Mayhem for Her Majesty (A Cozy Beatles Mystery Series Book 2)

by Kal Smagh

  I arrived at the Mapleton Hotel late in the evening.

  Downtown London, Soho, Trafalgar Square, and the River Thames all surrounded my gorgeous, high class, home for the next few days. It was hard to contain my excitement.

  I was road weary from just the few hours of bus ride from Liverpool to London though the city beckoned with so many lights and people bustling around. A kind of liquid energy arose in me in response to an inaudible hum to this city-life.

  I could imagine the Beatles were still worn from their tour of Sweden and now beginning their autumn tour through England as Brian had shown on the schedule, and of which I’d committed to memory. Their energy came in chords and drumbeats and screaming fans while they harmonized at the microphone.

  Mine came from being in the big city for the first time.

  It was late and dark as the bus driver dropped me off and I went through the front door into the lobby greeted by a green suited doorman.

  "Welcome to the Mapleton, young lady."

  I went to the check-in counter and gave them my name. The clerk provided me with a room key; first floor. At least that would be helpful for fast entry and exit on my errands.

  "It's up a few stairs," he pointed, "but you don’t take the elevator."

  "This place looks nice."

  "The Mapleton is the best. And, in your role you’ll also be able to utilize the service elevator. Probably should use it."

  "What role?"

  "Not a pleasure trip. Working, right? You’re in a servant’s quarters."

  He left me to attend to another customer, and I felt a little deflated. So, I was going to the servant's quarters? I wonder what that meant. Brian had said I would have a room but didn't say what kind.

  No bellhop came to help me carry my bag. I guess the servant was supposed to serve herself.

  I went to my room which ended up being up a small set of stairs as directed, and on the backside of the hotel. It had no view of the beauty around me, instead it looked upon the brown painted metal ventilation system, humming audibly through my window. In my room was a small sink and a single bed.

  These were maid’s quarters.

  Sitting on the creaky bed I reasoned that being on the backside of a beautiful hotel illustrated the limits of what you could achieve at eighteen years old. I wondered if the Beatles’ rooms would be any better? Perhaps they had two beds to a room in this posh place?

  I journeyed the twenty steps back down to the lobby to look around and noticed outside there were building materials being staged between The Mapleton and the building across the way.

  Stacks of plywood and two by fours lay outside.

  There was a sidewalk in between buildings and I walked down it to the Prince of Wales Theatre, where the Royal Variety Show was to be held on Monday night. I expected all the doors would be locked and I didn’t venture any further.

  Then it hit me. I suddenly felt exhausted.

  Turning around I returned to the hotel, went to my room, changed into my pajamas and lay in bed, the hum of the ventilation system drowning out city noise on a Friday night in London.

  I wanted to call my parents to tell them I was fine. I did not tell them where I was going in my note except to say that it was for work and I would be home in a few days. It was so hard keeping a secret. Especially one as big as this. There was no way my mother could keep it silent.

  #

  Even though it was early I needed to get moving. I willed myself up, cleaned up and dressed.

  The Beatles were likely still asleep at this hour before departing to the north for their next show. On Saturday morning I read in the papers the Beatles show in Cheltenham had been a smashing success.

  Down in the lobby there were many staff members from all of the different acts already assembling. This was some kind of organizational meeting, and exactly what Brian wanted me to be involved in.

  I joined the queue and moved forward in line until I reached the table that was manned by two people from the Prince of Wales Theatre, both in sharp black coats.

  As I got to the front the black suited, blond haired attendant asked, "Name of the act please."

  "The Beatles."

  The lobby turned silent as I'd finished saying the words.

  Heads turned all around suddenly looking at me, as if waiting on any further words I might share.

  I felt utterly conspicuous in this group of peering strangers, as if it were filled with twenty of my mothers.

  Make that fifty. Wow, was it getting hot in here? My face felt warm.

  The man at the table had no reaction whatsoever. In fact, he seemed bored. He asked, "Your name?"

  The whole lobby listening I said, "Helen Spencer."

  Scanning down his list of names and stopping his finger in place halfway down he’d found me.

  Oh good, I had actually made it onto some kind of official list. Yay, me!

  He placed a checkmark next to my name and handed me official credentials, blue, with the words Prince of Wales Theater emblazoned on top in bold black script.

  These were laminated cards in plastic with a lanyard to go around my neck, like a cowbell with my name on it.

  He instructed quickly, "These credentials are for moving in between The Mapleton and the Theatre. If you do not have your credentials, you are not allowed to be in the hotel or at the Theatre. You are not allowed to share your credentials with anyone. You are also not allowed to be in the venue after hours. And you must surrender your credentials whenever they are demanded by an official from the Prince of Wales Theatre or The Mapleton Hotel. Do you understand these rules and agree to abide by them?"

  My mind was swimming, he'd spoken so fast. Even though I had a history of not following rules that have been clearly explained to me I said, "I underst--"

  "--Or if a member of royal family security demands it as well."

  I turned, startled by the voice. Leaning over me, so close I could smell his coffee breath and putrid aftershave, was the same dark suited man I had seen in Liverpool weeks before, Mr. Jenkins.

  I stammered out, " Yes, I understand."

  The man at the table said, "Very well then, Miss Spencer, good day to you. Next in line please."

  I am a skilled eavesdropper, and I overheard others talking who had already received their credentials.

  Practice for the acts was going to be on Sunday afternoon and staff members were allowed to go over to the Theatre here on Saturday to look at the venue and make arrangements for set up. There would be seventeen or eighteen acts on Monday night therefore the logistics of setting up and tearing down between performances and performers was at a premium.

  For the Beatles, Mal and Neil were the ones who did the set up and teardown of the drums and figured how the stage was arranged. I had no idea how to do either and tried to rack my brain to remember just in case I was asked. I know that they used two microphones and in the center in the far back were the drums.

  What else did I know? George seemed to move in between the middle of the stage by the drums and up forward to stage left by Paul to share a microphone depending on his tasks. John had his own microphone at stage right.

  Was that enough? Of course not.

  That was it, I had a sudden pang in my belly because I did not know what kind of amplifiers they used or how to plug any of the cords in that led to their guitars.

  With a gulp of realization, I didn’t even know what kind of guitars they played.

  Did I need to know that?

  Oh god.

  I did remember that on the front of the white drum set it was stamped ‘Beatles’ in black. And Ludwig was the manufacturer of Ringo's drums, it said it just above the Beatles script. That was something.

  Who was I kidding? That was nothing. Everybody knew those things; it was the only writing on the whole stage to read.

  I was woefully disorganized to be able to share any information about the Beatles if asked. It reminded me of school, when I hoped there wasn't an exam I hadn
't bothered studying for.

  But this wasn't school. I was in London! No sense wallowing, I needed to make myself useful. I noticed the lobby was clearing, a general exodus of people with blue credentials and lanyards around their neck heading toward the back door.

  Several of the people were going over to the Prince of Wales Theatre and I decided to join them, tagging along, to gather information that may be useful to the Beatles and Brian.

  The pounding of nails into wood rose up as the door opened, along with traffic noise from the nearby street.

  Outside there was a construction crew working on the building materials I had seen the night before. Hammering and sawing was taking place over the sidewalk between the hotel and the Theatre.

  As I followed, I asked a brown-haired man in a black and white houndstooth suit jacket and a taller, well dressed brunette woman ahead of me, "Do you know why so much construction is happening right now?"

  The lady turned slightly while the man didn’t turn it all. The woman, looking down her nose, offered a pithy, "For your band."

  Chapter 6: The Marlene Dietrich People

  "What do you mean?"

  The snooty lady said, "They are expecting fans will flood the streets. And also that those fans will be out of control as your band arrives. They should be here to see Marlene Dietrich, the person we represent, however her fans are much more in control of themselves."

  The man added, still walking and me following, "I would call our fans ‘refined’. Not like your fans."

  Well, that was rude.

  The lady added, "Beatles fans are more like football hooligans. More likely to be arrested than any other fans. Perhaps that’s why the police come around." They didn’t laugh, they meant it. Mean-spirited city people!

  The hammering and sawing continued as we made our way, however icy their reception was to me, into the Prince of Wales Theatre.

  I was immediately astounded at how beautiful the venue was. Walking through the lobby it was brightly lit and entering the auditorium and ballroom area the seats were all fantastic, facing a large stage with tall white curtains. It truly looked worthy of a royal audience.

  Up on one of the sides I saw the royal box where the family would be to see the performance. The audience area was quite large with lots of red velvet seats, looking plush. And setting up around the ballroom were television cameras to broadcast the show.

  The man said, "Marlene will look great on television."

  The woman added, "She has the most beautiful legs."

  I asked, "Do you know where our seats will be?"

  "For what?"

  "The performance?"

  They looked at each other and then made faces and broke out into laughter.

  The woman scoffed, "Staff won’t have seats for the performance. I don’t know how it works for the Beatles, especially since they largely play bar rooms full of drunks, I hear." She smirked at the man. "However, I expect a young lady of your age would likely be assigned to the children’s table if anywhere."

  Their rudeness bothered me, I didn’t like the way they spoke about the Beatles and their fans. Or me. I prepared to send a volley back being equally as rude, something like, "And you’ll be assigned to the elderly spinster table." Even though the lady was only in her thirties and actually was attractive. I could be meaner; or I could say to the man, "Perhaps you act that way because your penis is so small." Yes, that was about right.

  But, true to my word for Brian, I bit my tongue and said nothing. I was not here to screw things up, and starting a snippy fight with two people who were called...I didn’t even know their names...the Marlene Dietrich people...made no sense at all. I wouldn’t be drawn into their war of words. However jealous they were.

  The lady asked, "Where is your band playing tonight?"

  The man added, "Yes what’s the name of the bar?" They laughed to each other.

  I took in a deep breath, "Sheffield tonight, and then they go to Leeds tomorrow."

  "Oh, up north. Not in the city. Ask me where Miss Dietrich is tonight."

  I asked, "Where is she?"

  "She’s at home relaxing. She doesn’t need to be playing bars up north. Her career is much further along."

  The man added, "You mean successful. That’s the right word."

  I fought with all my might not to say what was on my mind, but I needed to counter attack. Walking away from them I dribbled out what Brian would not want me to say, "Sounds like you’ll both be out of a job before too long."

  A scowl grew across her face, "Rude. What an insulting statement to make."

  "Especially from someone who knows nothing about show business." He shook his head disdainfully.

  I smiled, hoping it came across as smug and pretentious, "Sounds like she’s already been a success without you. I wonder why she would keep you around if she can afford to be home on a Saturday night."

  And with that I walked away feeling the heat of their stares on my back.

  In the distance behind the stage and in a corridor was a wonderful looking young man in his early twenties with light red hair and the bright red clothes of the servants in Buckingham Palace.

  He looked up as I walked nearby and our eyes met just briefly. He was with a much older gentleman and listening to a conversation between that gentleman and a brown bearded member of the Theatre staff. I wasn’t used to eye contact from anyone, let alone a handsome man my age.

  They were talking about where to place food and a receiving line in light of all of the acts and all of the logistics associated with Monday night. Both were pointing out a piece of paper while the young man was trying to stay involved. I walked by and down the corridor, spending a few minutes to see where the performers would be standing before going on stage, and then came back around on my way to the lobby again.

  There were stairs leading up to a second tier and two men, one being the officious Mr. Jenkins, were walking up together. They were talking in hushed tones and I could not make out anything they were saying.

  They both looked official, Jenkins in a dark suit, the other in a white collared shirt with the cuffs rolled up to his forearms, and a brown beard; the same man as had been directing the Palace staff downstairs. Jenkins was talking with his hands while the bearded one in the shirt was listening.

  There was so much going on and so many official people that I felt completely out of place and over my head being here. If anybody else asked me a question it better not be about how to set up the lighting for the stage or anything having to do with the electronics.

  And I was already sick of the Marlene Dietrich people. I was a fan and I was here to help and run errands.

  How soon that would change.

  Chapter 7: Archie

  My morning walk through completed, I traipsed around the London city area and took in the sights.

  No performers were due in before Sunday at the earliest and I had a free day.

  I waltzed around Trafalgar Square, taking in Nelson's Column, and the lions and the fountains.

  I skipped down to the River Thames and saw the white painted and rusted boats coming and going with tourists in the early November sunlight. Ladies were bundled with their hair under scarves and the men with overcoats loosened at the neck as the wind blew off of the chocolate brown river. Children scattered around and played, laughing and giggling.

  This was fun.

  I almost sashayed to a few of the stores and looked at the expensive clothes that I could not afford and wondered what it would be like to be rich.

  That was a downer.

  I hadn’t the money to buy shoes, not at these prices, and lamented that my clunky ones would have to do, however hideous they made me feel. Sashaying would have to wait for another time.

  Finally, feeling defeated at how poor I was I went clunking around Soho and into the China gate. I spied red hair!

  On the other side of the street, I saw the young man I had seen at the Prince of Wales Theatre.

  It was
the same short, neatly cropped red hair, only now he was wearing regular civilian clothing instead of his uniform.

  As I was looking at him, he turned from where he was trying on a pair of sunglasses and he paused, looking back at me. Was it a wave of recognition I was seeing?

  I tried to act indifferent but it gave me a flutter in my stomach that he remembered me, at least that he paused to try to figure out who I was.

  Then he stepped closer to me, "Hello. My name is Archie. Did I see you this morning at the Prince of Wales Theatre?" He was still wearing sunglasses with the tag on them, standing in the doorway to the store.

  I acted calm, inside my stomach was churning, "Yes. Yes, I was there."

  "What is your name?" He kept his hands at his sides. Polite. He looked silly with the white tag at the bridge of the glasses flapping about.

  "Helen Spencer." I reached out my hand to shake and he extended his. His grip was warm.

  "Archie Taylor."

  I put my hands into my coat pockets and then nervously pulled them out again, trying to extend the conversation, "Are you looking for sunglasses?"

  "Yes I am." He smiled, his teeth were white and neatly lined up.

  He seemed to suddenly remember he had the sunglasses and tag still on, and took them off. Sheepishly, he asked me, "Are you on staff at the hotel?"

  Did it look like I was a maid? "No. I just got into town last night, from Liverpool."

  "Liverpool? What are you doing in London?" And then it seemed to dawn on him, "You’re with the Beatles, yes?"

  I felt proud, "Yes, I am."

  "What do you do for the Beatles? I love them!"

  "I am an errand girl. I work in their fan club in Liverpool, and I’m here to help with any tasks that may come up before they come into town."

  "If there is anything I can do to help you please let me know."

  Brian’s words warning me about people coming out of the woodwork rang in my brain. I shifted the conversation, "What is it that you do? I saw you in your uniform."

  "I work in the kitchen at Buckingham Palace. Serving too. Technically a ‘footman’. When you walked by today, I was listening to the conversation between my supervisor, the chef, and the manager for the Theatre."