The Night the Curtain Fell
The sound file below is a story narration by CJ Gilbert
with sound effects by Colin Gilbert
with sound effects by Colin Gilbert
“Oooh, that looks nasty,” said Tony as he stood with his feet firmly planted to the spot and watched unemotionally. He held his umbrella erect in his right hand to protect against the driving rain and clutched a briefcase in his left hand bearing the initials A.W. in gold leaf. Anthony Walker went nowhere without his beloved briefcase.
He couldn’t bring himself to assist, as the scene of a very bad accident played out directly in front of him on the other side of the dual carriageway. A Ford truck had ploughed into the side of a London taxicab. He stood for a while, watching flames engulf the cab, and then he carried on along The Strand, then left into Catherine Street until he reached the steps of the Theatre Royal.
There he stopped again, very still, the rain continuing to lash down as he stood in front of the theatre door. He was wet through. His trilby hat was sodden, and his twenty-year-old shoes had let in water. He looked up at the neon sign above. It read ‘Tony Walker and Chesney Thornton in Death at Mornington Crescent.’
“Not for long, my friend,” he said to himself. “Not for long.”
He lowered his head and looked to the left and then to the right of the door, studying the six-foot tall posters, which displayed the show’s title, several cast photos including Tony and Ches, and a quote from the Daily Telegraph, “...absolutely the best who-dunnit since The Mouse Trap…Superb performances from Tony and Chesney…”
“Huh,” again to himself, and rolled his eyes. “What do they know?”
He peered in through the rain-drizzled stage door window and sighed. He was not looking forward to this show. “I should have retired years ago,” he mused to himself. “Where would they be then, eh? Where would they be then?
“Oh, well…better summon up the energy.”
His reverie was broken by a cry of “Eenin Stanna, Eenin Stanna.”
Tony had heard that cry a thousand times. “Jim, where are you, you ‘orrible boy?” he said. And then he caught a glimpse of young Jimmy Broadbent the paper boy, beside a pile of evening newspapers, huddling in the next doorway sheltering from the rain.
Tony walked a few paces to stand opposite Jim. “Oi, Jim, how many times have I got to tell you. It’s ‘Ev-en-ing Stand-ard’ not ‘Eenit Stanna’. How is anyone going to know what you’re selling?”
And to further assist the lad he said, “Cry out at the top of your lungs,” and boomed loudly with theatrical gusto, “Ev-en-ing Stand-ard! Ev-en-ing Stand-ard!”
Jim ignored him completely, as if his stage idol was not there, and carried on with the same unerring cry.
“Oi, Jim. Oi, can’t you hear me…try to enunciate your words correctly, my boy.” But Jim did not waver.
“O, well, suit yourself. No need to ignore me, though. That’s very rude, young man.” It made no difference; Jim did not let-up with his cockney chant.
He strode back to the Theatre Royal, folded his brolly and tapped it firmly on the door. There was no reply. “Oh gawd, has Charlie gone to sleep on the job again?” said Tony. “If he’s been on the booze again, I’ll kill him.” He knocked and knocked for several minutes until he got a response.
A short wizened old man, trailing his right leg behind him, rubbing his eyes as if aroused from a very deep sleep, come to greet him, and unlocked the door.
“Eh, hello Mr. Walker. Very nysh to see you. You’re early – first one here tonight. How are you, sher.”
“I’m fine, Charlie. How are you doing, yerself? Have you been on the bottle again?”
“Not sho bad, sir. Mushn’t grumble. No one would listen if I did, eh, eh.” And at that he touched the side of his nose, winked, and jerked his elbow in Tony’s direction.
“Yes, Charlie. The old ones are the best, eh? Don’t give up your day job, old man,” and he winked himself in reply.
“And to answer your question, Mr. Walker, I’m shtone cold shober.”
Tony reached down and smelt Charlie’s breath. “Gawd, Charlie, you smell like a brewery. When will you learn?
“Well, I can’t stand here nattering. I’m going to visit the stage before I go down to the dressing room. See you later.”
“I dare shay you will, sir. And you’ve got plenty of time, so.” Charlie was Irish. Tony loved that habit of ending a sentence with “so.”
Tony walked through to the main auditorium and down the centre aisle to the stage, and then he took the stairs on the left up to the boards. He stood very still for a while and took it all in. His mind took him back to his childhood, when he would put on a little show for his family in the front room of their house in West Ham. He could hear his father saying, “Very good, son. You should be on the stage…sweeping it!” and laughing until he coughed-up his tarred lungs.
“Full of encouragement,” was my old man, Tony thought to himself. And then, out loud he said, “If he could see me now. This would wipe the grin off his face.”
He walked around the furniture on the set - a typical “who-dunnit” set of sofa, armchairs, side tables, a roaring fire (or at least it will be roaring when the audience sees it), and several doors off to the left, right and centre. Plenty of ways for the cast to enter and exit causing all sorts of mayhem.
Then he picked up the prop-knife that was perched on the side table to the right of the sofa. He twirled it around with the rubber blade-tip pushed gently into his forefinger. “Ah, yes, the murder weapon,” he said, with a wry smile.
He took off his raincoat and sauntered to the center of the stage and practiced one of his scenes; the fight scene. He conjured-up in his mind a rather elderly and austere woman on his left side, and an upright well-heeled gentleman on his right.
To his left he said, “Well, Madame Wilberforce, I really don’t think that was a very wise thing to do, what do you think?”
Madame Wilberforce replied from deep within Tony’s core. At which point Tony became very animated. “Indeed, Madame. Well, your actions have caused no end of confusion in this house!”
He paused for effect, and turned to his right, “I put it to you, sir, that you have taken much advantage of this confusion. I put it to you, Mister Jones, that you were not where you said you were on the night of the murder.” And he gave a low, evil snarl as the words tumbled out in slow motion.
“Huh. The audience will be like putty in my hands by the time I’m done,” again out loud, to himself. There was no one else in the theatre.
He gave another audible, “Huh”, rolled his eyes as he was wont to do, and decided to make his way down to the dressing room.
“Might as well tart meself up a bit before the punters arrive.” By now he was talking to his reflection in the mirror.
“But maybe a quick snifter first.” He reached inside his raincoat pocket for a half-bottle of Bells whisky and took a swig. “Dutch courage, eh?” he said to his reflection, with a wink, and lifted the bottle in salutation.
Tony went about his preparations in silence…making up his face and getting his hair in place, and then donning a rather spiffy suit provided by the establishment. The theatre also provided him with socks and a pair of shoes, for which he was very grateful. His own were really sodden.
He stood admiring himself in the mirror, took one more slug of whisky and said, “Well, Tone, this is the big one. Your last performance. No more knock-out Tony Walker performances after today. Oh, they’ll be very sorry to hear the news, it’s true…” he paused and shrugged his shoulders…”but, they’ll get over it. Still, you’re going out while you’re at the top. No long slide down into oblivion. Get out while you’re ahead, that’s my motto.” Another swig of whisky.
He heard a knock on the door, and it opened before he had a chance to respond.
“Eh, whatcha Tone, me old mate.” Chesney put his hand out to shake Tony’s, but got no response, so he continued. “Yes, well, no need to be a grumble-guts, old man. You been on the booze again?”
Tony said nothing.
“What kind of crowd do you think we’ll pull tonight? It’s been a good run so far, and no mistake.”
At last, a response from Tony. “I don’t play to 'crowds', Chesney. I play to intelligent, discerning theatre goers.”
“Well, whatever. As long as they pay their entrance money, eh? That’s all that counts.”
“Ches, have you ever stopped to wonder what this is all about? Have you ever thought of this as a work of art, as a labour of love, as a great performance that will be remembered for ever?”
“Don’t be silly, Tone. It pays the bills, that’s all that matters. And it pulls the birds. Women love actors.”
“You are really a piece of low life, aren’t you, Chesney. I don’t know why I allow myself on the same bill as you.”
“I’ve heard all that before, Tone, but I don’t see you turning down that pay packet at the end of the week, do I?”
The truth of the matter is that throughout their career theatre critics had said that Tony would not be as famous as he was without Chesney. They all agreed that it was Chesney that the audience came to see, and this rankled Tony no end.
They had been working together on-and-off for twenty years now, and throughout that time they had argued about everything. They had both come from poor working-class backgrounds, but Tony had felt that he had grown into the middle class, and maybe beyond, while Chesney was just happy to be ‘good-old Chesney; the life and sole of any party; the wheeler dealer; the womanizer’.
Well, tonight this would all come to an end. Tony was adamant that this would be his last play with Chesney, and because he was so resolute, he gritted his teeth and did not allow himself to be drawn by Ches’s taunting.
“How about we go up on stage and rehearse for a bit, Ches. I am sure that there are some lines that we can work through. There’s always room for improvement, eh?”
“You reckon?” said Ches. “You reckon we ain’t got this down-pat after sixty-seven shows?”
“Well, I just think we still have a few rough edges, that’s all. I don’t mean to be a perfectionist, but we have plenty of time before the others arrive. Here, have a swig of my whisky and let’s go up on stage, eh.”
“If you say so, Tone. I don’t think it’s worth it, but just for you…” and he took a swig.
“Tell you what,” said Tony, “let’s start with the fight scene. We always seem to do that differently each time. Why not let’s practice that and see if we can’t get the same fight going every time?”
“Alright, just that one scene, then we relax for a bit. You’re getting me all nervous talking about rough edges and all that.”
“After you Ches.”
“No, after you, Tone. I insist.”
They made their way out of the door and up onto the stage, and then walked around the set in opposite directions, each picking up and examining different objects as they made themselves cozy in their environment.
“Eh, Tone. Do you remember that night, oh must have been the second or third night, when you tripped and grabbed the front curtain to stop yourself falling, and it fell on you? You couldn’t get yourself out of that curtain, no matter how much you struggled. They had to come up on stage and unwrap you. Hah, I shall never forget that.”
“Yes, Chesney. Thank you for bringing that to my attention. It was the worst night of my life. And you stood there laughing at me.”
“Oh, come on, Tony. Everyone was laughing. The audience loved it. It was a wonderful scene.”
“Not for me, it wasn’t. You see, Ches, I try not to remember events like that. I erase them from my memory. I only remember the good days. The days when we had full houses, and we had them on the edge of their seats, and we had rave reviews. That’s what I remember, Ches. Not the one night when the flaming curtain came down, for heaven’s sake! Come on, let’s get on with it. Here’s your cue…”
They took their positions, and Tony’s eyes grew large and red with anger and his whole body shook. Ches had never seen him do this scene with quite so much animation. Tony turned to his right, “I put it to you, sir, that you have taken much advantage of this confusion. I put it to you, Mister Jones, that you were not where you said you were on the night of the murder.” And he gave an even deeper snarl than usual. “In fact, I accuse you of the murder of Lord Wilberforce. What do you say to that?”
“You will never take me. Stand back!” Mr. Jones grabbed the prop-knife in his hand and brandished it above his head.
“What’s that?” cried Tony and pointed to something behind Ches, and in a moment of distraction Ches turned to see what was there. At that moment he felt a shove from behind and he fell forward grabbing the front curtain as he descended, and landed in a heap. Momentum rolled him further forward wrapping the curtain round him. He struggled in vain to unravel himself.
Tony leant down and felt through the curtain for the knife, holding it firm until the thrashing of curtain material ceased.
“Sorry, Ches,” he snarled. “So very, very sorry. But this just can't go on.”
Downstairs by the theatre door Charlie drew out the fob watch from his waistcoat pocket to see if it was time to open the box office for the evening. But he never got to check the time because a very loud banging started to shake the door, and someone was yelling on the other side.
“Oh, my goodness, whatever could be the trouble?” he said. “Alright, alright, I’m coming. Keep your ‘air on,” and he unlocked the front door to a very animated Jim Broadbent alongside a police constable of rather portly dimensions.
“Charlie, Charlie…an accident…on The Strand…two-car pile-up…explosion.” Jimmy was bright red in the face and very disturbed.
“Whoa, whoa, Jim, calm down.”
Charlie turned to the constable. “Now, officer, what exactly is the problem, and why are you knocking on the theatre door?”
“Well, sir, as Jim here stated, there has been a very serious accident on The Strand, just round the corner there…” he pointed to the left. “It involved a truck and a taxicab, and there have been fatalities. The cab driver survived, and he’s a bit shaken up, but his passenger died. He said that he was carrying an actor, sir, one of his regular customers,” he brought his notebook out and referred to his notes, “a mister Anthony Walker, sir. Do you know him?”
“Of course I do, yes. He’s starring in our current play, look at the poster there. But it can’t be him, officer. He’s been here for over an hour or so.”
“Could you take me to him, sir?”
“Of course, officer, come this way…he’s up on the stage right now rehearsing with Ches.” And so, Charlie led the way through to the auditorium, down the main aisle, and up on the stage.
“That’s strange,” said Charlie, “I could have sworn they were here just a few minutes ago.”
“What’s this sir,” said the constable, pointing down at the crumpled heap of curtain on the stage.
“Oh, bother! Has he taken that curtain down with him again?” said Charlie, as he tried lifting the curtain sheet up again. “Oh, my,” he said, “what’s this?” He pulled his hand out from under the bundle, and saw his palm covered in blood. He was so shocked that he couldn’t help but pull at the curtain, and they saw the body of Chesney Thornton roll out the other side in a pool of blood.
“If you don’t mind, sir, please don’t touch anything else. Leave it to us,” said the constable as he turned his head to whisper into his communication radio and request a support team.
The next evening, Jim was back in his usual doorway crying out his familiar, “Eeenin Stanna, Eeenin Stanna”, with bundles of newspapers headlining a tragic story - the deaths of two beloved British actors who were close collaborators for over twenty years – both killed in freak accidents just one hour apart.
Just along the street, the two enormous posters at the side of the Theatre Royal door were plastered with stickers in large letters; “All Performances Cancelled”.
Since there were no punters to deal with, Charlie decided to take a bit of a break and shuffled along to chat with the paper boy.
“It’s all a very rum business,” he said to Jim. “I could have sworn that I spoke to Tony at the theatre last night. But I guess I must have dreamt it.”
“Yeah, drink has that affect on the mind, Charlie. I think you had a little too much of the ‘hic’ whisky didn’t you? Hah!“ said Jimmy as he made is eyes cross and gave his impression of a tottering old sot.
“I guess I did, Jimmy. I guess I did.” And he stood quiet for a while, as if trying to figure something out.
“There’s just one thing that puzzles me, Jimmy. I cleaned all the dressing rooms yesterday afternoon, I always do, but when I went down there late last night I found dripping-wet clothes and a briefcase with initials A.W. in gold leaf on the side.”
“Yes, that is strange,” said Jim. “Well, Charlie, as my old grandad used to say, ‘this won’t get the baby bathed.’ I’d better get back to my papers.”
“Yeah, see you again tomorrow, Jimmy.”
Little Jimmy Broadbent cast his mind back to the previous evening, and he, too, seemed rattled about something, but couldn’t quite make it out. He shrugged his shoulders and let it go, and at the top of his voice he cried, “Ev-en-ing Stand-ard, Ev-en-ing Stand-ard.”
He couldn’t bring himself to assist, as the scene of a very bad accident played out directly in front of him on the other side of the dual carriageway. A Ford truck had ploughed into the side of a London taxicab. He stood for a while, watching flames engulf the cab, and then he carried on along The Strand, then left into Catherine Street until he reached the steps of the Theatre Royal.
There he stopped again, very still, the rain continuing to lash down as he stood in front of the theatre door. He was wet through. His trilby hat was sodden, and his twenty-year-old shoes had let in water. He looked up at the neon sign above. It read ‘Tony Walker and Chesney Thornton in Death at Mornington Crescent.’
“Not for long, my friend,” he said to himself. “Not for long.”
He lowered his head and looked to the left and then to the right of the door, studying the six-foot tall posters, which displayed the show’s title, several cast photos including Tony and Ches, and a quote from the Daily Telegraph, “...absolutely the best who-dunnit since The Mouse Trap…Superb performances from Tony and Chesney…”
“Huh,” again to himself, and rolled his eyes. “What do they know?”
He peered in through the rain-drizzled stage door window and sighed. He was not looking forward to this show. “I should have retired years ago,” he mused to himself. “Where would they be then, eh? Where would they be then?
“Oh, well…better summon up the energy.”
His reverie was broken by a cry of “Eenin Stanna, Eenin Stanna.”
Tony had heard that cry a thousand times. “Jim, where are you, you ‘orrible boy?” he said. And then he caught a glimpse of young Jimmy Broadbent the paper boy, beside a pile of evening newspapers, huddling in the next doorway sheltering from the rain.
Tony walked a few paces to stand opposite Jim. “Oi, Jim, how many times have I got to tell you. It’s ‘Ev-en-ing Stand-ard’ not ‘Eenit Stanna’. How is anyone going to know what you’re selling?”
And to further assist the lad he said, “Cry out at the top of your lungs,” and boomed loudly with theatrical gusto, “Ev-en-ing Stand-ard! Ev-en-ing Stand-ard!”
Jim ignored him completely, as if his stage idol was not there, and carried on with the same unerring cry.
“Oi, Jim. Oi, can’t you hear me…try to enunciate your words correctly, my boy.” But Jim did not waver.
“O, well, suit yourself. No need to ignore me, though. That’s very rude, young man.” It made no difference; Jim did not let-up with his cockney chant.
He strode back to the Theatre Royal, folded his brolly and tapped it firmly on the door. There was no reply. “Oh gawd, has Charlie gone to sleep on the job again?” said Tony. “If he’s been on the booze again, I’ll kill him.” He knocked and knocked for several minutes until he got a response.
A short wizened old man, trailing his right leg behind him, rubbing his eyes as if aroused from a very deep sleep, come to greet him, and unlocked the door.
“Eh, hello Mr. Walker. Very nysh to see you. You’re early – first one here tonight. How are you, sher.”
“I’m fine, Charlie. How are you doing, yerself? Have you been on the bottle again?”
“Not sho bad, sir. Mushn’t grumble. No one would listen if I did, eh, eh.” And at that he touched the side of his nose, winked, and jerked his elbow in Tony’s direction.
“Yes, Charlie. The old ones are the best, eh? Don’t give up your day job, old man,” and he winked himself in reply.
“And to answer your question, Mr. Walker, I’m shtone cold shober.”
Tony reached down and smelt Charlie’s breath. “Gawd, Charlie, you smell like a brewery. When will you learn?
“Well, I can’t stand here nattering. I’m going to visit the stage before I go down to the dressing room. See you later.”
“I dare shay you will, sir. And you’ve got plenty of time, so.” Charlie was Irish. Tony loved that habit of ending a sentence with “so.”
Tony walked through to the main auditorium and down the centre aisle to the stage, and then he took the stairs on the left up to the boards. He stood very still for a while and took it all in. His mind took him back to his childhood, when he would put on a little show for his family in the front room of their house in West Ham. He could hear his father saying, “Very good, son. You should be on the stage…sweeping it!” and laughing until he coughed-up his tarred lungs.
“Full of encouragement,” was my old man, Tony thought to himself. And then, out loud he said, “If he could see me now. This would wipe the grin off his face.”
He walked around the furniture on the set - a typical “who-dunnit” set of sofa, armchairs, side tables, a roaring fire (or at least it will be roaring when the audience sees it), and several doors off to the left, right and centre. Plenty of ways for the cast to enter and exit causing all sorts of mayhem.
Then he picked up the prop-knife that was perched on the side table to the right of the sofa. He twirled it around with the rubber blade-tip pushed gently into his forefinger. “Ah, yes, the murder weapon,” he said, with a wry smile.
He took off his raincoat and sauntered to the center of the stage and practiced one of his scenes; the fight scene. He conjured-up in his mind a rather elderly and austere woman on his left side, and an upright well-heeled gentleman on his right.
To his left he said, “Well, Madame Wilberforce, I really don’t think that was a very wise thing to do, what do you think?”
Madame Wilberforce replied from deep within Tony’s core. At which point Tony became very animated. “Indeed, Madame. Well, your actions have caused no end of confusion in this house!”
He paused for effect, and turned to his right, “I put it to you, sir, that you have taken much advantage of this confusion. I put it to you, Mister Jones, that you were not where you said you were on the night of the murder.” And he gave a low, evil snarl as the words tumbled out in slow motion.
“Huh. The audience will be like putty in my hands by the time I’m done,” again out loud, to himself. There was no one else in the theatre.
He gave another audible, “Huh”, rolled his eyes as he was wont to do, and decided to make his way down to the dressing room.
“Might as well tart meself up a bit before the punters arrive.” By now he was talking to his reflection in the mirror.
“But maybe a quick snifter first.” He reached inside his raincoat pocket for a half-bottle of Bells whisky and took a swig. “Dutch courage, eh?” he said to his reflection, with a wink, and lifted the bottle in salutation.
Tony went about his preparations in silence…making up his face and getting his hair in place, and then donning a rather spiffy suit provided by the establishment. The theatre also provided him with socks and a pair of shoes, for which he was very grateful. His own were really sodden.
He stood admiring himself in the mirror, took one more slug of whisky and said, “Well, Tone, this is the big one. Your last performance. No more knock-out Tony Walker performances after today. Oh, they’ll be very sorry to hear the news, it’s true…” he paused and shrugged his shoulders…”but, they’ll get over it. Still, you’re going out while you’re at the top. No long slide down into oblivion. Get out while you’re ahead, that’s my motto.” Another swig of whisky.
He heard a knock on the door, and it opened before he had a chance to respond.
“Eh, whatcha Tone, me old mate.” Chesney put his hand out to shake Tony’s, but got no response, so he continued. “Yes, well, no need to be a grumble-guts, old man. You been on the booze again?”
Tony said nothing.
“What kind of crowd do you think we’ll pull tonight? It’s been a good run so far, and no mistake.”
At last, a response from Tony. “I don’t play to 'crowds', Chesney. I play to intelligent, discerning theatre goers.”
“Well, whatever. As long as they pay their entrance money, eh? That’s all that counts.”
“Ches, have you ever stopped to wonder what this is all about? Have you ever thought of this as a work of art, as a labour of love, as a great performance that will be remembered for ever?”
“Don’t be silly, Tone. It pays the bills, that’s all that matters. And it pulls the birds. Women love actors.”
“You are really a piece of low life, aren’t you, Chesney. I don’t know why I allow myself on the same bill as you.”
“I’ve heard all that before, Tone, but I don’t see you turning down that pay packet at the end of the week, do I?”
The truth of the matter is that throughout their career theatre critics had said that Tony would not be as famous as he was without Chesney. They all agreed that it was Chesney that the audience came to see, and this rankled Tony no end.
They had been working together on-and-off for twenty years now, and throughout that time they had argued about everything. They had both come from poor working-class backgrounds, but Tony had felt that he had grown into the middle class, and maybe beyond, while Chesney was just happy to be ‘good-old Chesney; the life and sole of any party; the wheeler dealer; the womanizer’.
Well, tonight this would all come to an end. Tony was adamant that this would be his last play with Chesney, and because he was so resolute, he gritted his teeth and did not allow himself to be drawn by Ches’s taunting.
“How about we go up on stage and rehearse for a bit, Ches. I am sure that there are some lines that we can work through. There’s always room for improvement, eh?”
“You reckon?” said Ches. “You reckon we ain’t got this down-pat after sixty-seven shows?”
“Well, I just think we still have a few rough edges, that’s all. I don’t mean to be a perfectionist, but we have plenty of time before the others arrive. Here, have a swig of my whisky and let’s go up on stage, eh.”
“If you say so, Tone. I don’t think it’s worth it, but just for you…” and he took a swig.
“Tell you what,” said Tony, “let’s start with the fight scene. We always seem to do that differently each time. Why not let’s practice that and see if we can’t get the same fight going every time?”
“Alright, just that one scene, then we relax for a bit. You’re getting me all nervous talking about rough edges and all that.”
“After you Ches.”
“No, after you, Tone. I insist.”
They made their way out of the door and up onto the stage, and then walked around the set in opposite directions, each picking up and examining different objects as they made themselves cozy in their environment.
“Eh, Tone. Do you remember that night, oh must have been the second or third night, when you tripped and grabbed the front curtain to stop yourself falling, and it fell on you? You couldn’t get yourself out of that curtain, no matter how much you struggled. They had to come up on stage and unwrap you. Hah, I shall never forget that.”
“Yes, Chesney. Thank you for bringing that to my attention. It was the worst night of my life. And you stood there laughing at me.”
“Oh, come on, Tony. Everyone was laughing. The audience loved it. It was a wonderful scene.”
“Not for me, it wasn’t. You see, Ches, I try not to remember events like that. I erase them from my memory. I only remember the good days. The days when we had full houses, and we had them on the edge of their seats, and we had rave reviews. That’s what I remember, Ches. Not the one night when the flaming curtain came down, for heaven’s sake! Come on, let’s get on with it. Here’s your cue…”
They took their positions, and Tony’s eyes grew large and red with anger and his whole body shook. Ches had never seen him do this scene with quite so much animation. Tony turned to his right, “I put it to you, sir, that you have taken much advantage of this confusion. I put it to you, Mister Jones, that you were not where you said you were on the night of the murder.” And he gave an even deeper snarl than usual. “In fact, I accuse you of the murder of Lord Wilberforce. What do you say to that?”
“You will never take me. Stand back!” Mr. Jones grabbed the prop-knife in his hand and brandished it above his head.
“What’s that?” cried Tony and pointed to something behind Ches, and in a moment of distraction Ches turned to see what was there. At that moment he felt a shove from behind and he fell forward grabbing the front curtain as he descended, and landed in a heap. Momentum rolled him further forward wrapping the curtain round him. He struggled in vain to unravel himself.
Tony leant down and felt through the curtain for the knife, holding it firm until the thrashing of curtain material ceased.
“Sorry, Ches,” he snarled. “So very, very sorry. But this just can't go on.”
Downstairs by the theatre door Charlie drew out the fob watch from his waistcoat pocket to see if it was time to open the box office for the evening. But he never got to check the time because a very loud banging started to shake the door, and someone was yelling on the other side.
“Oh, my goodness, whatever could be the trouble?” he said. “Alright, alright, I’m coming. Keep your ‘air on,” and he unlocked the front door to a very animated Jim Broadbent alongside a police constable of rather portly dimensions.
“Charlie, Charlie…an accident…on The Strand…two-car pile-up…explosion.” Jimmy was bright red in the face and very disturbed.
“Whoa, whoa, Jim, calm down.”
Charlie turned to the constable. “Now, officer, what exactly is the problem, and why are you knocking on the theatre door?”
“Well, sir, as Jim here stated, there has been a very serious accident on The Strand, just round the corner there…” he pointed to the left. “It involved a truck and a taxicab, and there have been fatalities. The cab driver survived, and he’s a bit shaken up, but his passenger died. He said that he was carrying an actor, sir, one of his regular customers,” he brought his notebook out and referred to his notes, “a mister Anthony Walker, sir. Do you know him?”
“Of course I do, yes. He’s starring in our current play, look at the poster there. But it can’t be him, officer. He’s been here for over an hour or so.”
“Could you take me to him, sir?”
“Of course, officer, come this way…he’s up on the stage right now rehearsing with Ches.” And so, Charlie led the way through to the auditorium, down the main aisle, and up on the stage.
“That’s strange,” said Charlie, “I could have sworn they were here just a few minutes ago.”
“What’s this sir,” said the constable, pointing down at the crumpled heap of curtain on the stage.
“Oh, bother! Has he taken that curtain down with him again?” said Charlie, as he tried lifting the curtain sheet up again. “Oh, my,” he said, “what’s this?” He pulled his hand out from under the bundle, and saw his palm covered in blood. He was so shocked that he couldn’t help but pull at the curtain, and they saw the body of Chesney Thornton roll out the other side in a pool of blood.
“If you don’t mind, sir, please don’t touch anything else. Leave it to us,” said the constable as he turned his head to whisper into his communication radio and request a support team.
The next evening, Jim was back in his usual doorway crying out his familiar, “Eeenin Stanna, Eeenin Stanna”, with bundles of newspapers headlining a tragic story - the deaths of two beloved British actors who were close collaborators for over twenty years – both killed in freak accidents just one hour apart.
Just along the street, the two enormous posters at the side of the Theatre Royal door were plastered with stickers in large letters; “All Performances Cancelled”.
Since there were no punters to deal with, Charlie decided to take a bit of a break and shuffled along to chat with the paper boy.
“It’s all a very rum business,” he said to Jim. “I could have sworn that I spoke to Tony at the theatre last night. But I guess I must have dreamt it.”
“Yeah, drink has that affect on the mind, Charlie. I think you had a little too much of the ‘hic’ whisky didn’t you? Hah!“ said Jimmy as he made is eyes cross and gave his impression of a tottering old sot.
“I guess I did, Jimmy. I guess I did.” And he stood quiet for a while, as if trying to figure something out.
“There’s just one thing that puzzles me, Jimmy. I cleaned all the dressing rooms yesterday afternoon, I always do, but when I went down there late last night I found dripping-wet clothes and a briefcase with initials A.W. in gold leaf on the side.”
“Yes, that is strange,” said Jim. “Well, Charlie, as my old grandad used to say, ‘this won’t get the baby bathed.’ I’d better get back to my papers.”
“Yeah, see you again tomorrow, Jimmy.”
Little Jimmy Broadbent cast his mind back to the previous evening, and he, too, seemed rattled about something, but couldn’t quite make it out. He shrugged his shoulders and let it go, and at the top of his voice he cried, “Ev-en-ing Stand-ard, Ev-en-ing Stand-ard.”