Murder in the Title Read Free Page B

is unnecessary,’ she went on, turning a deep-frozen, silk-clad shoulder to Charles, ‘is all this nudity.’
    â€˜Oh, but sometimes,’ the young man in the leather jacket protested, ‘it’s absolutely essential.’
    â€˜No, darling.’ Kathy Kitson’s put-down was gentle, but firm. ‘Again, a good actress can give the impression of nudity while remaining dressed.’
    In a waisted silk dress, no doubt, Charles thought vindictively. He couldn’t really blame her for cutting him, but it didn’t improve his mood. He drained his Spanish vinegar and went to replenish it. Ahead of him at the bar were two men, one crumpled, fat and unfamiliar, the other Gordon Tremlett, the actor who had played Colonel Fripp.
    The crumpled fat man was persuading the girl behind the bar that it’d save time if she filled him a pint glass of wine rather than ‘one of these piddling little things’. He succeeded, and moved away with the brim of the tankard already to his lips.
    Charles could always recognize a professional drinker. ‘Who is he?’ he asked Gordon Tremlett.
    â€˜Frank Walby, love. Theatre Critic on the
Gazette
.’
    â€˜Ah. And what’s he going to think of the show?’
    â€˜Oh, he’ll adore it. Never given a bad notice in his life. Bit like a review in
Stage
– so nice it doesn’t mean anything. Praise for all, my dear, including the lady who tore the tickets. No, I’ve lived in Rugland Spa fifteen years and never seen a harsh word from Frank.’
    Gordon Tremlett had an unusual history for an actor. He had come into the business after taking an early retirement as, of all things, a bank manager. Always a keen (and talented) amateur actor, he had managed to get his Equity ticket, and worked at the Regent whenever there was a suitable small part for him. He had hardly ever worked anywhere else, but demonstrated the fanaticism of all converts and was far more theatrical than most lifetime actors.
    His colleagues regarded him with amused tolerance and occasional resentment. The latter arose whenever he tried to identify too closely with the rest of the company. They could not treat as an equal in their own hazardous profession someone cushioned by a large pension from Barclays Bank.
    Gordon Tremlett’s talent was serviceable, but he was an example of Antony Wensleigh’s tendency to surround himself with casts of friends rather than searching out excellence.
    â€˜Sorry, love,’ Gordon apologized, picking up a tray of drinks and moving off. ‘Got some people in.’
    Gordon always had people in. His own little claque, all members of the amateur dramatic society he had formerly supported and now patronized, all still slightly breathless at the fact that one of their number was working in the ‘real’ theatre.
    Charles was walking away from the bar with another glass of gall, when Donald Mason again busied up to him.
    â€˜Charles,’ the General Manager whispered. ‘Just a warning.’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜Lad in the leather jacket – he’s one of the Arts Council assessment team.’
    â€˜Really?’
    â€˜Yes. And our prospects of getting a grant for next season are dicey enough, so just be careful.’
    â€˜Sure. But you’d better detach him from Kathy. He seems to be a big fan of Royston Everett’s work, and she’s calmly telling him how she plans to expurgate all her lines in
Shove It
.’
    â€˜Oh, that’s not the sort of thing that’s going to worry him. No, I’m more concerned that he doesn’t hear about Tony’s mismanagement.’
    â€˜What mismanagement?’ It was news to Charles that the Artistic Director had been guilty of any.
    â€˜Oh, you know, cock-ups over the budget and all the other things. For God’s sake don’t let the Arts Council bloke hear about those.’
    Charles raised his head and, over Kathy