by Evelyn James
Annie coughed. There was a thin haze of smoke floating through the foyer, catching at the back of their throats.
“Come on,” Clara grabbed Annie’s hand and ran for the doors. People were pushing and shoving to get out, some were stumbling to the ground in the crush. Clara tutted to herself and wondered that no one was attempting to coordinate the escape. The staff seemed to have vanished. She managed to push Annie outside before rising to the challenge herself.
“Everyone calm down! We shall all get outside, but if we push and shove someone will get hurt!”
O’Harris and Tommy joined her, bringing the rush of people to a temporary halt.
“Women and children first!” O’Harris barked. “And anyone old or infirm! Don’t shove, sir, I saw that and it shall not get you out any quicker!”
Within a matter of minutes the escaping audience was sorted by the priority of age and gender, then they filtered out in an orderly fashion. Forcing people to wait their turn had a calming effect on everyone and it did not take long for the whole audience to be outside on the pavement, staring back at the theatre with a slight look of disappointment. There was no sign of leaping flames or a fiery blaze. Just a slight mist of smoke that was not much more than you found in a smoking room. People were starting to question if they had been rushed outside for no reason.
“Have you ever noticed, Clara, that when we go out for the evening it always ends in some emergency?” O’Harris said.
Clara could not think of a suitable reply to that.
“Why is the fire engine not here?” Annie said, glancing around. “Has it not been called?”
“I don’t know what is happening,” Tommy shrugged. “We seem to have departed the theatre under false pretences.
“There was definitely smoke,” Clara said.
They milled around for a while longer and then Mr Maddock appeared at the main doors.
“I do apologise wholeheartedly for this drama,” he told the grumbling audience. “The fire has been contained, it started in the prop room. Thankfully, very little has been destroyed and the theatre is already clearing of smoke. I felt it was prudent to evacuate you all to ensure no one was hurt. However, you may all now return and the panto shall continue as before. Also, you are all entitled to complementary drinks. Now if you will come back to your seats?”
The phrase ‘complementary drinks’ was enough to rally the spirits of most and the press to get back in was almost as bad as that to get out. Clara and the others headed back to the balcony to be seated ready for the second half.
“What a performance!” Tommy snorted. “Rather an over-reaction!”
“But if the fire had spread with everyone inside it would have been awful,” Annie reminded him.
Tommy gave another snort to indicate he thought there had been a lot of fuss over nothing.
“Let’s hope the Buttons costume didn’t get singed,” Clara changed the subject. “The cast might never recover from fear of bad luck befalling them.”
Tommy rolled his eyes at this laughable superstition.
“Theatre folk!” He groaned.
The curtains were rolling back, a new set was revealed, this time of the palace of the Sultan. The evil Vizier strode onto the stage.
“My plans are coming together!” He declared. “Aladdin is doomed and that awful Dame Wishy-Washy is consigned to prison and shall never be seen again!”
Chapter Five
The panto writers had clearly enjoyed the liberty of imagination the scenes after the arrival of the genie now allowed. Aladdin went after the vizier, was nearly cut in half by angry palace guards, ended up in the dungeon with Dame Wishy-Washy and Buttons, and was pursued by ghosts and skeletons. There were gasps of alarm and the odd scream as the monsters of the dungeon prowled across the stage. In time-honoured tradition, the audience cried out ‘it’s behind you!’ while the lead actors feigned sudden deafness and pretended they did not understand what was being yelled at them. Everything had started to become very loud and raucous.
“Hutson is certainly giving it his all,” O’Harris chortled as the unfortunate dame found herself confronted by a skeleton with a sabre and cowered with exaggerated, shaking knees. Down in the orchestra pit, someone rattled a wooden instrument that made suitable ‘bony’ sounds to emphasis the jitters of Dame Wishy-Washy. There was a mock fight scene, carried out in slow motions and again with sound-effects from the orchestra. Hutson ducked and dodged beneath the sabre, before suddenly rearing up with a left hook that struck the skeleton with a corresponding clash of cymbals from the pit. The audience cheered.
The heroes escaped the dungeon and headed for the royal palace, there they were reunited with Princess Zara, but only briefly, for the vizier struck and seized the girl, holding her hostage. Now it was the genie’s turn to make a dramatic entrance; smoke and an explosive bang from the stage announced his arrival and made Clara uncomfortably aware of the recent mysterious fire that had nearly stalled the panto. Fires happened, of course, especially in theatres where there were a lot of unguarded candles and gaslights mixed with flammable props and costumes. It just seemed a little unlucky on the first night.
The vizier put up a good fight and there was lots of ‘magical’ activity on the stage as he battled the genie. Dame Wishy-Washy was hit by a levitation spell and began to rise up, flapping her arms and shrieking, much to the amusement of the audience. It all came to an end when Aladdin entered a swordfight with the vizier and fought him into a corner. The vizier begged for mercy and Aladdin, being a worthy hero, granted it. The vizier was arrested, the sultan saved, and it all ended with an elaborate wedding scene for Aladdin and Zara. Dame Wishy-Washy used a hidden hose to cry streams of tears onto the audience, while Buttons kicked his heels to one side and earned sympathetic ‘ahs’ from those watching.
Finally the cast took their bows, the curtains came down, then rose again for another series of bows. This was repeated several times, to the point where Clara was becoming irritated, then the curtain closed for good and the house lights came on.
“I really enjoyed that,” O’Harris grinned as they stood from their seats and stretched their legs. “I thought it was very good, or maybe I just haven’t seen a panto in such a long time that anything would amuse me.”
“They certainly put a lot of effort into it,” Tommy remarked. “How many costume changes did Hutson have? I started to count and then lost track.”
They began to shuffle from their seats, following the rest of the departing audience, but a figure pushing in the opposite direction brought them to a halt. Rupert Maddock was blurting out hasty apologies to everyone around him as he squeezed through the crowd, he reached Clara’s party looking a little dishevelled. Captain O’Harris was ahead of Clara, the narrow aisle of the seats preventing them from doing much but follow one another. Maddock peered around him with another unconscious apology.
“Miss Fitzgerald, might we talk a moment?”
Clara felt her heart sink. The look on the man’s face, his clear unease and the fact he wanted to catch her before she left the theatre all suggested one ominous thought to her mind. Clara masked the sigh that almost escaped her lips.
“Yes, of course.”
“If your party would wait in the bar area, please, I shall return in a moment,” Maddock departed as abruptly as he had appeared, forcing his way through the crowd.
“What is that about?” O’Harris snorted.
“Probably the fire that happened earlier,” Tommy suggested. “He wants to know how it started. Fires scare theatre producers.”
“Wouldn’t they scare you if your entire livelihood was liable to make excellent kindling?” Annie remarked. “But surely it was just an accident?”
“I suppose he thinks otherwise,” Clara shrugged. There was a niggle at the back of her mind – that strange interruption from the audience member earlier in the evening. It had been out of place and O’Harris was probably right that it was an error, but supposing there had been
someone here tonight with a grudge against the production? Or could it be that the unexpected boo had sparked Maddock into hysterical suspicion about the fire and it was really all just a coincidence? Sometimes you could read more into a situation than was truly there.
They headed to the bar, as they had been requested. The barman had clearly been primed for their arrival and instantly set about preparing complimentary drinks. Clara fanned herself with the programme, the theatre was still sweltering. O’Harris loosened his bowtie and looked in half a mood to kick off his shoes. Clara smiled at him; it was not often that they had these quiet, relaxed moments together. She couldn’t help but think how handsome he looked in his suit, with his slightly wavy dark hair and playful grin. Clara almost blushed as the thought crossed her mind and O’Harris looked at her at the exact same moment, as if he knew.
He reached out for her hand.
“Thank you for inviting me, this has been such a…” O’Harris frowned for the right word. “I suppose it has been a release for me. A chance to get away from the everyday worries and just laugh. We must do something like this again, very soon.”
Clara stepped closer to him, feeling the warmth that radiated from him engulf her like a blanket. She looked up at his face.
“I would like that.”
O’Harris grinned.
“Here comes Maddock,” Tommy announced from Clara’s left.
Clara allowed herself to sigh this time. She rested her head for a second on O’Harris’ chest, then she drew back and prepared herself for whatever drama the director was about to unleash upon them.
Maddock looked as stressed as before. His own bowtie was twisted to one side and the top button of his collar was undone. A film of sweat glistened on his forehead and there was a look of fixed horror in his eyes, as if he had seen something truly awful and would never be able to un-see it. Clara felt her earlier annoyance with the man’s interruption of her evening fade. This was more serious than a small fire in the prop room.
“Thank you for staying behind,” Maddock said quickly. “I know it is an inconvenience, but I really had to ask.”
“What has happened?” Clara enquired.
Maddock shook his head.
“In a way I am not sure I can say what happened. I know that sounds odd. I can see the result. I just don’t know how the thing occurred.”
“Is this about the fire earlier?” Tommy asked.
Maddock shook his head.
“I wish it was as simple as that. Would you mind following me? I think it would be easier to show you than to try to explain further.”
Maddock turned away without waiting for an answer, seeming wrapped up in his own thoughts. Clara shrugged to her companions and then followed him. Mr Maddock led them downstairs and through a door that was painted black and marked as private. They entered the backstage area of the theatre. Here the walls were either plainly whitewashed or left bare to reveal the red brick they were built from. The floor was scuffed wood and lightbulbs hung from the ceiling unshaded. There was no glitz or glamour, all that was reserved for the front of house. Instead this was a world of plain practicality.
Maddock led them through a warren of corridors, past store cupboards, empty dressing rooms, basic offices for visiting directors and producers and of course the prop room which was a cavernous space filled to the ceiling with oddities, including old scenery, forgotten costumes and enough stage swords and guns to have worried an army – had they been of any use, that is.
They finally came to a smaller room at the back of the theatre which contained several enormous wicker baskets on wheels. They were laundry baskets, industrial size ones. Considering the number of costumes the performers went through, it was no wonder they needed such giant containers to carry it off to the unfortunate laundress who must clean it and do repairs. Clara hoped there was more than one woman in charge of the task.
Maddock had paused inside the room. Clara stepped in behind him, wondering if someone’s costume had gone missing. Could it be the lucky Buttons outfit had vanished? That would certainly fill Maddock with horror. This thought was quickly put aside when Tommy nudged her shoulder and pointed to a basket with its lid open. Lying on the top of a pile of clothes was the famous costume, awaiting a repair to a nasty rip in the crotch of the trousers. Mervyn Baldry was clearly not quite as slender as the previous Buttons’ performers and had managed to tear his costume during the performance.
“Why are we here?” Clara asked Maddock who had grown alarmingly silent.
He jumped.
“Sorry, I… I still can’t quite believe it,” he was stood before a laundry basket in the middle which, oddly, had been padlocked shut. “I feel as though it is a terrible joke. Not the sort of thing that could really happen.”
“You are not explaining yourself,” Clara told him gently, recognising a man baffled by shock. “You said you had something to show me?”
With shaking fingers Maddock dug into his pocket and produced a key. He fitted it in the padlock and there was a click as it released.
“I didn’t want anyone else seeing this,” he mumbled. “It would have upset everyone so badly. We might not have been able to carry on with the performance.”
Clara wondered if he was about to show her some burnt precious stage prop or costume, something that had been the cause of the fire. Maybe someone had come into the theatre to deliberately set fire to an item.
Maddock lifted the lid of the laundry basket, and there was a distinctive waft of burned cloth, making Clara’s assumptions seem even more likely. Maddock was breathing in short, sharp gasps, he seemed frozen with the lid of the basket raised up above his head, staring in at the contents. That look of horror had returned to his face.
O’Harris stepped forward and took the lid from the man’s hands, as it seemed he was unable to move. For a moment Maddock remained standing with his arms up in the air, though his hands no longer grasped anything, then O’Harris let the lid fall backwards and the thud jerked Maddock from his thoughts.
“Ah,” O’Harris said as he stared into the basket.
Clara peered in for herself. She had expected to see an item burned to nothing, something precious to the company. She had not expected to be confronted by the pale face of Stanley Hutson. The great Dame still wore his make-up from the night’s performance, but he was wigless. He had been shoved into the cramped space of the laundry basket like a doll, his legs were stuck up in the air, his stage shoes level with his face, while his arms flopped by his sides. His eyes were shut, his mouth set in a peaceful line that might have suggested he was asleep, had you not been able to see the nasty red slash across his throat. Someone had cut him almost from ear to ear and blood had poured down the front of his frock.
Stanley Hutson was very, very dead.
Clara took a moment to grasp what she was seeing.
“He was only just on stage,” she said.
Annie and Tommy had crept closer, curious about the contents of the basket. Annie peeked over Clara’s shoulder apprehensively. She had seen a few more dead bodies than she would like to admit to since being in Clara’s employ, but they still shocked her. She caught a glimpse of Hutson and grimaced, but a moment later she glanced again.
“That is the costume from the Arabian Bazaar scene,” she declared.
Her words seemed to rouse Mr Maddock.
“Very well observed,” he said, his face strained, his eyes looking as if he would never blink again. “Yes, this is the final costume Mr Hutson wears before the interval. Then he is supposed to change into his birds and bells costume, for the scene where Aladdin returns and everyone is caught up by the vizier’s men.”
Clara pulled at the edge of the costume, getting a better look at the ensemble. She had to admit she had lost track of the dame’s changing dresses and could no more have said when a particular outfit was on stage than she could have predicted the outcome of a horse race. She didn’t doubt that Annie or Maddock was correct however, that just le
d to a very odd circumstance.
“But Dame Wishy-Washy was on stage all night, we saw her,” Clara said, already guessing the explanation.
“Mr Hutson has an understudy, all the main characters do. In Hutson’s case, his understudy is his own son, Donald,” Mr Maddock explained. “We lost track of Stanley after he came off stage before the interval. He was nowhere to be found. With time running out, Donald took over. I thought maybe Stanley had been caught up in the commotion of the backstage fire and kept looking for him. The only reason I looked in this basket was because I had picked up some of the discarded costumes from the performers and was throwing them in here. Had I not happened to glance over, I never would have realised…”
Maddock gave a very honest shudder at the memory of the discovery. O’Harris had been quietly examining the body while this conversation took place, now he attracted Clara’s attention.
“The costume includes a white apron sewn to the skirt,” he said, pointing out the apron which had fallen back on itself when the body was shoved in the basket. O’Harris had touched the edge of the apron and glimpsed something. “Someone has written on the apron.”
O’Harris scowled.
“In blood.”
Chapter Six
The word was clear, even if the letters had blurred due to the blood soaking into the weave of the apron.
Thief.
There was no question that the accusation had been daubed using the blood that had poured from Hutson’s neck. Clara examined the apron for several moments.
