They shook hands in the vestibule. Sir P. had insisted that his brougham be brought around and put at Cobb’s service. When the carriage and its liveried driver pulled up in front of the Cobb cottage fifteen minutes later, three faces were pressed up against the big window.
Cobb grinned, and waved the carriage away as if he were Puck with a fairy-wand in his hand.
***
The first rehearsal on Tuesday evening next produced no evidence that Cobb could take to Marc, who had instructed him to report to Briar Cottage only when he felt it necessary. (Chief Sturges had wondered vaguely about Wilkie and Cobb exchanging shifts, but when Cobb explained that Wilkie owed him a month’s worth of night-shifts, Sturges had made no further inquiries about what Cobb might be up to in his spare time). The entire cast sat around the long-table in the theatre and did a directed read-through, and Cobb was able to observe the subtle interplay among its members. During his other investigations with Marc, Cobb had become adept at interpreting body language and facial expressions, and there were plenty of both on display here.
The first thing he noticed, to his relief, was that he himself was not out of place as an actor. The rehearsal itself was bumpy and inconsistent – to put the best light on it, which the director endeavoured to do. As Lysander, Dutton read woodenly, as if he were reciting an affidavit, but he might possibly loosen up as time went on. At least with his slim build and handsome features, he could, with a wig or a decent dye-job, be made to resemble a love-struck, newly bearded youth. As Oberon the fairy-king, Fullarton had a voice deep and commanding enough to give credence to the role, but on this occasion he flubbed a number of lines, made matters worse by apologizing to Sir P. and, it appeared, to Lady Mad as well.
“There is no need to apologize, my dear Fullarton,” Sir P. said, and Fullarton would invariably reply, “Sorry.”
Cyrus Crenshaw’s vowels were no less amazing than Cobb’s, and he rambled through Demetrius’s heated protestations of love for Hermia as if they had been penned in a foreign tongue, while Hermia, played by Clemmy Crenshaw, responded in a grating whine that increasingly skidded and slewed in concert with her emotions (principally, fear). Cobb noted that Crenshaw would alternately glare at her for her mistakes (exacerbated by his indecipherable cues) or offer her the tight smile of a long-suffering spouse. Whenever she dared unglue her gaze from the page, she directed it not at Demetrius (who was supposedly pursuing her through the forest) but at Lady Mad, who was seated beside him and attired more like Salomé than the fairy-queen.
Andrew Dutton, Cobb recalled, had been quick to seize the chair on the other side of Lady Mad when the cast had followed the director out of the dining-room at seven-forty-five. And more than once, Lady Mad had rewarded his diligence by leaning over and pointing out a cue on the page before him with a dainty, manicured finger. Whenever Cobb spotted this manoeuvre he glanced at Sir P. – at the head of the table – and was surprised to see that, even though he could not help but notice his wife’s flirtations, Sir P. chose not to react to them in any visible manner. Odd, Cobb mused, but then he had always presumed that lords and their ladies were not really expected to like each other.
Lady Mad, who like Cobb knew her lines by heart, performed with practised ease, an advantage that allowed her time and space to let her gaze wander wherever it wished. Several times it met Cobb’s head-on and held steady, as if she were appraising him with some skepticism while signalling a general approval of what she was seeing. He would have to be careful around her. The only male, besides her husband, whom she did not include in her coquetry was Fullarton. Despite the distractions, Cobb was able to bring enough life to the character of Bottom the weaver to draw several reluctant chuckles from the others and one or two envious glances from the gentlemen opposite him.
Young Lizzie Wade, the niece, read the part of Helena with zest and feeling, except when her uncle intervened and caused her to stammer. Her piteous exchanges with Demetrius, who spurns her pursuit for more than an act, drew the attention of everyone at the table, but failed to inspire coherent speech from Crenshaw. However, he did succeed in feasting his eyes upon the young beauty whenever he could take them off the perils of the page. Meantime, Sir P. seemed to be enjoying the role of Puck, who like a seasoned director orchestrates the mayhem of the play by disseminating his magic dust and flitting about trying to undo his laughter-inducing errors. He read his lines with a slightly elevated voice and a quick pace suited to the imp in Puck’s character, but it was the flitting and nimbling that must eventually accompany the words that gave one pause. No amount of makeup or costuming would be able to transform a five-foot-five, one-hundred-and-seventy-pound gentleman of fifty-some years into Shakespeare’s sprightly master-of-misrule.
In the ten-minute break between sessions, Cobb observed closely the groupings the cast formed once freed from the script and the rehearsal table. Lady Mad sat where she was. Lizzie brought her a cup of coffee from the dining-room and they sat together, chatting amiably. Sir P. took his director’s tome into the den and shut the door. In the dining-room, Dutton sat almost at the far end of the table while the Crenshaws settled in next to the pastry-tray. Fullarton stood for a moment, uncertain, then sat down near them. Cobb lingered near the doorway, pretending to study his script.
“I guess you read the whole sordid story of what happened to Langford in the Examiner today?” Crenshaw said to Fullarton.
“I did. But I still don’t believe Brodie capable of that sort of violence,” Fullarton said.
“It is hard to believe, Horace. But then, I didn’t know the lad like you did.”
“They won’t find him guilty, will they?” Clemmy said, her eye on a second tart.
“I’m sure they won’t,” Fullarton said, but he didn’t sound too confident. “I heard he’s secured the services of Baldwin and Sullivan.”
“Good firm, even if they are Reformers.” This was Dutton from the far end of the table.
“The young man’s done the town a good deed,” Crenshaw said, “if he’s rid us of a blackmailer. Can’t think of anythin’ lower than that sort of scoundrel.”
“Skulkin’ about in alleys an’ pickin’ envelopes outta trash bins,” Clemmy said with disgust. “Good riddance, I say. They oughta give the boy a medal.”
At this point the director called the troupe back into session.
The second run-through was marginally superior to the first one, though it was hard to tell because for every correction there was a corresponding and fresh mistake. Nevertheless, Sir P. declared himself so satisfied that on Thursday they would begin the rehearsal with a final reading and then move immediately to the stage for some basic blocking. Everyone was urged to memorize as many of his lines as could be managed.
Cobb was given a lift in Dutton’s carriage as far as Sherbourne and King. As he walked past Briar Cottage, he saw a light in the front window. But he didn’t go in. He had nothing of substance to report. Not yet.
***
The read-through on Thursday evening produced much mangled verse but no information useful to Cobb. Clemmy Crenshaw was not only unimproved in her performance of Hermia (though it could certainly be classified as comedy), she drew further attention to herself by arriving in a taffeta, purple-hued ball-gown wound so tightly and shimmering so vividly as to emphasize each one of the uncoordinated bulges underneath. Gone were the ringlettes, replaced by an upswept swirl and a bun at the rear, imprisoned by a solitary, courageous, pearl-tipped hatpin. When she attempted a smile, you could hear her face-paint crack.
Sir P., who had rubbed his chins raw with his plump fingers during the reading, pronounced his charges ready to repair to the stage, where they would be introduced to the rigours of movement and blocking. However, while they were indulging in refreshments in the interval, measurements would be taken for their costumes. Two ladies from Smallman’s shop, he informed them, were at present in the other section of the house sizing up the four little Wades for their fairy outfits. Of those here
in the main troupe, Lysander and Demetrius would wear standard doublets and the young Helena a simple white shift – costumes easily fitted out from the Shuttleworth theatre-trunk. As Hermia was of a somewhat more “mature” figure (and here Clemmy beamed and crackled), she would require a freshly designed frock that would accentuate the best aspects of said figure and contribute materially to having the audience accept her as an ingénue. Mrs. Halpenny from Smallman’s would provide that special piece of property, along with the ass’s head for Bottom, who would perform in coveralls and a jerkin. Costumes for the king and queen of the fairies would be supplied from the inexhaustible trunk, and Puck, last but not least, would surprise the cast with a creation out of his own hand. At this point, the door to the ladies’ withdrawing room opened and in came Rose Halpenny and Beth Edwards, a basket of clothes and tailoring instruments between them.
***
Now and again, ever since Ogden Frank had opened the Regency Theatre at the rear of his hotel on Colborne Street in 1837, Beth’s dressmaking business had catered to the professional touring companies who visited from Montreal, New York and Buffalo – mending, refitting and occasionally designing and making entire costumes. Rose Halpenny, in charge of that half of Beth’s enterprise, was a master seamstress with a flare for design. Beth, who was good with people, putting them instantly at ease, usually accompanied Rose on missions such as this one. During the bustle and genial confusion that followed their arrival and the display of potential costumes they had selected from the Shuttleworth repository, Cobb was able to sidle up to Beth and speak to her without drawing undue attention.
“How’s little Maggie?”
“Not so little. She’s sittin’ up by herself an’ takin’ notice of the world.”
“I heard Etta Hogg was sick.”
“Her fever broke. She’s recoverin’ nicely.”
“Ready to go back to work, is she?” It had occurred to Cobb that he might ask Etta to keep her eyes and ears open around Tobias and Gillian Budge. It seemed the only way they were likely to get at any deadly secrets that that pair might be harbouring.
“I’m afraid not. Budge dismissed her.”
“What!”
“Sent a message to her house. She’s been replaced. The girl’s devastated.”
“No reason?”
“Too sickly.”
At this point Crenshaw came barging up to Beth, looking aggrieved. “None of the doublets’ll fit me properly! I’ll look like somebody’s gardener!”
“Now – Mr. Crenshaw, is it? – don’t you fret. Gettin’ them to fit is our worry, not yours. Has Mrs. Halpenny got all yer measurements?”
“Would you mind double-checking them?”
Beth smiled and led him aside.
Cobb allowed his head to be measured for the donkey’s mask, then drifted into the dining-room, where he could sit near the doorway and observe the goings-on in the theatre. The first thing of note was a curious incident: while Rose was measuring Horace Fullarton’s in-seam, he lost his balance. Lady Mad, fetching in an elegant cream frock, happened to be passing and, in a reflex action, reached out and steadied him. At the touch of her fingers on his shoulder, Fullarton flinched and turned away abruptly, neglecting to thank her. As he walked towards the dining-room, Cobb noticed that the banker had a slight limp. Meanwhile, Lady Mad gave Rose a bemused smile, shrugged her pretty shoulders, and moved away. Something was going on there, Cobb thought.
The second thing he noticed was the way in which Andrew Dutton had positioned himself so that he could watch – furtively, he assumed – young Lizzie being “fitted” for her costume by Rose Halpenny. The man’s eyes never left Rose’s hands as they pressed and smoothed the silky frock against the curves of Lizzie’s figure. If Lizzie noticed, she didn’t let on.
Twenty minutes later, Beth and Rose left. Sir P. clapped his hands and pointed to the stage. Alone in the dining-room, Cobb got up and headed in that direction. Lady Mad was standing at the door to the ladies’ withdrawing-room, calling in to alert Clemmy of Sir P.’s command. Then she turned away, and moved towards the others already on the platform, leaving the door ajar. In passing, Cobb caught a glimpse of Clemmy trying to lift herself off a sofa while stuffing some small object into the fold of her bosom. Something was definitely going on there as well, Cobb concluded. The Crenshaws were not a happy couple. The lord and lady, too, were a strange pair. And both Dutton and Fullarton would have to be watched carefully.
Things were looking up.
***
Director Shuttleworth suggested that each member of the cast remain on stage even when they were not involved, as he wished them to observe each scene as it unfolded in order that they get a sense of the drama as a whole. After tonight, though, individual scenes would be rehearsed independently before the “whole” was dramatically reassembled in two weeks or so. Unfolding, as it turned out, was not an apt description of what took place over the next hour. As Oberon and Titania, whose exchange initiated the playlet’s action, remained relatively stationary, Sir P. had merely to indicate where in their scripts they might turn away from or towards each other, and where Titania was to exit. Puck appeared next and directed himself admirably, as he set the love-charm plot in motion. His “nimble” departure, however, did draw a snicker from Clemmy, who turned it into a cough just before being elbowed by her husband. From there, matters went downhill quickly and erratically. The star-crossed lovers, who pursue and are pursued in a zany and delightful way in Shakespeare’s original, added a series of unscripted pratfalls, collisions and entanglements. Even without the burden of speaking, Demetrius and Hermia could not remember where they were to meet, stop, or retreat. Dutton as Lysander and Lizzie Wade as Helena were letter perfect after one try, but their precision seemed only to befuddle the Crenshaws. Shuttleworth was driven to dashing about with a piece of chalk in hand, scrawling X’s and scratching arrows on the boards.
Finally, Cobb’s moment came. The audience having been informed in their programs just how Bottom the weaver has come to be in this forest, Sir P. announced with much ceremony, he is to be seen first wandering about in the dark until confronted by Puck, who waves his wand and places an ass’s head on the hapless mechanic. Bottom then sits down and falls asleep beside Titania, who upon awakening is to fall lustily in love with him. By the second run-through, this pantomime sequence was going quite smoothly.
“Now, Titania dear, you are to deliver the speech indicating your unquenchable passion for the donkey-eared weaver,” Sir P. said solemnly. “The comedy lies in the contrast – of beauty and beast, of overweening pride and fatuous vanity, of love and its wholly unsuitable object. So, your actions here cannot be over-exaggerated. Proceed.”
As Titania, like Bottom, knew her lines by heart, she could recite her speech and improvise appropriately hyperbolic gestures:
Titania: I pray thee, gentle mortal, sing again.
Mine ear is much enamoured of thy note;
So is mine eye enthralled to thy shape
And thy fair virtue’s force doth move me
On the first view to say, to swear, I love thee.
As Lady Mad uttered the phrase “enthralled to thy shape,” she paused and began to trace with her fingertips the particular hillocks and promontories of Cobb’s eccentric figure – not touching him but coming close enough to simulate a sinuous caress. As her right hand passed over his thighs, her left one gave Bottom’s testicles a quick but definitely libidinous squeeze. Cobb gasped and gaped – and the spectators, assuming these responses to be the donkey’s idea of ecstasy, burst into applause.
What kind of loony bin have I gotten myself into? was Cobb’s thought – when his heart stopped thumping long enough for him to have one.
***
Once again Cobb was offered a lift to King Street in Andrew Dutton’s buggy. On Tuesday, Dutton had said nothing, except to the horse. So Cobb was surprised tonight when the retired lawyer initiated a conversation.
“You married?” he sa
id from the folds of his cloak and scarves. It was almost November and the Indian summer had left them without prior notice.
“I am.”
“Children?”
“A girl an’ a boy – thirteen an’ twelve, if I remember rightly.”
“You’re a lucky man, then.”
“I count myself so. I been told you was married once.”
“Twice, as a matter of fact.”
“Missus Cobb says yer wife took sick an’ died on her way home to Ireland.”
“Yes, she did. We’d been married seven years. No children. Then Felicity took ill with what the doctors called melancholia. I decided she should see her family back in Cork in hopes it might bring her around. We got as far as Montreal, when she caught a fever and passed away suddenly.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Thank you.” Dutton’s voice had become low and solemn, but he obviously wanted to talk.
“But you did marry again?”
“I waited ten years, then married my young housekeeper. I didn’t love her like Felicity, I was simply desperate for an heir.”
“What happened?”
“She died in childbirth. And the babe with her.”
Cobb said nothing to that. Such tales were commonplace, but nonetheless tragic for those involved.
“After that, I stuck to lawyering.”
Cobb got off at the corner of Sherbourne and King. As he watched the buggy disappear in the darkness, he felt sorry for Dutton. It also occurred to him that a lonely, childless man no longer busy with his profession might find comfort in the company of someone as alive and ingenuous as Lizzie Wade. What kind of comfort was the question.
Desperate Acts Page 16
