Bella Whitstable had changed into an alarmingly loose black-beaded gown that had been brought down from her brothers’ attic and smelled of mothballs. County women rarely adapted from the field to the foyer. Bryant was in no position to criticize his escort, as he sported his usual battered brown overcoat, topped with another of his landlady’s unnecessarily prolonged scarves.
“They should be around here somewhere,” said Bella, searching the crowded vestibule from the steps. “You can’t miss them.”
“Oh, why is that?” asked Bryant, before catching sight of a group that appeared to be in fancy dress. One of them, a short, bespectacled man clad in doublet and hose, came over and pumped Bella’s arm.
“Oh, well done,” he cried, examining her gown. “A perfect revival Lady Blanche!” He indicated his own clothes. “I’ve gone for the James Wade 1954 production. The original’s too laden down with fur and chain mail, unless you’re King Hildebrand. I was supposed to be Cyril, but the chap taking Florian fell off a tandem this morning and landed on his keys, so I took his place.”
Bryant touched Bella’s arm. “You mean they’re all dressed in character?” he asked.
“Certainly,” said Bella. “The Savoyards differ from other Gilbert and Sullivan groups. They live out the parts of each opera. It’s not as foolish as it sounds. Our functions raise money for charity, and pay for the preservation and restoration of related artefacts.”
“I take it your brothers had no connection with the group?” asked Bryant.
“Good heavens, no. In our family, theatre is something for the men to sleep through.”
Noting the size of some of the ladies’ headdresses, Bryant tried to imagine how the rest of the audience would feel about this embellishment to the evening’s programme, until it was explained to him that the Savoyards had reserved Boxes G and H on the right side of the theatre, where they would be able to enjoy themselves in relative privacy.
As they reached the boxes, Bryant examined the faces of the assembled Savoyards, and found himself searching for possible suspects. With fifteen minutes to go before curtain up, champagne was opened, and several members approached Bella to offer awkward condolences. One of the Savoyards was sitting on the far side of the box in a visored steel helmet that hid his face. Bryant excused himself from Bella’s side. It was important to ascertain that there was no danger here, and that began by knowing everyone’s identity.
“Hello, there.” He pulled up a small gilt chair. “Mind if I join you?” The man in the plumed helmet said something Bryant could not understand and pointed helplessly to the side of his head. Bryant loosened a wing nut with his fat fingers and worked the visor free. The face revealed was sweaty and russet-coloured.
“Phew, thanks,” said the knight gratefully. “Damned thing keeps jamming. I should have picked someone else.” He held out a hand. “Oliver Pettigrew. I’m not normally dressed like this. I’m an estate agent. You’re the police chap.”
“That’s right,” said Bryant, unwinding his scarf and placing it on the back of the chair. Below them the hubbub rose as the auditorium filled up.
“What do you make of this business, then? Both her brothers gone in a week, and yet she’s here tonight. What a trouper, eh?” Pettigrew shook his head in wonderment.
“How often do you meet?” asked Bryant.
“Once every six weeks for a costume reading, usually in a church hall, every Gilbert and Sullivan revival of course, at charity functions, and at fund-raisers to keep original G and S manuscripts and props in the country. There’s a great interest in the operas throughout the Commonwealth, and in America. We even have an official chapter of the Savoyards in Chicago.”
“I’m a bit of a Gilbert and Sullivan fan,” admitted Bryant, “but I’d never heard of you before Bella told me.”
“It’s fallen out of fashion over here,” said Bella, picking up the conversation. “There’s a reaction against anything popular in this country, don’t you think? People forget that Gilbert’s satirical targets – the judicial system, the House of Lords, the police, and royalty – made him the bad boy of his age.”
“That’s right,” agreed Knight Pettigrew, fiddling with his wing nut. “He ridiculed affectation, snobbery, and nepotism. Gilbert’s rude lyrics kept him from receiving a knighthood until he was nearly dead. The Victorian age died with them, you know. Lewis Carroll, Ruskin, Gladstone, William Morris, D’Oyly Carte, Oscar Wilde, and Queen Victoria herself – all gone with the end of the century.”
“Mr Sullivan’s music is the music of the common people,” said Bella enthusiastically, not that she knew anything about common people. “It’s a direct descendant of the folk songs that once bound our country together.” She refilled their glasses. “That’s why the guild supports it.”
“The guild?” Bryant’s ears pricked up. “You mean money from the Goldsmiths helps to run the Savoyards?”
“Sometimes,” said Bella. “It works both ways. There are many charities involved.” She twisted her gold wristwatch and checked the time. “I think it’s about to start.”
Bryant was reasonably familiar with the plot of
The opera consisted of three acts, with two intermissions of fifteen minutes each. At the first of these, the Savoyards turned to each other with the falling of the curtain and argued excitedly. The production had obviously found favour with them. The setting had been updated to seventies London with reasonable success. The new version allowed for a variety of jokes surrounding the women’s liberation movement, but it was the singing that elicited the group’s enthusiasm. Bryant caught Bella Whitstable heading for the door of the box and called her back. “If you want to go to the lavatory,” he suggested, “please take someone with you.”
“I was only going to powder my nose,” she replied somewhat archly.
“Then kindly do it here,” said Bryant. “I don’t want you out of my sight.”
Knight Pettigrew had removed his helmet and was refilling his champagne glass. Several more Savoyards had entered from the other box. The bejewelled outfits of the women and the polished silver gilt of the men’s armour glittered in the soft red gloom, although someone dressed as a ragged beggar in a floppy hat seemed to have got a raw deal. Bryant had to admit that it was a dottily pleasant sight.
Pettigrew tapped him on the arm. “You know, people don’t realize how much of Gilbert and Sullivan is buried in the national consciousness,” he said. “Take
Bryant glanced at his new friend’s eager face and knew that he possessed hundreds of similar anecdotes. People like Pettigrew were harmless enough, but it was usually dangerous to show too much of an interest. As the estate agent rattled on, Bryant wondered how many of the others had told their colleagues about their odd hobby.
The house lights flickered and dimmed for a moment, presumably to notify the audience that it was time for them to return to their seats.
He became aware of a commotion on the other side of the box. Several women were bent over someone in a chair. He rose, crossing to find one of them fanning Bella with a programme.
“She feels faint,” she explained. “It’s very warm in here. Do you think we should take her outside?”
“I’ll be fine, really,” said Bella. “I just feel a little strange.”
“She was complaining that her limbs were stiff,” said her friend. “I wondered if – ” She got no further, because Bella suddenly fell forward, her muscles contracting violently. Everyone jumped back in shock as her limbs began to spasm.
“She’s having a fit!” Pettigrew was pushing into the knot of horrified onlookers.
Bryant grabbed the two largest men he could see. “Hold her down,” he ordered, snatching up the walkie- talkie handset attached to his belt. It was the one piece of equipment he had not managed to lose.
“Put something soft between her teeth that she can bite on,” said Pettigrew. “Something she can’t swallow.”
“Does anyone have any Valium?” asked Bryant, kneeling beside her. Several women immediately opened their
