Read Online An Amateur Corpse by Simon Brett - Free Book Online

criticism and that’s what we are all here for.’
    Charles thought maybe at last he had got a supporter. But Robert Chubb soon dispelled the idea as he went on. ‘The only comment I would have is that it does seem to me rather a pity that the only member of the cast for whom you managed unstinting praise was one of our newest members and that you were somewhat dismissive of some of our most experienced actors and actresses. Particularly of a lady to whom we all owe many splendid performances, not least her Lady Macbeth last year.’
    This spirited defence of Mary Hobbs produced another warm burst of applause. Charles was tempted to ask what relevance a performance in a production of Macbeth he couldn’t possibly have seen should have to a production of The Seagull he had seen, but there didn’t seem any point.
    He had misjudged the nature of the meeting entirely. All that had been required of him had been a pat on the back for all concerned, not forgetting the charming young man who tore his ticket and the good ladies who made the coffee for the interval. All he could do now was to insure that that meeting ended as soon as possible and get the hell out of the place. And never come back.
    Mentally he cursed Hugo for ever letting him in for it, or at least for not briefing him as to what to expect.
    He then realized with a slight shock that Hugo wasn’t there. Nor was Charlotte. Nor Clive Steele. It seemed strange.
    As he thought about it, he started again to feel guilty about the way he had left Hugo the night before. He hated to let things like that fester. Stupid misunderstandings should be cleared up as soon as possible. He was too old to lose friends over trivialities. Once he’d stopped the Backstagers baying for his blood, he’d go round and see Hugo and apologize.
    But there was still more Critics’ Circling to be weathered. It was hard work. There was no common ground for discussion. The Backstagers were only capable of talking about the Backstagers. When Charles made a comparison with a West End production of The Three Sisters, someone would say, ‘Well, of course, when Walter directed it down here When he praised the comic timing of Michael Hordern, someone would say, ‘Oh, but Philip’s a wonderful actor too. If you’d seen him in The Rivals . . .’ It was like talking to a roomful of politicians. Every question was greeted, not by an answer, but by an aggrieved assertion of something totally different.
    It did end. Eventually. Reggie gave an insipid vote of thanks with some vague remarks about ‘having been given lots of food for thought . . . interesting, and even surprising, to hear the views of someone from the outside.’
    Charles prepared his getaway. He thanked Geoffrey and Vee for the meal and made for the exit, hoping that he was seeing the last of the Breckton Backstagers.
    As he reached the door, he overheard a lacquered voice commenting, ‘Don’t know who he thinks he is anyway. I’ve never seen him on the television or anything.’
    Charles Paris knew who they were talking about.
    Hugo opened the front door. His eyes were dull and registered no surprise at the visit. He was still wearing the clothes he had had on the day before and their scruffy appearance suggested he hadn’t been to bed in the interim. The smell of whisky which blasted from him suggested that he hadn’t stopped drinking either.
    â€˜I came round to apologize for going off like that last night.’
    â€˜Apologize,’ Hugo echoed stupidly. He didn’t seem to know what Charles was talking about.
    â€˜Yes. Can I come in?’
    â€˜Sure. Have a drink.’ Hugo led the way, stumbling, into the sitting room. It was a mess. Empty whisky bottles of various brands bore witness to a long session. He must have been working through the collection. Incongruously, the scene was cosily lit by an open fire, heaped with glowing