Killed by Scandal

Killed by Scandal

Simon Nash

Copyright Simon Nash 2012

Published by Long Lane Press at Smashwords

Discover other books by Simon Nash at Smashwords:

Dead of a Counterplot

KILLED BY SCANDAL

SIMON NASH

This book is fiction. All characters and incidents are entirely imaginary.

First published in England by Geoffrey Bles Ltd. 1962. This edition reproduced for Long Lane Press by arrangement with the author.

KILLED BY SCANDAL. Copyright © 1962 by Simon Nash. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Publication Data

Killed by Scandal.

Originally published: London : G. Bles, 1962.

This edition: Long Lane Press, 2012

Title. KILLED BY SCANDAL

ISBN 978-0-9568878-4-9

Also by Simon Nash:

DEAD OF A COUNTERPLOT

DEAD WOMAN’S DITCH

DEATH OVER DEEP WATER

UNHALLOWED MURDER

CHAPTER ONE

Ludlow Goes on Stage

Adam Ludlow had just finished his first lecture of the Lent Term when he was seized by the Professor of Applied Mathematics.

You're just the man, said the professor, taking him by the arm and guiding him along a corridor when he had no wish to go. Ludlow, who kept up a happy feud with everything which he collectively described as 'science', muttered something which might have mentioned the Greeks bearing gifts. The professor went on undeterred.

The thing is this; I've got a sort of interest in the people who get up amateur theatricals in the bit of a suburb where I live

Really? I'd no idea that we shared any common interests, but if you want to talk about drama ...

Well, I don't actually. They got me to become a vice-president or something. I give them a subscription, but I don't often go to see them. Not that I mind doing a show if the family wants an evening out. But you know how it is — these fellows like to get a few names on their notepaper, and there's an idea going round that we university types are intellectuals, and all that.

Most amusing error, no doubt, said Ludlow, but I still don't know where I come in. Do you want me to tell them the truth?

Jolly good! But to come to the point. These people are putting on a play, quite soon I believe, and they asked me if I could find someone to give them a bit of a talk about it. You know—background, and that sort of stuff.

What play is it?

Now, the secretary did tell me. She's a nice person, the secretary; you'll like her. What was it—something about a scandal.

The School for Scandal?

That's it! Clever of you to guess. Who wrote it?

Sheridan.

That's right.

I know it is.

So the point is, will you go and talk to them about this Sheridan?

It isn't my best period, Ludlow said, taking refuge in the academic's finest excuse for not doing something. Why not ask Hardacre? Hardacre, the Professor of English, was the head of Ludlow's department.

I did, but he wouldn't look at it. He's frightfully busy with his book.

He has been for twelve years, to my knowledge, said Ludlow who had no expectation of further promotion and was also protected by a small private income from the need to be polite about professors. As he really never minded speaking on any subject, he said that he would do his best to think up something about Sheridan.

That's grand, said the Professor of Applied Mathematics. He had now reached the door of his own room and was willing to release Ludlow at last.

Provided somebody writes to tell me exactly what is wanted, and remembers to tell me when and where they want it, said Ludlow as he gathered his gown and his bruised dignity around him.

He did in fact receive a clear and explicit letter from the secretary of the Haleham Green Thespians, whose name turned out to be June Morland, asking him to speak at the St. Edmund's Church Hall at 8 p.m. on a date two weeks ahead. All of which explains why he was driving his ancient Austin in a north-westerly direction on an evening late in January, in opposition to a wind that was coming out of the north-west at a speed which suggested that it was trying to escape from something particularly unpleasant.

There is nothing notably unpleasant about Haleham Green nor is there anything to encourage a light-hearted visit. The site of the old village is commemorated by the High Street, which now contains no building more than thirty years old. The green, after having bits cut off and enclosed for several hundred years, eventually gave up the struggle and became part of a housing-estate. The inhabitants of this estate, and of the few older houses which hang around the fringes of the district, claim to live in London when they want to impress acquaintances they meet on holidays. When the L.C.C. threatens them, however, they are strong for their membership of Middlesex. The shops have the familiar names that have spread so far that they no longer tell the traveller what part of the country he has reached.

Ludlow prided himself on his ability to find anywhere that could remotely be considered as part of London. He reached the High Street of Haleham Green in spite of discouragement from the fugitive wind, but was unable to find any trace of a church and still less of a church hall. The street was empty and showed no ambition to be anything else. On his third crawl along it, Ludlow saw a young man come out from a door beside a chemist's shop — one of the few that bore a private name. Being unfamiliar with Ludlow and his moods, the young man was startled to be hailed in these words:

Good evening, you're a stranger in these parts yourself, and you've never heard of any Thespians and you don't known where St. Edmund's Church Hall is.

The other recovered himself quickly and smiled as he approached the car. As a matter of fact, he said, I'm a Thespian and I'm just going to the hall. I was afraid I was going to be late, so if you give me a lift I'll show you the way.

He got in beside Ludlow, showing himself to be of medium height, with a slim build which at first made him look a little younger than he was. He was sharp-featured, intelligent-looking, but somehow not entirely at ease in what he was doing at present.

My name's Donald Hedge, he explained as Ludlow jerked back into motion through the well-worn gears. I keep the chemist's, there where you picked me up, and I live over the shop. You must be Professor Ludlow.

Ludlow made a polite noise that allowed him to accept the title without open deceit.

It's very decent of you to come and talk to us. I hope there'll be a good crowd.

So do I, said Ludlow, especially after the trouble Cleopatra and I have had to find the place.

Who's Cleopatra? asked Donald Hedge, peering round at the back seat.

My car, who is even now waiting for guidance.

Oh, sorry — yes, you turn right just after the next lamp. Why is it — she — called Cleopatra?

Because age cannot wither her, nor custom stale her infinite variety. It doesn't matter, he added, seeing a well-known look of mingled wonder and alarm on the other's face. He changed the subject and asked, Are you in the play?

Yes, I'm Joseph Surface.

An interesting part. It needs some skill in an actor to bring out Sheridan's parody of the earlier sentimental comedy, while at the same time making the character credible within the logic of the play.

Yes. Quite. I'm not much good really, but one gets dragged into these things, and they're always short of men. Terry said I looked all right for the part anyway,

Who's Terry?

Terry Colbert, the producer. He's a teacher at the Grammar School, but he gives nearly all his spare time to the Thespians. He's terribly good, though he does get very worked up at rehearsals.

Producers often do. So you had other motives for becoming a — Thespian? Ludlow uttered the word with distaste.

Donald Hedge made a noise that was almost a giggle, and then said, Turn left at the next corner, and we're there.

There was a squat and gloomy building, awkwardly placed on a slope away from the road. Under Hedge's direction, Ludlow parked Cleopatra in a yard at the back and was then taken round to the main door. The wind was now very angry with everyone and seemed to regard the presence of St. Edmund's Church Hall as an insult that should be removed as soon as possible. They came into a small vestibule, where the wind collapsed into a flat cold. The pervading atmosphere of damp, stale smoke and wet overcoats suggested that the hall was in frequent, if not joyful, use. Hedge pushed open a swing-door and said to no one in particular, Here's Professor Ludlow.

The auditorium, if it could be dignified by such a name, seemed even colder than the vestibule. A few people — they looked very few to Ludlow's anxious glance—were sitting in two rows on those steel and canvas chairs which can be so usefully stacked in piles and have nothing else whatever to commend them. A lot of other chairs were performing their proper function by remaining stacked at the back of the hall, from which place the caretaker had clearly not thought it worth disturbing more than two dozen of them. The audience, such as it was, sat facing a curtain that had once been purple but had in recent years nearly fulfilled an ambition to be brown. Ludlow's spirits, always liable to a quick rise and fall, were very low. They rose slightly when a young woman appeared in front of him, and said:

Good evening, Dr. Ludlow, so good of you to come. I'm June Morland.

June Morland was pretty enough for Ludlow not to mind yet another misapplied title. She was small, but had a grace of poise and movement which made most people think her to be taller. Her hair was not red, but it was too red to be described as merely brown. Her nose, a thought too long for the roundness of her face, turned the least bit upwards and rescued her from conventional and unmemorable prettiness. Ludlow looked at her and said:

Lady Teazle, I presume.

That's right, how did you guess?

No producer who knew his job could fail to cast you for it. This brief but pleasant exchange was shattered by a little man, no taller than June, who thrust himself between them and announced:

Glad to meet you, Ludlow; I'm bold.

Ludlow was wondering what to say about this obvious self-revelation, when June Morland saved him by explaining:

Mr. Bould is our Chairman.

Ludlow's height and gaunt face give him an appearance of severity which he does not always try to soften. He found something extremely repellent in the aggressive little figure who was now shaking his hand. Bould had a skin of the type which always appears slightly dirty, however well washed its possessor may be. He was about fifty, nearly bald but with a good deal of hair at the back of bis neck to compensate for what had slipped away from his head. He wore old-fashioned eyeglasses on a black silk ribbon; his teeth paraded both their expense and their falsity whenever he spoke.

There aren't many people here, said Ludlow sternly.

It's a cold night, Bould replied, in a tone that suggested a great nobility on the part of those who had come. Most of the cast are here anyway. And my wife and daughter, too. My daughter's in the play, so I hope she'll learn something.

Bould abruptly walked away as if he could bear the sight of Ludlow no longer. In fact he appeared to be collecting his family. Mrs. Bould was sitting at the far end of the second row, protected by so many shapes and layers of wool that the needles which she held might have been knitting her into yet another garment or unknitting one of those that she already had on. When she got up in acknowledgement of a bark from her husband, she showed herself to be several inches taller than he was. Her grey hair was mostly piled on top of her head, with a few rebel strands which conducted a harassing action into her eyes and across the bridge of her sharp nose. She went meekly after Bould, who was now bearing down on a pretty girl and a well-built man who were deep in quiet conversation by one of the two radiators. Detaching the girl, Bould returned to Ludlow and announced, My wife and daughter.

Maria, said Ludlow, looking at the girl.

No, no, her name's Frances, Bould replied testily.

He means in the play, Daddy, said the girl, how clever of him to guess.

Oh, you know the play, do you? said Mrs. Bould, with an air of surprise that anyone outside Haleham Green should have heard of it. She collected a knitting-needle that had got caught up in her outermost layer of wool.

Considering that I've come to lecture about it — oh, yes, I have read it a few times.

Time to start, Bould announced,pulling out a pocket-watch. You were a bit late getting here, I think.

It wasn't very easy to find the place.

When I'm in a strange town, I always carry a map. Are you ready?

Quite, thank you.

As Ludlow followed Bould across the hall, he saw that June Morland was looking angrily at the chairman. Ludlow had got well into his forties without marriage, from a variety of causes in which laziness and a love of personal freedom stood high. He was by no means unsusceptible, however, and he hoped that June's annoyance was caused by the discourtesy which he had received from Bould. But there was something else, a kind of disgust, tinged with fear, which made him regretfully dismiss the idea. He had no time for conjecture, for Bould plunged behind the curtain and into a dusty gloom through which a short flight of steps was faintly visible. Climbing these behind his guide, Ludlow struck his head on the top of an opening which the shorter man had passed unscathed, and found himself on the stage.

Curtain and lights, Bould shouted, come on, Seward, we're waiting.

All right, Mr. Bould, I'm coming.

A figure unidentifiable in the semi-darkness hastened up the steps and across the stage, muttering maledictions. The curtains parted and a strong light revealed Ludlow pulling out his notes with one hand and straightening his errant tie with the other.

Not the spot, Arthur, called another voice from the back of the hall, just battens. I'll look after the house lights.

Right you are, Terry.

Ludlow found himself slightly less illuminated, and able to see that a table and two chairs stood before him. Seward reappeared, jumped over the footlights and entered the darkness which had now descended on the body of the hall. Bould ushered Ludlow to one of the chairs and stood in front of the other.

Fellow Thespians, he began, I'm not much of a one for lectures, and I don't expect any of you are. But some of us thought it would be a good thing to know a bit more about this chap who wrote the play that we have been so busily engaged in. So we got Mr. Ludlow, who's a teacher at London University, to come and say a few words to us. He works under Professor Haddock, who as you know is one of our honorary vice-presidents and a good friend of the Thespians. So I'm sure we are in for an intellectual treat, and I'll ask you to give your attention to Mr. Ludlow, who's going to tell us all about Sheridan.

Ludlow got up and put his notes back in another pocket, where they peeped out pathetically asking to be used all through the lecture. He was too experienced to be put off by chairmen and their inaccuracies. He also knew that there are basically two ways of giving a lecture. If you have an audience which knows nothing about say, Sheridan, and is anxious to learn, it is best to begin by telling them when he was born. If the purpose of the lecture is not to instruct the audience but to impress them with how much the lecturer knows, a recommended opening would be five to ten minutes on the civilisation of the Incas. You can then get round to the fact that Sheridan wrote a poor and little-known play called Pizarro, and your reputation is made. On this occasion, Ludlow peered into the darkness and announced, Richard Brinsley Sheridan was born in 1751.

The next forty-five minutes passed without incident. Ludlow kept to the point fairly well and went into only one of his famous digressions. The restrictions on the theatre in the eighteenth century led him to an attack on all governments, and the present one in particular, for failing to encourage the arts.

The National Theatre, he railed, has been on the Statute-book since 1948. But is it opened ? Is it even begun ? The dreary guardians of our destiny wail that we can't afford it. But if anybody wants to do something destructive with an atom, our every pleasure is taxed He got back to Sheridan within eight minutes.

At the end, Bould gave something which might have been a waking snore, but which Ludlow hoped was a grunt of approval. He suggested that the house lights should be put on, so that they could all see each other in case anybody wanted to ask any questions. In the awful silence which followed, Ludlow was able to look at his audience collectively. There were about thirty people in the hall, more than he had noticed at first. Frances Bould had gone back to her previous companion, and was clearly more interested in him than in anything Ludlow had been saying. After Ludlow had had time to smoke half a cigarette, June Morland dutifully asked whether there was any connection between Sheridan and Goldsmith, which took ten minutes to answer. Another silence, and an intelligent-looking young man took up a point which Ludlow had made. When this was dealt with, a large man with a red face, who had been opening and shutting his mouth for some time, got up and knocked over his chair as he did so. He announced that he was Charles Surface — in the play of course, ha, ha — and he thought it ought to be played for laughs right through. But Terry—indicating the young man who had just spoken, told him to make it more sympathetic, like. Who was right? Ludlow talked about sentiment and conventional morality, and the two traditions in the early novel, until no one knew who was right about anything. Bould then made sure that there would be no more, by thanking the speaker for his interesting talk which was so full of facts about seventeenth-century writers like Golding, and then hurried off the stage. Ludlow, following him, again failed to duck and emerged from behind the curtain rubbing his head. Now that he was literally on their level, the audience lost their shyness and surrounded him.

Would you like some tea? said June Morland, holding out a