by K. Velk
“Oh, I know, I suppose,” Miss Everett replied. “Really, I’ve never had Ada in hand, and she’s out of my influence altogether now. But without those of us at St. Hild’s and Lady Fisher, she’s terribly alone, and terribly vulnerable. She’s been here since she was seven, you know, and she has no relations.”
“So her father is dead too?” Miles asked.
“Yes, I’m afraid so. I confirmed that myself after the war, with some considerable difficulty, I might add.” She hesitated. “I shouldn’t betray her confidences, but as you are so willing to put yourself out on her account, you should probably know the whole story. Ada has been known to concoct, or at least embellish, facts concerning her origins; nothing really harmful – just wishful thinking of an orphan, I suppose. But I wouldn’t want her to try and put you off with any flim flam about rich relations and such, if you should find her.”
“Thanks. And I’m not going to be gossiping about her if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“No, no of course you’re not. Where to begin? Ada’s first patron was Lady Ardilaun of Ireland, perhaps you have heard of her?”
“Mr. Scott told me about that.”
“Yes, well Ada’s mother, Bridey, was a very endearing young girl - bright as a penny. At least that’s how Lady Ardilaun once described her to me. Bridey went into service with the Ardilauns when she was just eleven years old. That’s how things were done in those days, I’m afraid.”
“The Irish burned Lady Ardilaun’s home in 1916 – nothing but cinders and ashes there now,” Miss Fotheringham interjected.
Miss Everett gave her assistant a silencing look. “Yes. That’s true. But before its destruction, Bridey was a serving girl there, and that’s where Ada’s story begins. You see, it was common in those days for traveling musicians to visit country towns in England and Ireland and play for a day or two, for tips. One such group, a German family as it happened, visited the Ardilaun estate in, oh, it must’ve been 1909.”
“Bridey was just eighteen then, and the trumpet player was a young and good looking fellow. He caught her eye and they struck up, hmmm, a friendship. His name was Christian Schmidt, we knew that much, and he came from a town in the middle of Germany called Eisenach. Anyway, their acquaintance, shall we say, included a rather disastrous result for Bridey. It is not an uncommon story.”
“I heard about that part, too,” Miles said.
“Yes. Well, while instant dismissal is the invariable result in such situations, Lady Ardilaun made an exception for Bridey. The Ardilauns had no children of their own, you see, and she was too fond of Bridey to simply throw her out of the house. She knew her family would never have taken her back in such disgrace.”
“But what about the father – this Christian Schmidt?” Miles asked.
“He and his family were itinerants. Long gone by the time the trouble was discovered. Lady Ardilaun resettled Bridey at her house in London and here Ada appeared in due course. She and Bridey were sent to lodge with a woman who watched Ada during the day while Bridey worked for Lady Ardilaun. It might have gone on like that til Ada was grown, but Bridey died, pneumonia it was, just before Armistice. That’s when Lady Ardilaun went in search of a place for Ada and came to us. It was, I must say, a lucky stroke for the school. Her Ladyship never wavered in her concern for Ada, or in her support for St. Hilds’, for the rest of her life. She also helped me to get details on Ada’s father. We learned that he died in 1915 in Flanders, fighting for his country.”
“And Ada knows all this?”
“Yes. When she got to be quite grown, she came to me and asked me to tell her whatever I knew about her background. I felt she was entitled to know. Anti-German feeling has receded these last years, but she grew up learning to hate ‘the Hun.’ I don’t think she has resolved herself to the notion that she is half German. I am sure that poor Christian went to his grave with no idea that he had a little daughter in London.”
“God, that’s horrible,” Miles said. “Poor Ada…”
“Poor Ada, indeed. Poor Bridey, poor Christian. The world can be a very, very hard place…”
“Well, at least I know she hasn’t run off to find her father,” Miles said, seeking some ray of hope in the desolate story. They sat quietly a moment, pondering this apparent dead end, when Miss Fotheringham started up.
“I say, I may have just a bit of useful information. I overheard Ada once, just a scrap of conversation, saying something reverential about a ‘Mr. Diamond’. There’s no one in our community of that name, it struck me as odd at the time and I wondered about it. Well, I was in Leicester Square recently and I saw a theatre there called ‘Diamond’s London Pavilion.’ I hadn’t connected the two til just now, but it seems to fit, doesn’t it? You might start there. Let me look up the address.” She took the phone directory off Miss Everett’s desk and tracked it down promptly. Miles took the information gratefully.
“Is there anything else you can tell me?” he asked. “Anything at all?”
Miss Everett shook her head. “If you find her, you will let us know, won’t you? Tell her that she can come back here. We would find a way, find her a place…”
“Of course,” Miles said. He recognized this was a generous offer. “But you know, I honestly think Ada is going to do fine – and better than fine. I know you have no reason to believe me, but I’ll ask you to anyway.”
Miss Everett smiled a little. “All right. And so I shall. Why not? I have been pleasantly surprised before now and hope to be again.”
“There’s one more thing,” Miles continued. “I have come into a bit of money, from Lady Fisher actually, and I have an idea about how it can be set aside for Ada – in case I don’t find her. My father was a banker and I understand a little about trust funds, but I will need someone here in London who is willing to serve as a trustee. Would you be able to do that?”
Miss Everett raised her eyebrows. “Here I am surprised again already. Certainly. Just tell me what you would like me to do.”
58. Some Advice
“What’s it to be then, Miles?” Professor Lightfoot asked, in a voice that cut through the din of the museum café. “I think, at a minimum, the Rosetta Stone and the Elgin Marbles. Probably you’d like to see a few of the Egyptian mummies, and certainly the Lewis Chessmen are not to be missed.”
Miles shifted uneasily in the little cane chair. “I didn’t really come to see the stuff in the museum,” he answered. “I‘m sure it’s really interesting and all, but I mostly came to see you.”
“A fine sentiment, of course, but I thought in you I had found an eager student of history?”
“Oh. I am. I mean, I’ve always liked old stuff – well, some old stuff, but I’m not really in the mood today. Too much on my mind, I suppose. And I still have a lot to do before tonight. Miss Everett thought I should check out this ‘Diamond’s Pavilion’ place.”
“I wish I could go with you,” Daphne said, lifting a forkful of chicken salad. “It would be exciting, and I am sure it will be a jolly good show. Unfortunately Roger has tickets for some play written by a particularly dreary friend of his.”
“Who’s Roger?” Miles asked.
Daphne looked up and waved at someone behind Miles. “He is.”
A young man with wavy blonde hair and a profile like a movie star returned Daphne’s greeting. He moved with acrobatic grace through the warren of café tables.
“Hullo Darling. Hullo Professor!” Roger kissed Daphne’s cheek and pumped the Professor’s hand twice. “And you must be Miles, the intrepid American explorer here in darkest Bloomsbury. I’m Roger Carlisle.” He carelessly grabbed an empty chair from the next table, earning him a dirty look from a lady in an ugly hat who was sitting there alone.
“Darling,” Daphne said, “Father and I were just saying how we wanted to propel Miles through a few of the exhibits before he could slink away. Do we have time?”
Roger looked at his watch and frowned. “We’re due at Edgar’s by 2:30 and
if it were anyone but Edgar I wouldn’t worry about being a little late.”
“Shall I take that as a ‘no’?”
“No, more as a ‘we can rush to a few things if you like.’”
“We have to have our photograph made,” Daphne explained, “for the announcement. Really, Roger, Edgar is supposed to be your friend. Will he truly be put out if we’re a tiny bit late?”
“He believes he has condescended to take our picture, you know.” Roger filched some chicken salad. “He normally photographs buildings for architects,” he said with his mouth full. “He considers buildings of much greater interest, photographically speaking, than flesh and blood. Also, they don’t twitch or require air-brushing or pronounce judgment.”
“Announcement?” Miles asked.
“Roger and Daphne are to be married. They’ve only just told us all.” The Professor looked and sounded very pleased.
“Yes, and mother has decreed that our engagement portrait is to appear in Town and Country and The Sketch, at least.” Roger helped himself to a roll. “I know, it’s appalling, but one must pick one’s battles with one’s mother.”
“Ohhhhh.” Miles said meaningfully. “Congratulations. I had no idea.”
“We’ve been talking about it for a year,” Daphne said, “but Roger wanted to wait until he had secured a position before we made any announcement. He’s an architect.”
“I guess you can say that now without lying, at last,” Roger said. “I’ve only just been taken on by Marshall and Tweedy. Now it’s wedding plans full steam ahead.”
Miles felt vengeful glee at this news. So Dr. Slade was not going to have his choice of whether to take or leave Daphne! Miles hoped that the Doctor would see the engagement announcement and return to Susannah to find his place in her affections occupied by Tom. It was a satisfying thought, but he had no time to indulge it for more than a moment.
“Do any of you know anything about this Diamond’s Pavilion place? I think the guy that runs it may be the one who’s taken up with Ada.”
“I have heard of it,” Roger said slowly. “I think I even went there a time or two, in university days. It’s in Leicester Square, isn’t it? You know, one of the chaps at the office may know about it. Ollie Bertrand. His parents were actors – Ollie practically grew up on stage. You should see what he can do with mirrors and lighting for three-dimensional effects. Wait a moment and I’ll see if he can tell us about this Diamond chap.”
The way Roger disappeared reminded Miles of a fish he had once seen lingering peacefully at the shallow edge of lake. Miles had bent, just slightly, to try and touch it, and it had disappeared with a twitch – leaving only a little cloud of muddy water behind.
“He’s always like that,” the Professor said admiringly. “It’s going to be wonderful to have such a resourceful fellow in the family.” For the few moments that he was away, Daphne and the Professor took turns extolling the virtues of Roger, then Roger was again slipping fish-like back to their table.
“It’s very interesting really,’ he said as he resumed his seat. “Ollie says that there are two Diamonds, father and son. The father, Ben, is apparently a good old chap, a kind of Barnum. He made a fortune in the music halls but he has lately been indulging in legitimate West End theatre – artistic longings, social ambition and what not. The son, Jon, has thus taken on the variety theaters, which include not only Diamond’s London Pavilion, but the Empire in Southwark and the Hippodrome in Cheapside. Apparently they’ve got a string of theatres in towns from Brighton to Manchester.”
Miles’ heart sank. Would he have to check out all of these?
“God, I hope I won’t have to look all over the country for her.”
“I’m afraid that’s not all,” Roger said. “I almost hate to bring it up to such dewy youth, and with a lady present…”
“Oh, Roger, please. We are not Victorians,” Daphne said.
“Well, Diamond the Younger has apparently developed a very lucrative sideline in private, members-only clubs featuring,” he gave the table a dark look, “let us say, entertainments not licensed by the authorities.”
“What exactly do you mean?” Miles asked, although he had a pretty good idea.
“You name the vice. Whatever it may be, Jon Diamond has an establishment where it may be indulged. So, Miles, if you’re going to be nosing about in that man’s business, you’d best do so quietly. Ollie says Diamond is known to be a very sharp operator indeed.”
Miles was deflated. Couldn’t anything ever be easy? “Did he have any advice on how I might go about finding my friend,” he managed at last.
“Yes. Well, don’t be too gloomy,” Roger said. “I mentioned that you planned to go to the show tonight. He said that he thought that was a good idea. If your friend is really a good act, he said Diamond would likely put her into his best show, which is always at the Pavilion. So start there. If she appears on stage, Ollie says you should go to the stage door after the show and ask for her.” Roger took a drink from Daphne’ glass. “He said I must impress on you the need for caution.”
59. A Tantalizing Glimpse
Leicester Square by night, even a Wednesday night, was alight and swarming. Miles pushed his way into the throng from the Underground station and scanned the street. It wasn’t difficult to find “Diamond’s London Pavilion.” It occupied a prominent place just across from where he had emerged from the tube.
The theater didn’t look like much from the outside, but once past the door, it opened up magically like a kind of Aladdin’s cave. It was all bright white-and-gold paintwork, and rich red carpets. Miles bought his ticket for an “Empire Seat,” the best ones in the house according to the seller, and made his way to the front. The thought, the hope, that Ada was there somewhere and might heave into sight at any moment almost made him dizzy.
He was early for the show and the only other people in his row of seats were a pair of old women. They were dressed in nearly identical ancient black dresses and leaning into one another’s creased and nearly toothless faces cackling at some joke. Something about them struck Miles as villainous and lurid. Raucous laughter came from the bar in the lobby. The grandeur of the building struck Miles suddenly as false and overdone. A sense that he was very alone and out-of-place swept over him.
Come on Miles! He told himself. He couldn’t afford an attack of nerves now. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine himself settling down for bed in his own room at the Cube, pulling his freshly-laundered comforter up to his chin and turning onto his fluffy pillow. He struggled against the smoky din to create and hold the image till at last he was jarred by the sound of the orchestra. He opened his eyes as the house lights dimmed, and while people continued to mill and the noise from the crowd was unabated, there was a general migration in the direction of the seats.
“Ought to be a good show tonight, eh young fellow?” A man edged in past Miles and sat down next to him. The man’s breath was oddly chemical, but his eyes were kind and Miles was glad for the friendly word.
“I hope so. I think a friend of mine might be singing.”
“Well, have you had a look at the program?” The man said, producing a blue and white printed bit of paper.
“Oh. No. I didn’t see the programs.”
“Don’t know ‘ow you could’ve missed them, they hawk them so.”
“I’ll go get one,” Miles started to stand, but he man pulled him back into his seat.
“’Ere now, don’t waste yer tuppence. It’s almost all adverts anyway. We’ll just ‘ave a look at mine.”
The man pulled a pair of reading glasses from the inside of his dirty jacket and placed them on his bulbous nose.
“Well, here we have the overture – a nice tune I’d say!” The music was swelling now, forcing the man to raise his voice. “Then it’s item one, the Bunn Sisters.” He leered. “They’re dancing girls. Then at item two, we’ll have marionettes – can take or leave ‘em myself, then a tight rope walker and then,” he turned awa
y from the program and said excitedly, “’eres a bit of good news, it’s the Mexican Boneless Wonder – ‘ave you seen ‘im? Flat unbelievable he is!” The man guffawed at his own joke exhaling an alcohol-tinged cloud. “Eh, now, your friend’s a singer you say?”
“Yes, called Ada.” Miles tried to look at the program but, apparently having paid tuppence for it, the man felt proprietary about the information it contained. He held it like a test paper that Miles was trying to copy.
“No. No ‘Ada’ in sight,” he said with a sad shake of his head. “At item four, there’s a girl singer called ‘Maureen O’Meara, the Irish Rose’, and a comedic singer called Billy Brighter at item ten – but no one called Ada. Nope.” He ran his finger down the program one last time – “a conjurer, a ventriloquist, then a surprise act – maybe that’s her? After that we’ll have the national anthem and then we’re swept out so the nine o’clock can start.”
Miles’ disappointment was palpable and it must have showed.
“Cheer up lad!” his seatmate said enthusiastically. “It’s always a good show at Diamond’s, and maybe your friend’s the surprise act, or, sometimes they give the acts stage names – perhaps she’s this Maureen, the Irish Rose.”
“I hope so,” Miles said, cheered a little by the man’s kindly tone. “I wouldn’t have come unless I thought she was appearing.”
“Well, you’re ‘ere now and you’ve paid for your ticket, so why not enjoy yourself?” The wine-dark velvet curtain rose and there was a general commotion. His neighbor’s face lit up at the sight of the Bunn Sisters in their tights. He elbowed Miles and enthusiastically applauded.
Miles settled back into his seat and watched through the cigarette smoke curling in the footlights. The Bunns were actually not bad he thought – their act was very polished and the music was as bouncy as their dance. The crowd was so full of good cheer that Miles was lifted a little out of his dark frame of mind. The marionettes were similarly well executed and the tightrope walker, who performed without a net at least ten feet above the stage, was actually pretty exciting. Each act lasted seven or eight minutes. A little red light shone in the footlights near the end of each act, plainly a kind of stop light. He held his breath as the tight rope apparatus was cleared from the stage and the master of ceremonies introduced a new singing star.
