His Final Performance

By Alice Dale

Famous Shakespearean actor, Richard Carrington, thought his final performance was as King Lear in London. In fact, it was in the High Court in Glasgow on a charge of murder.

A STORY OF LOVE, HATE, HYPOCRISY, JEALOUSY & MURDER

• Language: English
• Publisher: Warandale Publishing
• Release date: Jan 5, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201991333

Alice Dale

Born Alice Baxter in Scotland, she spent her working life in professional theatre. Too proud to cash in on the name of her famous brother, Stanley Baxter, she changed her name to Alice Dale. She performed in straight plays, pantomimes with Howard and Wyndham, variety and musicals as well as her own TV show ‘At Home With Alice Dale’ During a ten year stay in Nairobi she appeared in, and wrote scripts for, her TV programme ‘Shop Window’. Moving to Perth, Western Australia, she appeared in most of the major theatres in plays, two  of which she wrote. She also wrote scripts for variety shows she appeared in. Retired from theatre she turned her talents to full time writing, having three plays published and performed in Perth. ‘Ae Fond Kiss’ is her first novel.

Book preview

His Final Performance

By Alice Dale

Prologue

BOB BUCHANAN HAD BEEN the kind of Detective Chief Inspector admired and trusted by all. So when he was elevated to Superintendent there were genuine congratulations all round. And his record remained unblemished until the day he left the force. Now retired for three years, and comfortably settled in their downsized flat in the West End of Glasgow, he was surprised and puzzled to receive a letter addressed to ‘Superintendent Robert Buchanan’. Picking it up from the hall carpet, he made his way to the kitchen where his wife, Janet, was putting last night’s crockery and cutlery into the dishwasher.

‘How about this, Janet?’ he said as he entered the kitchen. ‘The BBC are doing a TV series called ‘Famous Cases of the Past’ and they want to interview me. They say I’ll be on the first programme and its theme will be ‘Judges versus Juries’. That’s close to my heart. But I wonder if they don’t realize I’m retired.’ 

Janet closed the dishwasher and pressed the buttons as Bob handed her the letter. She walked to the kitchen table, put on her glasses and started reading it. They sat opposite each other, Bob waiting in silence for his wife’s comments. 

Bob was a big man of solid build who, at 63, still had his full head of dark hair, streaked attractively with iron grey strands. Janet could not have been more different: a tiny woman of slender build with fine fair hair and pale blue eyes. He could almost pick her up in one large hand, but he always sought her advice, if not on police matters, on every other aspect of their life and was always amazed at how accurately she could sum up a situation.

‘I’m surprised they haven’t said which case they want me to talk about,’ he started. ‘At least I presume that’s what they want. If they’re doing past cases, they’ll need to talk to the police officers who were involved, or who made the arrests. And they’re bound to find some of us have retired.’

‘ I’m quite sure they researched you before they sent this letter. Famous cases, it says,’ and she tapped her teeth with the letter. 

‘Yes. You may be sure it isn’t famous police officers they’re after. It’ll be famous, or should I say infamous, criminals. I arrested quite a few of them. I can’t think which one they mean.’

‘Can’t you?’ she said with an arched eyebrow. ‘I think I can! I’ll bet you a pound to a penny it’s that Shakespearean actor you arrested nearly twenty years ago. He was really famous. ‘    

‘Oh him!’ Bob said, frowning, as he reached for the kettle. ‘I hope it isn’t. I was never able to be certain whether he was guilty or not. And I’d have to be honest about that if they asked me.’  Pouring water into the kettle, he put instant coffee into two mugs, still refusing to use the coffee machine with pods that their son had given them on their 40th anniversary. ‘But that might make me look indecisive,’ he said.     

‘No, just truthful - and unbiased,’ answered his wife as she took the milk from the fridge and the biscuits from the pantry, a routine they had perfected over the years. Coffee ready, they both sat at the small pine table sipping and thinking. Then she said, ‘They’re probably recording interviews now for a programme that won’t go to air for some time. They don’t say when this interview is, do they?’

‘No, and if you read on you’ll see, they’ve given me a number to phone if I agree to do it.’ Then brighter, he added, ‘They say I’ve to pay my return flight to London and they’ll reimburse me. Apparently it will be done over two days, but they don’t say anything about accommodation. Or a fee.’

‘And you should get both. They’re trying to save money on this programme.’

As though he hadn’t heard, he frowned for a moment or two then, nodding slowly, he said, ‘I think I’m going to do it. Of course I’d have to get police permission. I used to be the one interviewing criminals. It would certainly be a whole new experience to be the interviewee. What’ve I got to lose?’

‘Absolutely nothing,’ she said. Then a thought occurred. ‘I have an idea about accommodation. Hasn’t Sidney Parker kept in touch since they moved to London?’

‘Yes. But if you think I should ask them to put me up, that would be an imposition.’

‘Nonsense. You two were as thick as thieves when you were in the force together. How many years was he your partner?’

‘Eleven. But that doesn’t automatically entitle me to a bed in his house.’

‘Let’s decide about that later. First get your police permission. I’m sure you’ll get it. Then make your phone call accepting this invitation and we’ll sort out the accommodation after that.’

‘Good idea. You’re better at online bookings than I am.’

Janet’s prediction about the subject of the interview proved absolutely right.

It was two weeks later when the recording of the interview took place. After the identification and security formalities at the entrance to the well-known studios, Bob was directed to the correct studio where he was met with a smiling face and outstretched hand.

‘I’m Paul Ashton,’ the fresh-faced young man said. 

Bob had put on his best suit and Janet had even bought him a new shirt and tie to make him feel good and give him confidence. Instead, he felt over dressed and out of date. Paul had blonde hair that stood up on end, and he was wearing a T shirt that said YOU KNOW YOU WANT IT!! APPLY WITHIN. However, Bob felt less threatened when he saw the holes in the knees of his jeans. They can’t pay him much if he can’t afford new ones; or at least to have them mended.

‘Thanks so much for agreeing to come along today,’ Paul was saying as he led the way down a long corridor into an office. ‘I’m looking forward to this interview. Of course I was still in school when you headed the investigation of this case.’ I’ll bet  thought Bob, you must have been in the infant class. You look about fourteen. ‘But I think I’ve done enough research on Richard Carrington to be able to ask you the right questions. Just answer them as truthfully as possible. But not if the truth spoils a good story!’ And he laughed heartily at the old joke.

‘I won’t be telling any ‘stories’ I’ll be telling the truth,’ Buchanan answered straight-faced.

‘Of course you will,’ Paul said, in a slightly patronizing tone. ‘Just remember, we can always stop the recording any time you like if you lose the place or want to re-word something.’ 

‘Or if I need time to think. Which is more likely. It was a long time ago.’

‘Just answer what I ask and try to keep your answers short and to the point.’

‘As I always did on the witness stand.’ Bob felt the need to remind him of that.

‘Yes, of course,’ he conceded. Then, standing up, ‘OK let’s get going.’

Bob followed him as they walked together down another long corridor.

‘In here,’ Paul said, pushing open a heavy door and standing aside to let Bob enter. ‘Of course, if this interview goes well, we may need to bring you back to answer questions that might come in emails or on social media from viewers.’  

‘Of course,’ Bob answered confidently, although that hadn’t occurred to him. He hadn’t expected such a large open space with several cameras, huge lights and cables scattered everywhere over the floor. Three men, all wearing earphones, mostly round their necks, were on the move. He could see two chairs facing each other with a glass coffee table on a rug between them. And, on the opposite wall, a large window with two more people, a man and a woman, behind it.

In spite of having conducted so many interviews as a detective, this one was quite foreign to him. No one had ever given him instructions as a witness. But Paul’s instructions: use of the microphone, which had been pinned to his jacket, especially not speaking too loudly, nor bothering to look at the camera etc caused some tension in Bob. Then came the introductions to the floor manager and technicians and the producer and director behind the window, both of whom gave him a cheery wave. All this was so unfamiliar to Bob. And the totally relaxed interviewer, rather than calming him, created nerves that made him realize how some of his suspects must have felt when being interviewed by him with no cheery waves. 

‘Okay, let’s get started,’ Paul said and nodded towards the floor manager who started counting down from 5 on his fingers then pointed at Paul who smiled broadly at Camera 1 while the Judge’s Song from ‘Trial By Jury’ played in the background. 

We certainly didn’t have music in our interviews, thought Bob. 

Then, as the music faded out, Paul said,

‘Good evening viewers. Paul Ashton here, bringing you our new series, Famous Cases of the Past. And as well as the cases themselves, we’ll be discussing various aspects of the law. You may have recognised the Judge’s Song from the G&S classic, ‘Trial By Jury’. Well, that’s the theme we’ll be concentrating on today, ‘Judge Versus Jury;’ always a very controversial subject. And we’re off to a flying start with our first guest to help us untangle one famous case which reflects whether it should have been heard by a jury or judge only. Then we’ll let you decide, by contacting us at the end of the programme.’   He gave a phone number and the website for comments, both of which went up on the monitor screen. Then he continued, ‘I have in the studio with me the arresting detective who was involved with a famous case back in 1998. Chief Superintendent Robert Buchanan. Welcome Superintendent.’

‘Thank you, Paul,’ Bob heard himself saying, and his Scots accent suddenly sounded very different from the Thames accent that had introduced him. The red light had come on Camera 2 facing him, as he continued, ‘But, it’s just plain Mister these days. And please call me Bob’

‘Alright, Bob. I know you’re retired now but I’m sure you remember clearly some of the many cases you solved or helped to solve. Now, you’ve attended many trials, haven’t you?’

‘That’s right. But don’t ask me how many. I lost count years ago.’

‘You must have wondered sometimes whether the jury had come to the right conclusion.’

‘Yes, indeed I have, many times.’

‘So, after so much experience, have you come to any conclusion? Do you think juries or judges have the best chance of deciding whether the accused is guilty or innocent?’

Completely in control now and happily back on his favourite subject of solving crimes, Bob found himself on a roll. ‘Well of course in Scotland juries are allowed a possible third verdict, Not Proven.’

Paul jumped in quickly. ‘I’ve heard of that, but it sounds like ‘We know you’re guilty, we just can’t prove it.’

‘That’s exactly what it means. And it has the added advantage that there can always be a retrial. Whereas a ‘not guilty’ verdict means the accused can never be tried again for the same crime.’ Bob sat back and crossed his legs, a sure sign his self-control was complete.

Now Paul, although anxious to get back to the case he had in mind, still felt obliged not to lose sight of today’s topic. ‘So, Bob, where do you stand on the issue of Judges versus Juries?’

‘Personally, I would prefer cases to be heard by a judge, or judges.’

‘Even murder cases?’

‘Especially murder cases, preferably heard in Scotland in case Not Proven is appropriate.’ He gave a little chuckle and Paul joined in.

‘I see what you mean,’ he agreed. But, when he took a breath to ask another question, the inspector was ahead of him, and the cameras had to make a quick switch. 

‘Juries can be influenced by all sorts of things – a very handsome young man: a pretty young woman who weeps copiously while giving evidence: a celebrity. Juries love a famous face in the dock. By Jove, they sit up and listen then. Mind you, being a celebrity doesn’t guarantee an acquittal. If it’s a star they’ve all known, say on the telly and have loved his, or her character, they stand a good chance. But if the reverse is true, and they associate the actor with perhaps their nasty TV character, the jury is capable of disliking and distrusting them instantly. Or if they think they’re big headed or arrogant, that can just as easily go against them, even when they’re innocent.’

‘You’ve had experience of that, haven’t you, Bob? Not with a TV actor but that famous Shakespearean actor being accused of murder. I’m sure most of our viewers will remember him. You arrested him when you were a bit younger, didn’t you?’

‘You mean Richard Carrington? Yes, I’ll never forget him.’ 

‘My mother would have hated being on that jury. She was crazy about him.’

‘So were thousands of women. But the people who worked with him weren’t.’

‘Really? You mean he was disliked within his own company?’

‘That’s putting it mildly. No one could stand him, including his trophy wife. I only discovered that when I interviewed witnesses. Since he’s gone to the big theatre in the sky, I suppose there’s no harm talking about him now. I certainly can’t think of anyone likely to sue for libel, since that only applies when it’s a lie.’

Paul was delighted that he’d acquired such an interesting personality. With some guests, getting answers was like pulling teeth but Bob Buchanan was proving a gem, his Scottish accent somehow adding credibility to whatever he said. Since most of his listeners who were  interested in crimes-of-the-past, tended to be the over fifties, he knew they would be wrapped in this one. All he had to do was ‘keep the pot boiling’ as it were, which was his forte.

‘I remember my mother talked about trying to get tickets for King Lear, Carrington’s final performance, but it was a complete sell-out.’ 

Again Buchanan’s answer came back without hesitation.

‘Then you probably know he thought he was giving his last performance at the National Theatre in London. In fact, his final performance was at the High Court in Glasgow, accused of murder.’

Keeping the ball rolling, Paul asked. ‘What actually led up to the court case, Bob?’

‘Knowing exactly where it all began is anybody’s guess. Even the trial only took evidence that started from Carrington’s final performance which, as you said, was of King Lear. 

Chapter 1

Justin Williams, in the small part of Edgar had the pleasure of delivering the last lines of the play, Lear being well and truly dead. His deep baritone voice reached the back row of the circle without the need of any microphone.

The weight of this sad time we must obey:

Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say

The oldest hath borne most: we that are young

Shall never see so much, nor live so long.

As the swag curtains fell together the applause was deafening. The stage manager followed the usual instructions to count a slow 10 before pressing the button for them to open again for the curtain calls. After several individual curtain calls, the entire cast, minus the lead, joined hands and held them high before sweeping down into their combined bow. After three of those they split in the middle, backing into a V shape and raising their upstage hands to welcome the famous actor, Richard Carrington, who made his entrance from upstage centre to downstage centre where he was joined by the cast on either side of him taking several more bows. Slowly he stepped forward and the standing ovation raised the roof. Holding up his hand for silence, the audience gradually obeyed and sat down to hear what their idol had to say. He clasped his hands along with a humble lowering of his head before he spoke. Straightening up and giving a sweeping gaze round the audience, he said,

‘Thank you, thank you, ladies and gentlemen. Not only for your applause tonight, but for all the years you have supported me and the Carrington Theatre Company. In this era of people so easily gratified by electronic entertainment......’ A few mumbles of agreement came from the audience. ‘it’s people like you who keep theatre alive.’ This was met with scattered applause. ‘As you can imagine’, he continued, ‘there is much sadness in me tonight, as I make this, my last curtain speech.’

An elderly lady with slightly tinted grey hair, overcome with emotion, abandoned her usual quiet dignity to shout from the stalls,

‘Then don’t go,’ as she wiped her eyes.

Richard, never lost for a reply, looked lovingly in her direction.

‘If only the decision were mine, dear lady.’

Gratified by an answer from her idol, she again raised her voice.

‘Isn’t it?’

By this time he had recognised this dedicated fan who had followed him throughout the years, always sitting in the centre of the front row, even when he had toured and was appearing in other theatres in different cities. 

‘Indeed no,’ he replied. ‘I fear increasing pain and (added in a subdued manner) encroaching age have transpired against me.’  

His admirers made a few sounds of sympathy mixed with ‘Oh no, no’ denials of any apparent ageing in the famous man. Now he delivered the final Shakespearean sentence he had taken time to find and rehearse.

‘To quote the Bard, whose work you have enjoyed tonight, ‘Time is come round, and where I did begin, there shall I end.’  I thank you.’

As the applause reached its climax, he clasped his hands between his knees making the bow totally humble. The audience came to their feet again, led by the grey-haired lady, as Richard stepped back to the centre of the cast and took his last bow, joining hands on either side, as the enormously heavy swag curtains dropped to meet in the middle. But no way was the audience going to let him go so easily. The applause rose to a crescendo and tramping feet were heard. The other actors, now out of sight behind the curtain, started into handshakes and hugs, but Richard had one more appearance to make. Ted, the stage manager, had been his employee long enough to know what to do. He gripped one side of the curtain and held it back so that his boss could step through the centre onto the apron of the stage where he stood bowing and finally, cupping one hand over his mouth, threw kisses to the auditorium from left to right before disappearing through the curtain. Ted let it drop.

‘Well done, sir,’ he said as the cheering and applause gradually died down. 

Richard stood still for a moment, taking deep breaths, before he answered. ‘If only they knew,’ he said on a deep sigh.

‘If only who knew what?’

‘Those morons out there. They haven’t the least notion of the agony one goes through to earn a pittance........’

Ted, his irreplaceable stage manager for so long, whose job was now ending, had the temerity to say, ‘But they’ve always been prepared to pay you  out of their  pittance,’   Eyes of flint bored into him as his lord and master of the last thirty years swivelled round, using his cloak like a sail,  and disappeared stage left. Ted moved into the middle of the noisy actors and raised his voice.  

‘Can I have your attention, thespians.’  Everyone turned in Ted’s direction and the babble ceased. ‘As you know there’s a wind-up party onstage tonight. We have to clear the stage and the caterers tell me they’ll need a minimum of half an hour to set up. So would you please piss off to your dressing rooms and make sure you don’t take any longer than that to get ready. Remember, after you’ve finished enjoying yourselves, the stage crew still have to strike the set and leave this place ready for the next company coming in to start rehearsals here tomorrow. ‘Alright? That’s all.’

Back in his dressing room Richard was still taking deep breaths as though they were his last. Slowly, he removed the long white wig, displaying the cotton cap underneath that covered his own thinning hair. Tenderly he placed the wig on its block for the last time and stroked it lovingly. He straightened up and started applying greasy removing cream before he realized Martina was standing in the doorway, her long, blonde plaited wig dangling from one finger. 

‘Exactly what ‘increasing pain’ were you talking about, darling? You made it sound as though you were a martyr to some agonising affliction. ‘Encroaching age’ now, I could agree with that.’

Rubbing the cream in much faster, Richard retorted, ‘Thank you, my darling wife. You have such a gift for restoring my self-esteem. If you must know, I’ve been having problems with my left knee - amongst other things........ 

‘Things like fear of forgetting your lines?’  

Richard used the tissue for another moment before turning to face her, tissue now crunched angrily in his hand. ‘All of which my doctor attributes to, yes, encroaching age, as I’ve already admitted to my public, without needing you to remind me of it.‘  He whipped back to the mirror, using the tissue vigorously before aiming it like a missile into the waste basket beside him and whipping out another as though it had offended him.

With a twisted smile, Martina replied, ‘I’m sorry, dear. I shouldn’t have said that. Better get ready, darling. Ted asked us to be back onstage in half an hour. It’ll take me that long to get this slap off and my own makeup on.’

‘I prefer your Cordelia makeup, Martina. It takes ten years off you.’

‘Which would make me forty years younger than you, dear. I think thirty’s quite enough, don’t you?  See you onstage at the party.’ And she whipped out the door to prevent any reply.

As the door closed behind her, Richard spat out the word ‘Bitch!’ and returned to removing his makeup. He studied his face closely in the mirror, for a moment, then said aloud, ‘Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who’s the best actor of them all?’ Shaking his head sadly and leaning toward himself, he whispered urgently to his image, ‘God, how they’re going to miss you.’

Chapter 2

Onstage the party was in full swing. The scene looked like an ordinary happy party with champagne, finger food and the usual babble among friends. But many different emotions surged through the company that night. Those with more work starting soon were happy to wind up Shakespeare and move on, while those with no sign of work