eye would be sufficient to ward off any ‘accidents’, but Charles knew Barton Rivers was cunning in his madness, and didn’t feel confident. As soon as the sword appeared on the set, he would watch Barton Rivers’s every move. Any attempt to touch it and he’d pounce. He needed evidence to ensure that the old maniac was put away where he belonged. But he’d have to be quick. He wanted evidence, but he didn’t want another corpse.
Studio B, when he found it, looked quite a bit smaller than Studio A, but he was informed that it had the same floor area. The difference was that the larger studio had permanent audience seats, while when Studio B had audience shows, banks of seats were brought in, thus reducing the acting area. The seating was built in situ on frames of bolted metal sections, and stood up in great wedges away from the studio back wall. (A large gap had to be left between this wall and the back of the bank of seats because of fire regulations.)
Charles slouched in the front row and watched the recording with mild interest. The atmosphere was different to the usual studio day. Normally the tension mounted as the day went on, building to the mock-climax of the Dress Run, and then the final release of the end of the recording. On the revised schedule, each scene was rehearsed until satisfactory, and then recorded. It made everyone more relaxed. In spite of the industrial stormclouds outside, in the studio all was cosy. Many of the actors commented how much they’d rather rehearse/record the show every week, forget the moribund studio audience and either dub on the laughs or — heretical thought to any traditional Light Entertainment mind! — dispense with them altogether.
Peter Lipscombe explained at considerable length how much more expensive this would be because of the cost of VTR machine time, but soon lost his audience in a welter of budgetary jargon.
Through the slow processes of the morning Charles kept an eye on Barton Rivers. The old man sat in the audience grinning inanely and watching the every move of his wife. Whatever had happened to his mind, his devotion to Aurelia seemed absolutely genuine, a devotion reflected in such overblown and dated terms by the relationship between Maltravers and Eithne Ratcliffe.
Once again Charles wondered who on earth Hilary could be and where she fitted into the bizarre picture.
At one point he chatted to Barton. The old man, with his zany politeness, used a lot of ‘dear boys’, commented that doing the show this way was ‘a rummy business’ and asked Charles what chance he thought our chaps had against the Indians at the Oval.
Now that he had the key, Charles could hear the intonations of Maltravers Ratcliffe in every word. And, remembering the photograph of the fine young man in the Bentley, he could see that, if ever the filming of Death Takes A Short Cut had been feasible, Barton Rivers would have been ideal casting for it.
He contemplated challenging the old man with all he knew, but he didn’t think it would work. The ruined mind would not be able to respond. No, he had to wait for the sword and see what happened.
They proceeded quickly on the new schedule and by lunchtime had recorded the bulk of the show. Of course, there were no canteen facilities, but Peter Lipscombe demonstrated that he did have his uses by laying on large supplies of take-away food in the dressing rooms. Mort Verdon was of the pessimistic opinion that this might be construed as strike-breaking and twitched visibly every time there was an announcement on the loudspeakers.
There were quite a few announcements on the loudspeakers that lunchtime, calling meetings of various branches of various unions, but, remarkably, the entire studio crew reassembled to continue work at two o’clock.
Charles began to feel nervous as the final scene of the episode drew near. He was taking a terrible risk. If something went wrong, another person could die.
Perhaps he should have gone to the police. But even as the idea came to him, he dismissed it. His story was so fanciful, so ridiculous, that no one would believe him. He remembered from his interview after the night’s filming in Clapham how little the police cared for the romantic notions of amateurs.
The recording continued. The penultimate scene was completed and the set had to be redressed before the final one, in which Colonel Strutter’s Japanese neighbour was to present him with a samurai sword.
Dob Howarth, whose work for the day was finished, came into the audience, yawning. She smiled at Charles, giving him once again the full beam of her eyes. ‘Oh, I think we’ll get it all in the can now.’
‘Looks like it.’
‘I’m exhausted. Come and sit with me and tell me sweet stories, darling.’
Charles was torn. Barton Rivers sat two rows in front of him and he wanted to keep within range of the old man. Equally, he didn’t want to arouse Aurelia’s suspicions by not accompanying her up to the back of the audience seats.
It’d be all right. The sword wasn’t even on the set yet. And it would only take a second to get down on stage. He moved up to join Aurelia in the back row.
‘Be a relief when all this industrial trouble’s over, won’t it, Dob?’
‘Will rather, darling. I must say it doesn’t make the whole process any less tiring.’
Her voice was intimate and close. He decided to talk to her about Barton. She must know a bit of what was going on. Maybe, if he told her all of it, she would agree to having the old man put away. It could all be sorted out without further risk.
Charles put his arm along the back rail of the audience seating and asked gently, ‘How is Barton, Dob?’
She sighed. ‘Not getting better, I’m afraid.’
Charles looked down on to the set. Mort Verdon walked into the light bearing, like Miss World with her sceptre, the samurai sword.
Six rows down, the long figure of Barton Rivers rose to his feet.
Immediately, Charles did the same and started down the steps.
But Barton didn’t go for the sword. Instead, with his fixed gentlemanly grin, he came up towards them.
Charles subsided back into his seat with relief. The danger had passed for the time being.
‘Barton’s mind works strangely, doesn’t it, Dob?’ he murmured.
She sighed. ‘I’m afraid so, darling.’
There was a sudden commotion on the set. Charles tensed, but Barton Rivers was still moving away from the sword.
Everyone seemed to be flooding into the studio looking bewildered. At last Bob Tomlinson emerged from the melee. He turned to the audience seats and shouted in his coster’s voice, ‘That’s it, folks. A.C.T.T. has called a strike. We’re all out. It’s over.’
Then everything happened fast. Charles saw Mort Verdon put the samurai sword down on the sofa. Barton Rivers, who was now almost at the top of the audience steps, turned back towards the set.