Murder in the Title Read Free

Rugland Spa, isn’t it, Velma?’
    â€˜I should say so.’
    â€˜But it’s the sort of show we ought to do . . . every now and then. And with Kathy Kitson in it, the people’ll come along.’
    â€˜Yes . . .’
    â€˜We’re very proud of the Regent here in Rugland Spa, Mr Paris.’
    â€˜Yes, well, it’s a lovely old theatre,’ said Charles, trying to soften the accusation in Herbie Inchbald’s tone.
    â€˜Certainly is. Built in 1894, you know. Chequered career, like most theatres. Kept opening and closing under different managements. Closed completely after the last war – sold and used as a repository for corn.’
    â€˜A tradition that is still maintained,’ Charles joked ill-advisedly.
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜Nothing.’
    â€˜Anyway, virtually derelict in the early sixties, then some far-sighted lads on the council took it in hand – all refurbished – reopened in ’62.’
    â€˜And has been going ever since?’
    â€˜More or less, yes. Nasty scare, what, three years back? Big offer for the whole Maugham Cross site – that’s what this part of the town’s called – from a property company. Don’t know if you know them – Schlenter Estates?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜Oh well, they’re big. Anyway, lot of the council wanted to sell, but we organized local opinion and held on. Close call, though. After that we reconstituted the Board, and I got in Lord Kitestone to be our Patron.’
    â€˜Oh,’ said Charles in a way that he hoped sounded interested. The name had been delivered in a way that required reaction.
    â€˜Willie Kitestone owns Onscombe House, stately home out on the Ludlow road,’ Velma added helpfully. ‘Very large place.’
    â€˜Ah . . .’
    Once again the conversation lay inert, and Charles tried a tentative kiss of life. ‘So many provincial theatres these days seem to depend for their survival on the local council.’
    â€˜Oh yes.’
    â€˜And the Arts Council, of course.’
    â€˜Oh yes.’
    â€˜Still, we’re all right here.’ Velma Inchbald smiled sweetly. So long as Herbie’s on the council. He’s a real thee-ettah-lover.’
    Charles couldn’t think of anything to say. He didn’t like the Inchbalds and that made him feel guilty. He should have liked them, he should have approved of their support for the theatre, his profession needed more people with their attitude. And yet . . . And yet they seemed to him just boring and slightly pompous.
    No doubt a reflection of his own mood. But he felt cussedly disinclined to resuscitate the conversation yet again.
    Herbie did it for him. ‘Of course, it’s not just me,’ he said magnanimously, in a voice that seemed to invite contradiction. ‘A lot of other people help make the Regent a going concern. I mean, you know Donald – he’s a real firecracker. Full of ideas. Only been here a year, but he’s really made some changes. Bright young man is Donald. I’m always ready to listen to his advice.’
    â€˜And of course Tony works so hard.’ Charles felt he should mention the Artistic Director. Though Antony Wensleigh was somewhat vague and a bit of an old woman, there was no questioning his commitment to the Regent Theatre.
    â€˜Yes.’ The word contained less than whole-hearted endorsement from Herbie Inchbald. ‘Mind you, he’d be lost without Donald. And we have to be careful. This theatre’s under constant threat you know. Prime position in the town. Good few developers like to snap it up. Only take a little bit of mismanagement for the place to cease to be economically viable. Then it closes, I get out-voted on the council – there’s plenty of Philistines on that council, you know – and before you can say knife, the Regent’s gone to make way for another supermarket, or hotel, or what-have-you. And