Douglas Lowe and Le Breton mysteries - Death at the Playhouses

1. Auflage 2025
ISBN: 978-1-80336-823-8
Verlag: Titan Books
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, Band 2, 400 Seiten

Reihe: Lowe and Le Breton mysteries

A second witty, fun, 1970s-set whodunnit in the Lowe and Le Breton mysteries series, featuring two ageing actors attempting to solve a murder after their famous co-star is found dead in a doorway outside the theatre in which they're performing. Nostalgic cosy crime that's perfect for fans of The Thursday Murder Club and Death & Croissants. It's 1971 and, in between filming seasons of Floggit and Leggit, ageing actors Edward Lowe and John Le Breton sign up for a short run of Shakespearean tragedies at the Bolton Playhouse. But, once in Lancashire, they discover they have been invited to join the theatre's repertory company for two reasons - because the company manager is keen to take advantage of the publicity surrounding their successful BBC comedy series, and because Sir Nathaniel Thompson, the much-lauded star of the show and knight of the realm, has been sacked for drunkenness. John fears an awkward scene, should Thompson - who he knew during the war - return to reclaim his job, but when the great actor's body is found, bludgeoned to death in a nearby alleyway, the unlikely crime-solving duo find themselves investigating another fiendish mystery that takes them from the northwest of England to the Netherlands, and which, rather inconveniently, seems to have John's ex-wife Sally at its heart. Death at the Playhouses is the second in The Lowe and Le Breton Mysteries series.

Stuart Douglas is an author and editor based in Edinburgh. He runs Obverse Books, and has written four Sherlock Holmes novels for Titan Books. In 2016, he co-created the award winning Black Archive series of books, and has also written and edited novellas and short story anthologies for several publishers.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Douglas, Stuart

Leseproben

2

Bolton, Lancashire, November, 1971

Edward was sure that the distance from their digs to the Bolton Playhouse was too far to walk, even if he wanted to – which he didn’t – and he was damned if he was paying for a taxi every morning and evening. Which made it all the more galling that theatres – unlike television companies – were unwilling to supply motor cars for the use of their cast.

He poured himself a fresh cup of tea and wondered, not for the first time, whether this entire expedition hadn’t been a grave mistake.

The telephone call with Jimmy had been something of a mixed bag, for a start. On the one hand, Alec Gent-Browning had been right; Jimmy had as good as offered him a job in the play he was rehearsing at the Playhouse. On the other, it appeared the director only wanted Edward as part of a duo with John.

“The director’s alright for an old geezer,” Jimmy had said on the phone. “But he don’t really give a monkey’s about the art. It’s all about the moolah with him, know what I mean?”

Truth be told, Edward wasn’t sure that he did. “He’s more interested in the box office takings than the performance?” he hazarded, and was pleased to have it confirmed this was indeed the case.

“Exactly! And that’s why he wants you and John. Add in me, and he can claim he’s got half the cast of Floggit doing Shakespeare. It’ll drag in the punters, he says.”

“Is that a prerequisite?” Edward had asked coldly, and, to his surprise, Jimmy hadn’t asked what the word meant.

“I reckon it is, Eddie,” he’d said. Eddie again, Edward grimaced inwardly. “But don’t get me wrong; Fagan’s no mug. You know how rep usually works – a right royal mix-up of fresh-faced drama-school virgins and drunken old hacks putting on one show at night while they rehearse another during the day, and a new play on every week. It’s a good way to learn your craft, I suppose, but it’s a bloody killer if you’re not used to it. I wouldn’t have put your name forward if there wasn’t a bit more to this than that.

“Nah, this is much more of a quality undertaking, it really is. Shakespeare only, for one thing. Proper rehearsal time, then a couple of weeks of King Lear and the same again of Hamlet. The rest of the cast are regulars, some of them have been with the Playhouse for years, but they’re all pretty decent. Fagan knows what sells, though, and he thinks for this that’s you and John and me on all the posters!” Jimmy coughed. “He actually wanted Joe Riley and Don Roberts and the rest, but they’re either already booked up or putting their feet up between series.”

“That’s probably wise. Neither of them are in what I’d call the first flush of youth. I must admit I feared for Donald’s life when he was hanging off that clock face last year.”

Jimmy’s laugh from the other end of the line had been long and loud. “Yeah, maybe it’s for the best they miss this one,” he said. “A month in the provinces might carry them off.”

“And there’s a European run afterwards, I think my agent mentioned?”

“So they’re saying! Amsterdam for a fortnight in the New Year, or maybe it’s February. Or March. Anyway, after Christmas.”

It had been as bad as speaking to John, Edward thought, remembering Jimmy’s vagueness with dates – just as the man himself appeared in the door of the dining room and waved across to him.

*   *   *

They had arrived at Mrs Galloway’s Home for Working Thespians (as it was advertised in The Stage magazine), the previous day on a bright, if cold, winter afternoon. After dropping their luggage in their respective rooms, they had decided to take a quick stroll around the neighbourhood before the chilly northern sun set.

It had been more than enough to cement Edward’s opinion that walking in the area was akin to strolling through London at the height of the Blitz.

As he settled himself into a seat in Mrs Galloway’s dining room the following morning, he elaborated on this point to John.

“Did you see the crowd of ruffians standing about outside that pub last night? And the way that dog bared its teeth at me. Not the dog’s fault, of course – a poor master will always lead to a poor dog – but I’d a good mind to take a stick to the brute who was supposed to be holding it. He looked more of a slathering beast than his animal.” He shook his head in remembered indignation, and spooned marmalade onto his toast. “We really should have asked the theatre to send a car to pick us up on our first day.” He sliced a sausage in half and dipped it into the pool of ketchup at the side of his plate. “I mean, God knows how much a taxi would cost, but it won’t be cheap, that’s for sure.” He chewed disconsolately and stared through the net curtains at the grey skies and steady, apparently unceasing, rainfall outside. “And even if we wanted to walk – which I don’t – it’s hardly the weather for it.”

“No,” John agreed, pushing his own half-finished breakfast to one side and lighting a cigarette. “It is pretty grim out there, isn’t it?”

“Sorry to intrude,” a loud voice cut in from somewhere behind Edward.

He turned and observed a fat man in an ill-fitting jacket at the next table.

“Brian Harvey at your service,” said the man. “I travel in brushes. Staying here for the night before I move on to Preston. But I couldn’t help overhearing. Am I right in thinking you gents will be making your way to the Playhouse after you’ve finished Mrs Galloway’s fine breakfast?”

Edward nodded carefully, wondering if the man had recognised them, and whether he would shortly be addressed as Eddie.

It seemed not.

“Because, if you are,” the man went on, “there’s a bus stop at the end of the street, and the bus from there goes all the way to the Playhouse, or near enough. You could get that and save yourself a fair bit of brass.”

A bus? The thought hadn’t occurred to Edward – who knew when he’d last been on a bus? – but, actually, why not? He looked across at John, whose face had creased in thought. Probably too working class for him, Edward thought with mean-spirited glee. A bus had been good enough to take his father to the factory every day, and it might be nice to follow in his footsteps. What was acting but a job of work after all?

He made a questioning sort of sound in John’s direction, and tilted his head to one side, inviting a response.

“Oh sorry, did you want the rest of this, Edward?” John asked, poking his plate across the table towards Edward. “Do help yourself, my dear chap. I’ve had enough, but you’re quite right – it does seem a shame to let good food go to waste.”

“I was simply wondering how you felt about getting the bus to the theatre,” Edward responded stiffly.

“Why not?” John laughed. “It’s been about twenty years since I was on a real bus, as opposed to one driven by Cliff Richard. It’ll be a lark!”

“You’ll need to get your skates on, mind,” the red-faced diner warned. “They only come once an hour and the next one’s due in twenty minutes.”

John dabbed his mouth with his napkin and rose to his feet, grinding out his cigarette in the ashtray as he did so. Edward made to follow his example, then, glancing at John’s abandoned plate, paused halfway out his chair and sat back down. John was right about good food. If there was one thing that the War – and the terrible news from Biafra – had taught everyone, it was not to waste food. He speared the pair of sausages on John’s plate and transferred them to his own.

Twenty minutes was plenty of time to polish these off, and still make the bus on time.

*   *   *

The bus was only half-full, but everyone on the downstairs deck appeared to be a middle-aged woman with a face like a heap of folded old dishcloths and a shopping bag on her knee. The noise of gossiping Lancashire voices was overpowering. Without a word, Edward followed John upstairs.

The bus pulled away from the stop as he was halfway up the stairs, causing him to fall backwards with a sudden jerk. Only a frantic grab for the railing prevented him from tumbling all the way back to the lower deck, and, even so, he banged the base of his spine painfully against the metal wall of the stairwell.

John, who had already stridden to the top of the stairs, looked back down and offered his hand, but Edward shrugged it off and pushed past him, then headed for the smoking area to the rear. Only when he had a Craven A lit did he speak to his friend.

“He did that on purpose, you know,” he moaned, rubbing the small of his back. “They must know they’ve not left enough time for people to get all the way to the top of the stairs, but they shoot off like Evel Knievel, nonetheless. I’ve a good mind to write to the company.”

John stretched his long legs out under the seat in front and said nothing. Edward couldn’t see his face as he turned away to look out the window, but he was sure he heard the sound of suppressed laughter.

“And don’t think I can’t see you laughing,” he snapped.

He was tempted to take further offence, but one of them had to be the bigger man, and given Le Breton’s childish sense of humour, it would need to be him. Even if he was, quite literally, the injured party.

“This should be an interesting morning,” he said in a conciliatory tone. “I’m very keen to discover what...