Death and Cinderella
R. A. Bentley
Copyright © 2021 R. A. Bentley
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First published in England 2021
Copyright © R. A. Bentley
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Foreword
Pantomime (usually known as panto) is a type of British musical comedy designed for family entertainment. It is performed throughout the United Kingdom and Ireland, especially around Christmas and the New Year. Pantomime includes songs, gags, slapstick comedy and dancing. It employs gender-crossing actors (the hero is typically played by a woman and some of the comic female parts by men) and combines topical humour with a story more or less based on a well-known fairy tale, fable or folk tale. The audience is encouraged and expected to sing along with certain parts of the music and shout out phrases to the performers.
Chapter One
Sunday, December 31st 1928
Lunchtime in the public bar of the Dog and Drayman.
‘Mock me if you will,’ said Jane Herring, frugally sipping her half of shandy, ‘but I’m telling you before witnesses — a Bad Thing is going to happen.’
‘How do you know it’s bad?’ asked Clare Nash curiously. ‘Do you feel a sort of dark foreboding or is it more rational than that?’
‘Don’t encourage her,’ said Lucinda Figg, Jane’s fellow actress and flatmate. ‘She thinks she’s the seer of Shaftsbury Avenue, that one.’ Widening her eyes to suggest oracular fervour she raised a quivering finger. ‘Beware the Ides of March!’
‘Very funny,’ said Jane. ‘And shouldn’t it be the Nones of January, if it’s anything? I’m pretty sure it has to do with the panto because it’s at the theatre that I feel it strongest.’
‘You don’t seem the type for it, if I might say so,’ said Clare. ‘Premonitions, second sight and all that. One imagines someone out of the Celtic mists; austere and intense and drifting about in a shift. You’re far too bright and jolly.’
‘I can be intense,’ protested Jane. ‘You’d be surprised. I’m quite a serious sort of person when I want to be. I’d really love to play Juliet, or Ophelia or even Hedda Gabler if they cared to ask me. Not that they’re likely to. Wouldn’t it be a bit chilly in a shift?’
Lucinda, known to all as Figgy, smiled indulgently. She was three years older than Jane and considered herself a seasoned trouper. ‘Actors are all the same,’ she told Clare. ‘It goes with the job. It only wants some idiot to mention the Scottish play or whistle behind the scenes and everyone cries doom and disaster. Anyway, I’ve waited a long time to see my name in lights, so she’d better be wrong.’
‘It won’t be in lights, dear,’ said Jane dryly, ‘they can’t afford the electricity. It’ll have to be candles.’
‘Goodness, you are a Cassandra today!’ exclaimed Figgy. ‘Do you want to make us all miserable or what? We’re supposed to be celebrating Clare’s new job, not to mention the New Year.’
‘The whole point about Cassandra is that no-one believed her,’ said Jane. ‘However, I’ll say no more. Did you get a look around, Clare, while you were there?’
‘Yes, I did, and took some photographs. It’s got a lovely, old-fashioned atmosphere, hasn’t it? I’ve never done any theatrical work so it’s going to be fun, though I suppose I’ll need to keep an eye out for your Bad Thing now. What will you be doing tomorrow, apart from the photo-call?’
‘More rehearsing, what we call walk-throughs, and trying to get our lines right. Not Figgy of course. Miss Figg is no doubt word-perfect, as always.’
‘As you should be,’ chided Figgy, ‘It’s hardly difficult, after all.’ Abruptly she rose to her feet, and declaimed, “Ho, Dandini! What is this lovely creature, gambolling in our royal hunting forest? Is she game, do you think?”’
And from a nearby group of drinkers came the reply, ‘“Methinks she might be, sire, if you ask her nicely.”’
‘“Oh no, kind sirs,”’ replied Jane reflexively. ‘“I am but a poor servant girl, gathering firewood.” Anyway, it’s easy for you lot, you don’t have to drivel on about beautiful young hunters while tap dancing with Buttons and a bunch of mice.’ Rising in her turn, she lifted her hem and to the accompaniment of much whooping and clapping gave them a foretaste, her shoes rattling authentically on the bare boards as she danced around the tables. ‘That’s your lot, boys and girls,’ she told them. ‘If you want more, you’ll have to pay for it. Cinderella, Regent Playhouse, Saturday January the fifth for a season. Box office open now.’
‘You’re all brilliant!’ declared Clare. ‘I’m impressed. You wouldn’t want to be backward in coming forward in your job, would you!’
‘That’s why we do it,’ confided Figgy, ‘to show off.’ She raised her glass. ‘And here’s to the man who’s paying for it, we hope, Mr Charles Sullivan.’
‘Is he your new “angel”?’
Jane nodded. ‘Going to finance the whole thing apparently, poor fool.’
‘What’s he like? Have you met him yet?’
‘No. None of us has. He’s a bit unusual apparently, whatever that means.’
Figgy struck a languid pose with her cigarette. ‘“I regret to say, dahlings, not quite top drawer,”’ she drawled.
‘I know who that is!’ said Clare. ‘That’s Mr Bethencourt, isn’t it? You’ve got him to a tee!’
‘Oh, everyone does Alastair; He’s easy.’
Claire swung round to look behind her. ‘Who is the smart-looking fellow that spoke the other line?’
‘That’s Iwan Parry,’ said Jane, ‘He takes good care of himself does Iwan. And the woman with him is Millie Maidment. He plays Dandini and she’s Lady Hardup, and also the Fairy Godmother.’
‘Lady Hardup!’ chuckled Clare. She leaned confidentially towards them. ‘Isn’t she rather chubby for a fairy?’
‘It’s a sort of joke,’ said Jane. ‘She’s a good sport to take it on really. She flies off in a harness, and pretends to have trouble getting airborne. Someone comes out with a bigger pair of wings for her.’
Sitting quietly and saying little was Clare’s husband, Detective Sergeant John Nash. Only just returned from a few days away on a case he was content to relax with his pint and enjoy the girls’ animated chatter. All of them, his missus included, were easy to look at, and half the room, he noted, was doing just that. Jane, a pocket Venus with cornflower-blue eyes and a fashionable helmet of auburn curls, had begun her career as a chorus girl and had been thrilled to get the female lead in this year’s pantomime. The svelte and leggy Figgy, meanwhile, with her somewhat boyish figure had secured the role of Prince Charming. Neither was under any illusion as to why they’d been chosen — they were cheap. The Regent Players were close to broke and in no position to pay for big names.
As for Clare’s new photography job, Nash wasn’t so keen. She’d had a nasty experience a year or so ago, and alt
hough she claimed to be all right now, one could never be sure. Jane, however, had been very persuasive. ‘It’ll ease her back into things,’ she’d said, ‘and me and Figgy will be there to look after her.’ He knew he couldn’t keep her in cotton wool forever, and it was only for a few days now and then, so he’d reluctantly agreed; though he wondered, too, about the Bad Thing. He’d known Jane too long not to take her prognostications seriously.
◆◆◆
Mere yards from the pub, sandwiched between a bank and a shoe shop, was the faded façade of the Regent Playhouse, built in eighteen-fifteen and little altered since. At the moment, it was quiet, with most of the company at the pub or eating their packed lunches in the green room, while a few with artistic pretentions were helping to brighten or paint anew the well-used “flats” and backdrops that constituted the scenery of Cinderella.
In the manager’s office, meanwhile, negotiations were about to enter a delicate stage.
‘A monkey for six months’ operating expenses, cash on the nail,’ said Mr Charles Sullivan, slapping down a roll of bright, new fivers. ‘After that we’ll see. You’d best count it, so there’s no argument. Six percent per annum and no strings attached except you take Miss Ossipova here as Principal Boy. Not much to ask, is it?’
Alastair Bethencourt, the theatre’s lanky and rather precious artistic director, gazed mournfully at the statuesque blonde now parked on the end of his desk. ‘It’s not that we’re not grateful, Mr Sullivan,’ he said, ‘it’s a very generous offer. But a change of cast at this stage would be difficult, to put it mildly. It’s quite an important role, you know. It’s not something one can simply walk into at no notice. And what am I to say to the poor girl that’s got it now? We’d naturally be glad to welcome the young lady into the company after the panto season, or even immediately if she’d like to watch the rehearsals and get the feel of things. As to later, we’ve got some Chekhov coming up, which might suit her very well.’
It was cold in the room, and Sullivan, a hunched and balding little man half the size of his glamorous protégé, had kept on his fur-trimmed overcoat and bowler hat. ‘It’s six days until you open,’ he said, ‘and she’s a clever kid. If she can learn English, she can surely learn a few lines for a panto. Ain’t that right, Vladlena?’
‘Zees mean I am star?’ said Vladlena. ‘Star of show?’
‘That’s what you’ll be, my flower,’ smiled Sullivan. ‘Top billing.’
‘Zen I learn!’
Alastair smiled at the girl’s broken English. She was undeniably attractive, even beautiful, with strong features that would look well under the lights. She also had a quite magnificent figure, which was, of course, the problem.
‘Get yer weasel off then, doll,’ said Sullivan, as if reading his thoughts. ‘Let the man see the merchandise, eh?’
With an indulgent little wag of her head, Vladlena threw off her coat and began unashamedly to unbutton her blouse. ‘You veesh see teetties? Zey ees good, I seenk.’
‘There you are,’ said Sullivan with evident pride. ‘How often do you clock a pair like that? Not the best place to store your pencils, eh?’
Alastair kept his expression studiedly neutral. ‘Very nice,’ he agreed, ‘but I must respectfully point out that Prince Charming, though played by a woman, is, of course, a man, and dressed accordingly. I’m sure you will appreciate that Miss Ossipova’s generous, er, embonpoint might prove, in this particular case, somewhat of a challenge, sartorially speaking.’
Sullivan rose crossly to his feet. ‘You mean she ain’t good enough for you? Is that what you’re saying? Sorry we can’t do business, then. Come on, Lena.’
Mr Ezra Hubbard, the Regent’s elderly owner, here intervened. ‘Come now, Bethencourt,’ he said, with quite uncharacteristic firmness. ‘I’m sure we can overcome any little problems of that kind. And the lady’s rather enchanting accent is surely what you’d expect a central European prince to sound like. I think myself she would be perfect for the part, don’t you, Robin?’
Mr Robin Hubbard, Ezra’s grandson and general manager of Regent Entertainment Properties Ltd., nodded his agreement. He hadn’t taken his eyes off the decorative Russian since she’d walked in. ‘Would Miss Ossipova be available to start immediately, Mr Sullivan?’ he enquired. ‘Tomorrow morning?’
‘Tomorrow’s a holiday,’ Sullivan reminded him.
‘Not for us, I’m afraid,’ said Alastair. ‘We’ve a photo-call at ten, and rehearsals thereafter. It’s a very complicated show, and there is still much to do.’
‘She’ll be there,’ said Sullivan, lighting a cigar.
Chapter Two
Monday morning found the cast standing and sitting about onstage. An assortment of chairs had been provided, and one or two suitable flats used as a photographic background. All were relieved to find themselves sans mice, who were to be recorded for doting posterity separately.
‘I did my best, Figgy dahling, really I did,’ said Alastair nervously, ‘but you know how we were fixed. I do realise you’re the sacrificial lamb in all this but he had us by the short hairs, frankly. Can I offer you the Fairy Godmother? It’s not the same, I know.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Figgy grudgingly. She was, needless to say, extremely annoyed, and in better times might have walked out. Since the advent of The Jazz Singer, however, theatres were turning themselves into cinemas in droves and the Regent was still, for the moment at least, a safe haven. ‘But what about Millie?’ she asked. ‘That’s her part.’
‘She’s yours, darling,’ sighed Millicent Maidment, contriving to sound suitably bereft. ‘I’ll just have to content myself with Lady Hardup, I suppose.’
‘Thank you darling,’ said Figgy, responding in kind. ‘That’s very magnanimous of you.’ They both knew that the ponderous Millie was glad to be rid of the Fairy Godmother, not least because of the quick change required.
‘Where is this young woman anyway?’ said Arthur Penfold. In late middle-age and as fat as his stage wife, he was the perfect choice for Baron Hardup. He turned to Clare. ‘Is it you, dear?’
‘No, it is not!’ laughed Clare. ‘Do I look like a busty Russian?’
‘Clare is our award-winning new photographer, here to record your ugly mug,’ said Bethencourt. ‘We’re very lucky to have her, so you mustn’t be rude to her.’
‘What a pity. She’d have made an excellent Prince Charming,’ said Iwan Parry, now dressed in the role of Dandini. He winked at Clare. ‘Better than Figgy really.’
‘I heard that!’ snarled Figgy. ‘You are asking for itching powder in your tights.’
‘Vladlena is getting dressed,’ said Bethencourt, relieved that they were taking it so well. ‘I don’t quite know what’s keeping her,’ he added, ‘though I can guess.’
‘Here she comes now,’ said young Sam Snow, who was playing Buttons.
The new Prince Charming now stalked onto the stage, resplendent in thigh boots and hunting garb and looking the epitome of aristocratic arrogance. ‘Ah! Zee camera,’ she said. ‘I go here. Star go in middle I zeenk.’ She turned to Clare. ‘You mak pictures now.’
‘That’s rather impressive,’ said Figgy, as Jane, in her kitchen rags, flopped down beside her. ‘How did you do it?’
‘With the greatest difficulty,’ said Jane. God forbid I should ever be that size — they’re about as manageable as a pair of barrage balloons. I had to winch them flat with one of those corsets we used in Lady Windermere’s Fan, and then make a sort of peascod out of the doublet. Now she’s decided I’m her dresser! If I am, I darned well want paying for it. I’m exhausted.’
‘I’m not doing group photos yet, Vladlena,’ Clare was explaining, ‘I’ll do those later, during rehearsals. If you’ll just half turn towards me and smile? That’s topping. One more. Lovely! And now I’m going to do one or two with you and Cinderella. Jane, if you’re ready?’
�
�‘Ziss ees Cinderella?’ frowned Vladlena. ‘She dress me!’
‘Unfortunately,’ muttered Jane, smiling sweetly.
The girl glowered down at her with undisguised contempt. ‘Not vont! Not proper actress! Also, too small. Vont beegger!’
‘I beg your pardon!’ said Jane.
Alastair stepped in, waving the others away. ‘Miss Ossipova, I do hope you’re joking. Miss Herring is a highly experienced actress; she knows the part and looks the part and she can dance, which no-one else can. She also happens to be the ideal height to play opposite Miss Figg, our original Prince Charming, who has very nobly stepped aside so that you can take the part. In a word, she is Cinderella and will remain Cinderella so you had best get used to that. And if you expect to perform before an audience, which I’d like to remind you is in only five days’ time, it’s obviously necessary that you work with her closely, just as you will have to work with the rest of the cast. Also, I don’t want to hear any more nonsense about your being a star. We are a team here and no-one is better than anyone else. Do you understand all that? Now, let’s see you and Cinders gazing lovingly into each other’s eyes while Clare records that magical moment for the programmes and foyer. Time is getting on and there is much to do.’
◆◆◆
They sat and sprawled exhausted about the green room, the cast’s rather grim subterranean rest-room, having, as its principal attraction a functioning gas fire.
‘Sorry, everybody,’ said Alastair. ‘I know I shouldn’t have snapped at her like that but I was already cross to be lumbered with her, and then to have her demand another Cinderella! It may just be nerves on her part but even so.’
‘No need to apologise, old boy,’ said Arthur. ‘I’d have done the same.’
‘You couldn’t let her get away with it,’ said Figgy, ‘we can all see that.’
Death and Cinderella (The Inspector Felix Mysteries Book 11) Page 1
