Final Act Read online

  David Deeney lowered his newspaper now. He stared critically at his senior. The lion of the theatre badly needed a haircut, he decided. The grey hair stretched untidily over his collar at the back. The old rascal was looking older, he decided, and not entirely healthy. His nose was redder and slightly more bulbous than when he had last appeared with him two years earlier. That wouldn’t matter too much for this television enterprise: the make-up girls would handle it. They would need to earn their money where Sir Bradley was concerned, but no doubt they were well used to ageing celebrities and outsize egos.

  No doubt his customary over-the-top performance would be well received in Herefordshire Horrors, which now seemed to be the agreed title for the latest episode on the Inspector Loxton series. There had been plenty of deaths in previous episodes, but no one took them too seriously. A rising number of well-known theatrical names had now lent their presence to the series. Sometimes they had to deliver the lamest lines with tongues firmly in well-practised cheeks, but the considerable public who watched them seemed to accept that almost eagerly. The ratings were good enough to ensure high salaries for guest appearances and the repeat fees from around the world provided steady pensions for some eminent names who were now being offered fewer roles.

  ‘Always better out than in.’ Sir Bradley repeated his observation, as if he were offering a final chance to a lesser actor who had failed to come in on cue.

  ‘That could be a subject for lively and extended debate,’ said David, making an elaborate show of opening the window and gazing towards the late-afternoon sun over the Malvern Hills. He had a better part than Morton’s cameo role in the latest murder mystery. Nothing could take that away from him, so he would tolerate the old boy. He might even pick up a few theatrical anecdotes for the autobiography he envisaged later in his career, though most of the ones he had heard so far were second-hand and over-rehearsed.

  ‘One of the classic English dramas begins with a fart,’ said Sir Bradley with a benign smile. It was good to display your knowledge of the stage to the ignorant young. They weren’t steeped in the theatre and its lore, as people had been in his day.

  ‘The Alchemist, you mean,’ said David loftily. “Thy worst – I fart at thee.” I’m sure that first line got the audience’s immediate attention in its day, but it’s difficult to shock anyone nowadays. We did our own production of The Alchemist when I was at RADA.’

  Morton tried not to look put out. ‘Some people can fart at will. I never mastered that.’

  ‘For which relief, much thanks,’ David answered.

  ‘Le Pétomane. That was the chap. Stage name of Joseph Pujol, the noted French flatulist. That doesn’t mean he played the flute, you know.’

  ‘No. It means he made a living from farting. Used to play well-known tunes – he could do “O Sole Mio” and the “Marseillaise”, so he must have been both a romantic and a patriot. He could also blow a candle out from several yards away. Great favourite of Edward VII, apparently, when he was Prince of Wales.’

  Sir Bradley was considerably put out, though he strove to conceal it. It was always a bugger when your amusing stage stories were taken over by some upstart who should have more respect for your standing in matters of histrionic history. He said sullenly, ‘Must have put a great strain on the poor sod.’

  ‘He lived from 1857 to 1945, I believe. Eighty-eight years old when he died, so it couldn’t have done him much harm. Friend of mine did a dissertation upon him. Used to breathe in through his arse and then expel the air again, so I suppose strictly speaking he wasn’t farting. His stage assistant must have been grateful for that.’

  ‘Lived a little too early, didn’t he? He’d probably get a BAFTA for it nowadays.’

  ‘Even a knighthood, perhaps, in these enlightened times.’

  Sir Bradley stared at him darkly, but failed to catch his eye. ‘No one would raise an eyebrow about farting on stage nowadays. Not with all the kitchen sink stuff your generation is so fond of.’

  David Deeney was forty-four. He said firmly, ‘Kitchen sink had been and gone long before I was on the scene.’

  Morton nodded slowly. ‘I remember Larry doing Archie Rice in The Entertainer, you know. Caused quite a stir in theatrical circles, that did.’ He’d never spoken to Olivier in his life, but the great man had been dead for many years now and it seemed safe to claim a certain kinship with him. Most people brighten when they think of their youth, and actors more than most. Brad smiled fondly as he said, ‘Rex Harrison used to fart a lot, you know, in My Fair Lady. That was involuntary rather than controlled, though. Julie Andrews told me all about it.’ The famous songstress had actually recounted it in a distant television interview, but Bradley thought it was long enough ago for him to retell it as a personal confidence.

  ‘I didn’t know that, no.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Julie as Eliza took great care not to get downwind of him, as you might say.’ He chuckled at the excellence of his wordplay. ‘Her mum and dad were great troupers, you know. Ted and Barbara Andrews. Stalwarts of the music hall and radio in their great days, before the box took over. They introduced Julie to the stage as a teenager. Well before your time, lad.’ It was before Morton’s as well, but sufficiently vague in period for him to embrace hearsay as part of his personal experience.

  David said, ‘Television is a more intimate medium. I don’t suppose there’ll be any call for farting in the next few weeks.’

  It was an attempt to bring the old man back to present concerns, but Sir Bradley wasn’t ready for that yet. ‘I could never fart at will,’ he said soulfully, wondering if he was admitting to a major theatrical weakness. ‘But I’ve been able to belch at will throughout my adult life.’ He demonstrated, moving smoothly from piano to fortissimo. ‘It was a great advantage when I gave my Toby Belch at Stratford. I felt the bard would have been proud of me. Even when we transferred to the Barbican, I retained the facility. The London critics were duly impressed. And I brought the house down when we toured in the north.’

  ‘I suppose the provinces weren’t used to such sophistication in those days.’

  Morton’s glare had minimal effect. ‘What do you think of Martin Buttivant?’

  ‘Ah.’ A lengthy pause in which the two very different men became mysteriously at one. Weighing the merits and demerits of fellow actors was always fun, and usually most fun of all when there were only two of you. There was always the possibility of giving offence when you were in a large group – people had their own axes to grind, their own contrasting experiences to draw upon. But when there were just two of you in guaranteed privacy, you could be outrageously and deliciously bitchy.

  It wouldn’t prevent you being a shameless bootlicker in the presence of the man himself on the morrow, of course. The theatre was a precarious profession and you had to look after yourself, whatever hypocrisy that dictated in the moment. Everyone understood the strange rules of the profession. You were never less than marvellous to your face, but that didn’t protect you from what people said in your absence. That was why actors trusted no one and were perpetually insecure. Bathed in the most extravagant of tributes, they still wondered as they towelled themselves down what their admirers really thought.

  ‘Martin Buttivant believed his own publicity,’ said David Deeney. ‘He wrote his own reviews of his shows when he was an amateur and convinced himself of his enduring excellence.’

  ‘He lacks versatility.’ Sir Bradley nodded sagely. ‘He quite certainly couldn’t produce a fart to order. Not even a decent belch, I’m sure.’

  ‘I expect Martin thinks it’s not strictly necessary in his role as a chief inspector,’ said David, as if striving to be fair. ‘But it would add something to his CID ambience. We haven’t had a decent CID belcher on the box since the late lamented Warren Clarke played Dalziel.’

  ‘Adam Dalgliesh omitted the possibilities of wind altogether,’ said Morton wistfully. ‘Written by a woman, of course. They tend to ignore the full rich possibilities of human p
hysiology.’ He farted again, almost reverently, it seemed.

  ‘I expect we shall all be dutifully sycophantic to Buttivant in rehearsal, nevertheless. We wouldn’t be here without him, would we?’

  Sir Bradley grinned sourly. ‘Probably not. The man’s a turd, but even turds have their uses. I had other offers, but the turd won through. The money’s quite good, isn’t it?’

  ‘Very handsome.’ David wondered how much more the flatulent knight was getting than he was, but you didn’t discuss such things. The sordid business of finance was best left to agents. And a knighthood meant things, in this business, however much it was mocked behind the scenes. It added to your price per line on telly, as well as upping your fees and opportunities for interviews. Perhaps he would be a knight one day, if he lived long enough and appeared in the right things and played his cards right. It couldn’t be impossible, if this scatological buffoon could make it. Visions of chat show hosts laughing dutifully at his anecdotes swam for a moment before Deeney.

  ‘Funny business, death,’ said Morton reflectively.

  Deeney came reluctantly back to reality. ‘Lucrative, though, as far as chaps like us are concerned. We wouldn’t have this particular assignment without it. Thank heavens for the incurable public curiosity about death.’

  ‘I’ve done your Ibsen and your Chekhov,’ Morton boomed sententiously.

  ‘And done them well, by all accounts,’ said David dutifully.

  Morton nodded his agreement. ‘These fellows are profound. I suppose that’s why we come back to them. But the one thing that you can guarantee is that if you give your audience a murder, on stage or film or telly, old Joe Public will want to know whodunnit.’

  ‘Which is why we’re all here sampling the rural delights of Herefordshire,’ David pointed out.

  Sir Bradley nodded aristocratic approval and emptied the last of the bottle of claret into their glasses. He raised his slightly fuller one to the height of his noble brow. ‘To murder!’ he said theatrically.

  TWO

  Rank counts for much in the police service, even in these egalitarian days. John Lambert didn’t go much on rank, but he decided that in this extreme case discipline and the natural order of things must prevail.

  Detective Chief Superintendent Lambert made an executive decision: Detective Sergeant Hook should be the man who chatted informally on television with the producer of the Inspector Loxton series, Sam Jackson, MBE, and the star of the series, Martin Buttivant. Bert Hook was one of the very few working policemen who had completed an Open University degree. Lambert pointed out to anyone who would listen that his sergeant’s literary credentials must surely make him the appropriate person to engage in a wide-ranging discussion of real policing with the producer of a popular fictional crime series.

  Hook’s reaction to this argument was not recorded.

  Central Television were delighted to record and transmit what their presenter described as ‘these light-hearted exchanges’. It would provide useful publicity for the series, a few days before shooting began on the latest Inspector Loxton mystery, of which the title was now confirmed as Herefordshire Horrors. The star of the show, Martin Buttivant, came into the studio with his deliberately larger-than-life producer. The actor knew his role here; his blue eyes sparkled humorously between narrowed lids, beneath hair which was too long for a policeman but immaculately and expensively styled to please his host of middle-aged female admirers. He and Jackson sat back in their chairs and smiled with practised ease at the cameras.

  Bert Hook tried to do practised ease, but failed. The other two seemed totally relaxed, totally unconscious of the cameras, which seemed to be examining him like baleful and all-seeing eyes. It didn’t help when the presenter of this afternoon chat show introduced him as an oddity. ‘Here we have that almost unique thing among practising policemen, a detective who is also a considerable and much respected intellectual. Detective Sergeant Hook not only collars dangerous criminals and locks them safely away from us; he also has a distinguished degree and has studied English Literature to a high level and with distinction. He combines a practical knowledge of the reality and the grimness of modern crime with an almost unique capacity to estimate popular fiction. No doubt DS Hook will be anxious to point out to us the flaws in what Sam Jackson and Martin Buttivant present to us, whilst they claim it to be the genuine article.’

  Sam Jackson regarded both Hook and the presenter with mounting distaste as the latter delivered this prepared spiel. He’d been warned that there was strictly no smoking on set; he had nevertheless brought a large unlit cigar with him as a stage prop. He pointed it now like a pistol at each of his adversaries in turn as he said, ‘We’re in the entertainment business, dear boy. We put bums on seats and aim to keep them there. Even when these bums are in their own homes and perched upon comfortable armchairs.’ He beamed suddenly and unexpectedly at the man beside him. ‘Martin Buttivant here is not a copper but an actor. He happens in my opinion to be a bloody good one.’

  Sudden and rapturous applause from the audience. Buttivant smiled modestly, allowed the noise to run its course, and held up an arresting hand as it began to die. Then he spoke in rich and measured tones. ‘Remember please that all of us here are on the same side in this. No one respects our policemen and policewomen more than I do. All of us sleep more easily in our beds each night because of their actions. When occasional evidence of corruption or rank inefficiency is exposed, I am the first person to say that this represents the exception rather than the rule. I am sure the audience will agree with me when I say that we are lucky to have men like Detective Sergeant Hook working on our behalf.’

  The applause this time was more sporadic and uncertain, as if the clappers were anxious to recognize his very worthy sentiments rather than support the integrity of the nation’s police force. Literary parallels flooded unbidden and unhelpful into Bert Hook’s surprisingly fertile mind. They were not helpful to him. He felt not like Hamlet dominating the Danish court but like Wodehouse’s Gussy Fink-Nottle thrust on to the stage to present prizes. He said sternly, ‘Mr Jackson and Mr Buttivant are quite right. They present crime fiction, not real crime, and they do so highly successfully. I am not here to criticize them.’

  The presenter leapt upon this like a hungry lion upon raw meat. ‘Oh, but you are, DS Hook. That is exactly why you are here. Because unless the adventures presented to us under the mantle of Detective Chief Inspector Loxton have some convincing basis in fact, they will not be able to carry the credibility which the public demands. Reality is a necessary background, a stage setting, if you will, to the mysteries which are so entertainingly unravelled for us upon the nation’s television screens each Wednesday evening.’

  Hook didn’t want to get involved in the errors of detail in the series; he sensed that would lead him into arguments he couldn’t win. He smiled as blandly as he could and said, ‘The public doesn’t always demand realism. The James Bond films have been one of the great commercial successes of the modern cinema, but no one really believes that spies and secret agents behave as the central character in the series does.’

  It was not the presenter but Sam Jackson who replied to this. He said wistfully, ‘You get lots of naked flesh in the Bond films. That makes people less critical. A screen filled with curvy female ass dulls the critical faculties.’ That last bit was worthy of the great Goldwyn himself, Sam thought; modesty had never been a troublesome virtue to him. His sentiment brought a delighted roar from the audience, part hilarity and part shock at his directness at this hour of the day. His use of the American ‘ass’ seemed somehow more shocking than its British equivalent.

  The presenter wriggled uncomfortably, a warning from his producer shrilling in his earphone. He needed to shut up Jackson, who was waving his cigar and threatening further indiscretions. ‘I think everyone accepts that the Bond films are high-spirited romps. But somehow one expects television crime series to have a more solid basis in fact. The stories are of course fictional, b
ut one expects Inspector Loxton as the central character to be convincing as a British policeman. Martin Buttivant, as the man who has played this role now for several years, would you not agree with me on this?’

  ‘Oh indeed I would, James.’ Always memorise the name of your interviewer and use it as frequently as you can without grovelling. Buttivant was by now a veteran of TV interviews as well as a popular actor in a hit series. ‘One of the first things I did when I was offered the part of Ben Loxton six years ago was to attend my local police station and immerse myself in police procedure for two whole days. It increased my respect for the police service. May I say again that our police officers, male and female, do a wonderful job in circumstances which are often trying.’

  ‘More trying than those presented in the Inspector Loxton series, perhaps. Would you not agree, Detective Sergeant Hook?’

  Bert started a little. He had been happy to see the exchanges diverted away from him. Now the spotlight had been turned abruptly back upon him. He said stiffly, ‘The public wants a solution within the time slot allotted to the series. It is inevitable and understandable that television will cut a few corners. Police procedure is boring. It is inevitable, probably desirable, that much of it will be ignored in favour of a simple storyline.’

  ‘So you’re telling us that the Inspector Loxton series is unrealistic, that it ignores most of the problems you meet in real policing?’ Controversy is the lifeblood of television discussion; the presenter had mouthed this mantra at the beginning of his career and never forgotten it.

  DS Hook sighed and fingered his collar, which suddenly seemed unaccountably tight. His weather-beaten, unremarkable face resembled that of the old-fashioned village bobby who remained cherished by the British public long after he had disappeared. He was a much shrewder man than he appeared and that was a professional advantage to him: criminals regularly underestimated Bert Hook and suffered for it. But on television, an amateur amidst three professionals, he was at a decided disadvantage. Detective Chief Superintendent John bloody Lambert had landed him with this and he’d get his own back in due course. He said a little desperately, ‘In most murder cases, we proceed by elimination. We have to explore many blind alleys before we eventually find the one which leads to success. Blind alleys do not make for good television.’