Pageant of Murder

anything, are you?”

“No, of course not. Why?”

“Well, I mean—Sancho Panza? I didn’t realise you knew such a character existed!”

“Oh, you’re not the only one who knows the name of David Copperfield’s aunt’s lodger. The donkeys, if you remember, and the donkey boys, were always being chased off the green, or whatever it was, and—”

“Yes, dear, forget it. Do we get anything to eat before we leave your flat again for the Town Hall?”

“Well, it’s terribly early for dinner, so we’re only going to have snacks and drinks and then a cold collation when we get home tonight. Whatever happens, we’ve got to be at the Town Hall in good time. There are sure to be umpteen things to see to.”

They got to the Town Hall an hour before the Tossington Tots were due to open the proceedings. The Tots themselves had not arrived, but the formation team were there, busily rehearsing on a stage which had been newly swept by the caretaker. The combined school choirs had also turned up and were accommodated in the balcony, from which they could watch the proceedings. This arrangement had been insisted upon by Kitty, to the irritation of the special sub-committee, who claimed (rightly) that it would considerably reduce the number of tickets for sale.

“Sixty good seats up there,” the chairman had complained. “We could charge half-a-crown a time.”

“And I’m putting a hundred kids into those sixty seats,” Kitty had retorted. “If we permit a hundred assorted offspring to mill about behind the scenes until they’re wanted, we shall have murder on our hands. I’m sticking them where an eye can be kept on them, and where they can see and hear the rest of the performance. If you don’t know what kids are capable of when they’re left at a loose end for a couple of hours, well, I do. What are sixty half-crowns if, otherwise, the house is set on fire?” She had canvassed Laura’s opinion of the arrangements and had found her judgment completely upheld.

The drama club turned up at the same time as the Tossington Tots, and the two comedians arrived five minutes later, when Kitty had given them up for lost. They had looked upon the wine when it was red, and were so beerily bonhomous that Kitty confided to Laura that she was not at all certain whether it would be justifiable to allow them to take the stage.

“You’ll have to,” said Laura. “I wouldn’t, personally, argue with lads in their condition. Why not stick them on first and so get rid of them?”

The comedians, when this suggestion was mooted, turned it down flat. The house, they explained, had to be warmed up for a cross-talk act. You couldn’t go on “cold.”

“Got to get the applause going,” the slightly less inebriated of the two explained. Kitty gave in and went into the Tots’ dressing-room to find out how matters were going there. One of the Tots had lost its top-hat and another had mislaid a shoe, but otherwise there was nothing untoward. The fact that the whole dressing-room was in a state of yelling chaos troubled Kitty not at all. She exchanged a blithe nod for a cold stare from the Tots’ manageress, informed her in a bellow, loud enough to rise above the vociferations of the children, that the company was “on” in twenty minutes, and went off to round up the ballet and The Merry Wives.

The former were listening, with uneasy docility, to the screamed objurgations of their ballet mistress. The latter were ominously quiet. Their stage-manager enquired whether the Council workmen were prepared to put up the scenery and, upon being assured that they were in the auditorium and already briefed, produced detailed sketches of the set for the second scene and observed that of course it was a great pity he had had to abandon the rehearsal on the previous night, as the scenery for the second excerpt was heavy, elaborate and might not fit the stage.

Kitty told him briefly that the council workmen would take care of everything, went in front to see how the audience was settling in, found some small change for an attendant who had been offered a pound note for a threepenny programme, stopped for a word with Laura and then went backstage to warn the Tots’ supervisor that the National Anthem would precede the show “as we’re mostly doing musical items”, and that its termination would be the signal for the children to be ready in the wings.

The Tots fought their way through a series of popular love-songs and other unsuitable routines, followed by impersonations, tap-dancing and acrobatics. They went off, kissing their hands in acknowledgment of the good natured applause of most of the audience and the cat-calls, whistles and unkindly laughter of youths in the back rows of the (so-named) stalls. They were followed by the inebriated comedians. These managed better than Kitty had thought they would. Their jokes were stale rather than blue and although, at one point, one of them fell down, the audience concluded that this was part of the act and received it well. Kitty went backstage to find out whether first-aid was required. There she paid off the comedians and was extremely thankful to see the back of them.

“And mind how you go,” she warned them kindly. “There’s a slip-way to the river and this side-door opens on to it, so walk uphill, whatever you do, and you’ll reach the high street all right.”

“And the pub,” they said. “Cheerie-bye!”

The formation team, still not very happy about the division of their squad, gave place, after ten minutes or so, to The Merry Wives. Before the actors took the stage, Kitty appeared in front of the curtain to announce that there would be a ten-minute interval between the two scenes.

“After all,” Laura had urged, “you’ve to get those hundred choristers down from the balcony and on to the stage, as well as giving time for that scenery to be changed. I think you’re wise. You don’t want all that clatter in the middle of one of the acts, and the audience will only stampede if you keep them waiting while those hundred kids get into position.”

“The drama club are pleased, thank goodness, and I expect the choirmaster will be, too. The ballet are not so happy, as it means an extra ten minutes’ wait for them, but they’re a mild lot and won’t create, I hope, although I can’t say the same about that awful old Jezebel who bosses them,” said Kitty, when she returned to her seat beside Laura. “I daresay the Mayor thinks he ought to be asked to speak during the interval, but I’m not having any. He’s spoken twice today, once when the procession reached Squire’s Acre this morning and again when there was a lull in the jamboree this afternoon. He’ll have to be content with that.”

The Merry Wives played their first scene rather breathlessly, but displayed more liveliness than they had done on the previous night at the rehearsal.

“Let’s hope the rows are a thing of the past,” said Laura, as the curtain came down and the house lights went up. “I notice that Mr Ford and Mr Page are both wearing swords, so that disposes of that little disagreement. Falstaff got into the clothes-basket with unnecessary daintiness, I thought, but he seemed to have no difficulty in tucking himself away.”