by Amy Myers
‘Thank you, my Beauty,’ Rex shouted at Helen through the monster’s head, while performing another swagger round the room. He was a slightly built man, which made it even odder, Sophy thought, to see him with this huge thing over his head.
‘The first scene in the Matrimonial Agency for Beasts then,’ Richard decreed, hauling himself off the sofa to take his place as the agency clerk taking the Beast’s details for a future wife. Helen of course was the disdaining beauty and Richard the clerk. Sophy had been consigned with her full permission to the role of Ugly Sister, who rather fancied marrying the Beastly Rotter. Unfortunately, the Beastly Rotter didn’t want her. He was set on the Beauty.
‘I want a wife!’ the Beast howled obediently.
Clerk Richard looked bored. ‘Whose wife do you want? Ho, ho, ho,’ he added.
‘It won’t be me.’ Helen teetered on to join them in her strapped high-heeled shoes.
‘Oh yes, it will,’ the Beast proclaimed loudly in true pantomime style.
‘Oh no, it won’t,’ Helen snapped back.
‘What about me?’ Sophy asked plaintively on cue.
The Beastly Rotter turned a scornful eye on her. ‘You’re the Ugly Sister. I don’t want you.’
Stupid words, but only words, Sophy thought, with a rare pang. Was that how he really thought of her, or was it just the play? As if he read her thoughts, Rex swept off the monster’s head and winked at her.
‘Fortunately, I’ve got a Mary Ann Darling on the books,’ quoth Clerk Richard.
‘Don’t you dare use that in the show, Richard.’ Sophy was appalled at this mischief-making. ‘Mother’s so upset already.’
Richard shrugged. ‘Probably because of that new lady’s maid who’s arriving today. Anyway, it was only a joke.’
‘No,’ Sophy said firmly. ‘There’s something odd about this whole thing – the way they were talking in the drawing room about that girl last night. It’s not a joke at all.’
‘I agree,’ Rex said seriously. ‘I remember my mother talking about her. She was the Mary Pickford of the stage, all girly blonde and big blue eyes. Not as beautiful as you, Helen,’ he added quickly, at which Helen smiled and Sophy cringed.
‘Anything in this murder idea?’ Richard asked with more interest.
‘How would I know?’ Rex replied. ‘I was only a babe in arms when she popped off.’
‘Maybe that Guv’nor of the Gaiety bumped her off?’ Richard threw out with renewed zest. ‘I say, could someone here this weekend have done her in?’
Sophy was even more appalled. ‘We had enough talk about murder last year. The parents couldn’t take any more, so don’t you dare raise the subject.’
Richard shrugged. ‘All right, I’ll drop that line. But don’t forget fairy tales are full of crime, people planning murders. Fee-fi-fo-fum and all that. Wicked witches.’
‘Well, let’s give ours a happy ending,’ Sophy said firmly. ‘Remember that the Beastly Rotter turns out to be a handsome prince in disguise so forget wicked witches.’
‘That’s wizard,’ Rex capped neatly.
Neville Heydock tweaked his tie and prepared to make his appearance in the ballroom for the rehearsal. Not too bad, he told the mirror. His ‘Jeeves’, as he jokingly called Ronald Winter, wouldn’t be at his side but Neville needed reassurance now. For years he had wanted to attend a Wychbourne Court weekend party. Being a star of the musical comedy stage and every girl’s favourite dish was one thing but being invited here was the crowning social glory as far as he was concerned. If only they knew … He had thought there was no problem until last night, even with Tobias here. But then to his horror he had seen Lynette of all people descending the stairs yesterday evening, flaunting herself as usual in floating chiffon and diamonds. He should have expected it, but he hadn’t. At least the claws hadn’t emerged yet – perhaps she had too much to lose now that she had married again. And on top of all that, there was Mary Ann. Why, for Pete’s sake, had Gertrude brought that up?
‘What a surprise,’ Lynette had said on seeing him, eyes glinting. ‘Darling, so lovely to see you again.’
‘And here we are to be on the same stage together. I’ll be singing just for you, honey-baby,’ he had responded in relief. Still no claws. He relaxed too soon.
‘A touch of Gershwin perhaps? “The Man I Don’t Love” from Lady Be Good?’
‘Splendid,’ he had rejoined with as much nonchalance as he could gather. ‘But I’d prefer “It Had to be You”.’ Weak, but it would pass, and at least she hadn’t put the cat among the pigeons yet, despite this talk of the old days and Mary Ann.
That had been last night, though. Now during this damned rehearsal he had to carry his performance through. Look suave, keep a stiff upper lip and all that.
Hubert Jarrett was also making his way to the ballroom with great reluctance. Rehearsal, indeed. As though he needed to rehearse his greatest speech. His, not Shakespeare’s. It was the interpretation that lifted the speech beyond the mundane. Moreover, he was going to be reminded of days he preferred to forget. He had thought that time far behind him, and that he was therefore reasonably safe. He’d married Constance in a hurry, left the Gaiety and had a far more successful career on the real stage, which would shortly, he was convinced, result in a knighthood. He had wanted to decline the invitation for this weekend, but Constance had set her heart on attending and he had for once bowed to her wish, in view of the fact that their hosts were the Marquess and Marchioness Ansley and one of the guests was Lord Kencroft. Their patronage would surely advance his knighthood.
And then Gertrude of all people had mentioned Mary Ann – and it had afterwards become apparent that his past was still remembered by at least one person.
At Hubert’s side, Constance smiled up at him. ‘You look splendid, Hubert. You will be the most impressive person in the Follies.’
‘Thank you, my dear.’ He had no doubt she was right, but he remembered what he had to tell her. ‘I have reassured Gertrude that I will play in this revue, but I have explained to her again that I naturally cannot agree to either myself or you appearing in the final chorus line in a Pierrot costume.’
‘Nevertheless, I shall do so, Hubert.’
He felt this quiet response – the first time she had ever defied him – like a blow on the face. But he said no more. He could not afford to with Tobias Rocke here, the keeper of secrets. Even his arch-rival, that misfit Alice Maxwell, was present. She had only played minor roles at the Gaiety when he had first met her, as indeed had he, but now she had aspired to his world; she had already followed in Sarah Bernhardt’s footsteps and played Hamlet. His part. That was merely at a minor theatre and not to be compared with his own achievements, but nevertheless she had managed to have infuriatingly good reviews. Just because she was a woman of course, not because of any great talent. Something must be done.
It had not occurred to him earlier that there might be drawbacks to this weekend, but now he felt as though a sword of Damocles might fall at any moment.
‘Tobias.’ Alice Maxwell found him in the drawing room. ‘Good, I’m glad you’re alone. I’d like to talk to you before the rehearsal.’
Tobias beamed, rising from his chair. He liked a good tussle, especially when he had the upper hand, and Alice was an excellent sparring partner. She had always been an overpowering presence, though she was amiable enough. In the old days, she had led suffragette marches, and he had been surprised that she didn’t take advantage of the new laws and stand for parliament herself. As it was, she still graced the stage, although dominated might be more accurate. Impressive, though. Her Medea was spot on, waving the knife she’d just used to kill her children. Pity that Sybil Thorndike had nabbed the role of Joan of Arc in the Shaw play; the rhetoric would have suited Alice down to the ground.
‘My dear Alice, if only I could linger, but I simply can’t,’ Tobias told her. ‘I promised Gertrude I would escort her to the ballroom for the rehearsal. She is upset, poor lady, at having me
ntioned the unmentionable last night. And here I am, minutes late already. Shall we have our little chat later?’
Alice remained where she was. The lady wasn’t used to being thwarted, but Tobias was sure that she would agree with him. After all, she was hoping to follow in Ellen Terry’s footsteps and become a dame.
‘Such fun we shall have,’ he assured her as he departed. ‘All friends together again.’
Alice was far from sure about that. Coming here had been a mistake. It brought back memories, revived old scores and, worst of all, fears.
Tobias enjoyed walking up the grand staircase to meet Gertrude. It was indeed pleasant to be at Wychbourne for this reunion. Just like the old days, when he first acquired the reputation as keeper of secrets at the Gaiety. He deserved it. He had almost forgotten some of those secrets in the meantime, but it was surprising how they came back once faced with those he had comforted so many years ago. Mary Ann Darling was very dangerous territory, of course, but after all this time it could be tackled if he trod carefully.
‘Dear Tobias,’ Gertrude greeted him with relief as he entered the Velvet Room. ‘You are still the great comforter.’
‘You shouldn’t have mentioned Mary Ann, my dear Gertrude,’ Tobias said mildly.
‘I know,’ she said ruefully, ‘but I did.’
‘It’s no great matter. It will soon be forgotten.’
Gertrude looked at him in surprise. ‘But that terrible thought – murder – how could our guests forget that?’
‘It will be briefly discussed and then forgotten. Taking it further would demand new gossip if not evidence and there has been none of either. Poor Mary Ann. It was over thirty years ago that she disappeared and somehow met her death. She stirred great passions.’
‘Who dined with her that night, Tobias?’ Gertrude asked abruptly.
‘Don’t you know, my dear? Then it is not for me to say.’
‘Everyone who dined at Romano’s would have known,’ she pleaded.
‘That is unlikely if Mary Ann and her escort had a private room. And I believe they did.’
‘So you do know more about it, Tobias,’ she said sharply.
He shook his head. ‘Gertrude, I plead with you. Old tensions are being stirred all too vigorously. Should we not cancel tomorrow’s performance in the Coach and Horses? After all, the weather is inclement. The snow is still falling.’
‘How can we do that?’ she asked in desperation.
‘I will go down to the ballroom but you talk to Gerald, Gertrude. Now. I saw him in the steward’s room.’
‘Was it such a bad idea to agree to these Follies, Gerald?’ Gertrude could see from his face what her husband’s answer would be. Not only the Follies were on her mind. The new lady’s maid had arrived from London and looked – well, altogether a handful, as her mother might have said.
Gerald looked grave. ‘Not the Follies themselves. But you could not have known,’ he said.
‘About Mary Ann Darling?’ she asked fearfully. ‘You must have met her?’
‘I did. I admired her on stage and I met her in my days as a masher at your stage door. She was very beautiful.’
Gertrude’s fear grew. She had taken over Mary Ann’s part in the play. Is that why Gerald had married her? Not for herself, but because she reminded him of Mary Ann? Mary Ann had light coloured hair judging by the postcards, whereas Gertrude’s was brown, but even so …
‘Do you know what happened to her?’ she blurted out.
Gerald showed a rare sign of anger. ‘If I did, I would have given such information to the police.’
‘Of course you would. I know that,’ she faltered. ‘Tobias thinks we should cancel the Follies.’
He calmed down. ‘Cancel? What nonsense. Come, Gertrude, let us face those lions in our den, shall we?’ He embraced her and all was well.
She took his arm and together they walked through to the ballroom. ‘Let’s put on the Follies and be damned,’ he whispered to her as they entered.
Flaming flamingos, what was going on? Nell wondered. Mrs Fielding had looked pleased to see her when she reported to the still room to help with serving the tea, whereas she normally guarded her precious domain with fierce determination.
It transpired that two events had brought about Nell’s sudden popularity. First, Miss Paget was proving a force to be reckoned with, as there seemed to be some dispute over whether or not the Earl Grey tea served to Miss Maxwell was the genuine Jacksons of Piccadilly blend or not. Secondly, the excitement of the arrival of Miss Jenny Smith, Lady Ansley’s new lady’s maid. Because of the heavy snowfall, she had arrived courtesy of one of the Home Farm wagons, but instead of reporting to Mrs Fielding at the east wing door she had marched breezily through the Wychbourne Court front door and insisted Mr Peters take her to see Lady Ansley on the grounds that it was her she was working for, not the housekeeper.
‘That’s a splendid-looking chocolate cake,’ Nell said to Mrs Fielding warmly as they set off for the ballroom and was rewarded by seeing her doing her best to suppress her pleasure. Nell’s attention was thereafter divided between serving tea, sandwiches and cakes at the rear of the ballroom and watching what was happening on stage. Absent-mindedly she took one of the cucumber sandwiches herself, as she watched, and then felt like Algernon in The Importance of Being Earnest, who scoffed them all himself. Mr Jarrett would certainly think that disrespectful, as he was rendering his speech from Hamlet at the time. This was followed by Alice Maxwell’s orations, but then at last came the comedy.
It was hard to believe that these were the same people who had been so vehemently attacking each other last night, Nell thought, and yet here they were working together in apparent harmony. She wasn’t the only person to be watching the rehearsal in the background.
‘Miss Drury, I wonder if I might ask you a favour,’ came a timid voice at her side.
It was Mr Trotter, his trembling hands almost plucking at her sleeve. He didn’t seem to require an answer to this for he rushed straight on: ‘Lady Clarice has suggested I speak to you about my little gathering this evening. We shall meet in the Yellow Drawing Room after dinner.’
What on earth was this about? Belatedly, Nell remembered what Arthur Fontenoy had told her about the spirit-raising session. ‘That’s when you plan to photograph the ghosts?’
‘I prefer the word spirits; it will by no means be a formal ghost tour. Lady Clarice mentioned there have been unfortunate events in former tours but my gathering will be no repetition of that.’
‘That’s a relief.’ She managed to smile. She was cautious, though. The ghosts of Wychbourne Court were numerous according to Lady Clarice (and indeed many other people) but were far more sparing in their appearances thankfully. ‘How can I help?’ she asked.
‘Quite simply, I wish to take your photograph in order to encourage the spirits.’
Here we go, Nell thought warily.
‘You may have seen some of my work,’ he continued. ‘I was particularly proud of dear Doctor Griffith. A most successful session. At his side is the visible spirit of his departed wife. My other great success was the Grand Duchess Frederica, a White Russian exile, visited by her daughter who had lost her life in the Revolution.’
‘Why ask me?’ she asked cautiously.
‘Lady Clarice believes you have psychic qualities and could assist in bringing forth some of the Wychbourne Court spirits by fixing your mind upon them.’
Nell was horrified. Psychic qualities? Her? ‘What if nothing happens?’ she asked, trying to keep calm, but conscious of the squeak in her voice.
‘Then you will have a splendid photograph of yourself by one of England’s great photographers, myself, and have lost nothing. Lady Clarice was most particular that I asked you.’
Nell surrendered, irritating though this self-important man was. After all, nothing could go wrong with merely having one’s photograph taken.
Or could it? The dinner had gone well, but here she was, at a time when Nell wo
uld have preferred to crawl off to her bed, walking up the grand staircase with Lady Ansley and her guests towards the Yellow Drawing Room in the west wing. The electric lights were low and flickering, thanks to the Wychbourne generator’s dislike of cold conditions, and created a suitable atmosphere for ghost – sorry, Nell corrected herself – spirit appearances. There were rumours that shortly Wychbourne village might be on the main electricity circuit and the Court’s generators superseded. That couldn’t come soon enough for Nell. The kitchen had two small electric stoves that were always at risk of the frequent generator breakdowns, and she had had so many soufflés and vegetable dishes ruined that a constant power supply would be bliss.
‘I think a photograph of us all, Mr Trotter,’ Lady Clarice declared, ‘but in particular we must have one of the Gaiety ladies.’
‘Certainly, Lady Clarice,’ Mr Trotter declared. ‘Are the barographs ready? Temperature is important.’
It appeared they were from Lady Clarice’s vigorous nods. ‘I should explain,’ she said, ‘that usually Mr Trotter is most successful with the spirits of those whom we have most loved, but he has kindly offered this evening to do his best to summon up the spirits of the Gaiety. So many of you will be thinking of those days that they will be persuaded to come. Miss Drury too is here with us, to contribute her own psychic gifts.’
Where the gulping goldfish did Lady Clarice get this daffy idea? Nell wondered. It was harmless enough, she supposed, even if completely without foundation, so for Lady Clarice’s sake she would go along with it. Concentrate on Wychbourne, she told herself. Her own ancestors would be completely lost in these surroundings. Think of spirits: apparently the Wychbourne ghosts were going to encourage them to appear. Right. She’d think of Calliope, the singing ghost, then of Adelaide, wife of the fourth marquess and she might give the doomed crusader, dear old Sir Thomas, a go too. And she’d put all this talk of the Gaiety and Mary Ann Darling out of her mind, at least temporarily.
‘First,’ Mr Trotter said, swelling with pride, ‘we will visit the locations that the Wychbourne ghosts are accustomed to haunting so that they may begin to summon your friends from the Gaiety.’
