“I wonder how they managed to top up the engines with water,” Bryant mused, fascinated by the chaotic machinery of beams, cogs, wires, pulleys and rods.
“Oh, there’s an artesian well down here too,” Elspeth explained, pointing out the eerie green shimmer of water reflected on the distant bricks opposite. “The pump is under the orchestra pit. They’re supposed to keep the hatch cover on the well because it’s very deep and hard to see in the dark.”
“Can we go back up?” asked May, wiping his forehead.
“I say, are you all right?” Bryant shot him a look of concern. “Feeling shut in?”
“I hope it’s helped you get the lie of the land,” said Elspeth, returning to her box office.
“Absolutely,” Bryant told her enthusiastically, but all she had shown him was how easy it would be for a murderer to hide in such a building and never be found.
? Full Dark House ?
19
THE WEIGHT OF THE WORLD
“Ten minutes, everyone,” warned Helena Parole. “We’ve still got a lot of work ahead of us tonight.” She rose and gathered her notes from the seat next to her. “Harry, where are you?”
“Over here, Helena,” called her assistant. “I wonder if I could talk to you for a moment.” He was standing at the back of the stalls with Olivia Thwaite, the show’s costume designer. Olivia’s wardrobe designs had graced enough Noel Coward productions to inspire new fashions at the Cafe Royal, but the Blitz had forced her family back to their country home in Wiltshire, and she was now thinking of retiring. She intended to make
“It’s about Eurydice’s first-act costume,” he explained as Helena strode up to him. “Olivia would like to double the amount of flowers sewn on her dress.”
“I know the material’s in short supply,” said Olivia. “I promise you it’s entirely necessary. The bodice is transparent, and since you specified no undergarments, her breasts and buttocks will clearly be seen beneath the lights. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that the Lord Chamberlain’s rules forbid nudity except in motionless tableaux under special lighting arrangements and a special licence, a licence I understand we do not have.”
“I assure you there will be no vulgarity,” promised Helena. “The semblance of nudity is entirely as I intended.”
“But not as Miss Noriac intends.” Harry spoke for Olivia. It was something he was in the habit of doing whenever possible. It allowed him to defuse tension between stage personnel by rephrasing overheated arguments into the semblance of reasonable conversations. “She is concerned that as a woman with a voluptuous figure, she will not look her best if the audience can see her entire body.”
Eve Noriac had joined the production on loan from the Lyon Opera House, and represented a heavy investment as their Eurydice. It was important to keep her happy in order to maintain courteous relations with the prestigious French company.
“She’s somewhat on the portly side, but she has a marvellous
“I don’t see that it’s my job to tell your female lead that she has to appear in the buff before one and a half thousand people every night,” reasoned Olivia.
“I think Olivia would like to add flowers in the top half of her costume for the sake of decorum,” said Harry gently.
“I don’t want her to go on looking like a walking advertisement for the Kensington Roof Gardens, thank you, Harry. Go and talk to her, would you? Tell her I’m not having daffodils sewn over her nipples just because she can’t leave spuds alone.”
“I’ll suggest she speaks directly to you about your perception of her appearance, bearing in mind her reservations about the decolletage.” Harry didn’t mind liaising between the director and her cast, but it had reached the point where he was acting as an interpreter.
He left Helena and Olivia arguing about the wardrobe and made his way backstage. The scenery for the opening tableau had arrived, and he squeezed between freshly painted scrims depicting sheaves embroidered with hand-sewn cornflowers, courtesy of the ladies of the Bank, Holborn and Aldwych underground stations, who had wanted something to do in the evenings.
Above his head hung a great globe painted a rich cyanic blue and topped with a set of opened steel compasses, a symbol of cartography and freemasonry denoting the mapping of the earthly world. The globe had been manufactured for a Glyndebourne production of
The shepherds and shepherdesses of the chorus had returned to the flies. The principal players were familiarizing themselves with the finer details of their roles, having taken musical direction at rehearsal rooms in Covent Garden. At this stage of the production, when the librettist was belatedly putting the finishing touches to his new translation of Offenbach’s work, it seemed that nothing would ever come together, but this was how it always was. The production would not coalesce into a performance until the dress rehearsal on Friday.
“Corinne, I don’t have you in my diary until late this evening,” said Harry. “You’re not due on for another two hours.”
“I’m recording a talking book for the blind over in Greek Street,” explained the diminutive comedienne who had been cast in the role of Mercury, a tenor role usually played by a male. “The producer’s called a break while they sort out their wiring or something, so I thought I’d come and see how everyone was coping with La Capistrania’s mysterious disappearance. I’m dying for a snout, love. You haven’t got one on you, I suppose?”
“You know you’re not supposed to smoke back here,” said Harry.
“Don’t give me that. I’ve seen you creeping out the back for an oily rag. Go on, chuck us a Du Maurier. Has anyone dared to mention Tanya today?”
“God, no. You can cut the atmosphere with a knife. I’ve only got a Woodbine, but you can have it. Helena’s still waiting to see if her replacement is up for tonight’s run-through.”
“There’ll probably be an air raid and we’ll all spend the evening under the stage trying to play whist by the light of a forty-watt bulb again. I suppose you know they’re saying she’s been murdered?” Corinne airily brandished Harry’s proffered cigarette. “Working as a spy for her father and assassinated by fifth columnists, apparently.”
“I’ve heard rumours,” admitted Madeline Penn, the skinny, nervous ASM. “Stan’s been putting the fear of God up everyone as they sign in, but there’s been no real news. She’s walked out of jobs before, hasn’t she?”
“He reckons she was carried out of this one in the dead of night,” offered Charles Senechal, a chubby Anglo- French baritone who, like their Eurydice, was on loan from Lyon. “Slaughtered by a lover. Body parts missing.”
“Well, if that’s the case, somebody made a jolly good job of cleaning up the blood,” said Corinne.
“If I had a franc for every story I heard circulating around a theatre I’d be rich by now.” Charles had been assigned the role of Jupiter. It was a part he had performed so many times before that his performance was in danger of becoming petrified, but audiences loved him.
“Apparently she was having a torrid affair with someone right here in the theatre,” whispered Madeline.
“I haven’t heard about that.” Harry looked shocked. “I’m sure I would have seen her with someone.”
“The trouble with you, Harry, is you never notice flirting between the sexes,” snapped Corinne. “She was being rogered by someone in our esteemed cast. I should know, because I caught them at it. Walked into her dressing room thinking she’d gone for the night and there she was with her heels in the sink and her bloomers hanging from the light. She didn’t even make the effort of trying to look embarrassed.”
“Who was it?”
“That would be tittle-tattle, Harry, and I know you don’t approve. Besides, I was fascinated by the sight of his hairy bottom poking out of his shirt-tails.”
“You should tell the detectives.”
“What, and have them hanging around all week ogling the chorus girls? You know how I feel about outsiders. Elspeth, put that thing down, love. It weed all over the stage yesterday.”
