The Case of the Gilded Fly

by Edmund Crispin

  He was surprised, however, to find that next to nothing was happening (later he realized that this is the case with about a third of every repertory rehearsal). Under working lights on the stage a few people stood or sat inactively about in the middle of the current play’s set, holding typed books and smoking or chattering in a subdued manner. A young woman whom Nigel took to be the stage manager was banging chairs and tables about so energetically that Nigel expected them to fall to pieces at any moment. Robert stood talking to someone beside the orchestra pit, across which an unsteady-looking plank was laid to provide a passage from the stage to the front of the house. A young man vaguely played a few bars of jazz on the piano in the orchestra pit.

  ‘I wish we could get a move on,’ he said to someone on the stage.

  ‘Clive hasn’t turned up yet.’

  ‘Well, can’t we do the second act?’

  ‘He’s on in all the acts.’

  ‘Where in God’s name is he?’

  ‘He said he was catching the 8.30 from town. Either it’s fantastically late or else he’s missed it.’

  ‘What does the man keep rushing up to town for anyway?’

  ‘He goes up to see his wife.’

  ‘Good heavens. Every night?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good heavens.’

  It was all curiously unreal, thought Nigel. The effect of artificial light probably. It had not previously occurred to him how little actors and actresses see of the sun. He became suddenly aware that he was unintentionally eavesdropping the conversation of two people who were standing in the darkness near him.

  ‘But darling, must you run about after him like that?’

  ‘Don’t be silly, darling, one’s got to be nice to these people if one’s going to get on at all.’

  ‘You mean in the theatre you’ve got to use your sex to get yourself jobs!’

  ‘Well, you surely don’t imagine people get parts out of sheer acting ability.’

  Someone in the electrician’s gallery switched on a flood, and in the momentary dazzle Nigel saw that the two were Donald and Yseut. He felt uneasily that he ought to move, but curiosity compelled him to stay. Neither of them had noticed him.

  ‘If only you wouldn’t be so damnably jealous, darling …’

  ‘Yseut, dear. You know how much I love you –’

  ‘Oh, God, yes. I know.’

  ‘Of course it’s a damn nuisance for you when you’re not in love with me.’

  ‘Darling, I’ve told you I love you. But after all, there’s my career as well.’

  ‘Jane!’ came Robert’s voice suddenly from the front. ‘Ring for Yseut, will you, dear? I want to run through her song with her.’

  ‘It’s all right, darling, I’m here,’ said Yseut and went off down the gangway.

  The little group on the stage began to disperse in various directions.

  ‘Don’t go away, people,’ said Robert. ‘Just clear the stage. This won’t take long, and we’ve got to make a start afterwards whether Clive’s arrived or not. Someone can read his part. Did you get a dance routine worked out?’ he added to Yseut.

  ‘Yes. But I didn’t know how it was going to be set. Will it be as it is now?’

  ‘Is that all right for the first act, Richard?’ Robert appealed to the scenic designer.

  ‘The flats in the O.P. will be further back,’ said Richard. ‘And there’s no table – Jane! Jane dear!’

  The stage manager appeared from the prompt corner like a rabbit out of a hat.

  ‘Jane, that table’s much further upstage.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Richard, but if you remember it’s fixed down. We can’t take it up now – we had a hell of a job with it in the first place.’

  ‘Oh, well, never mind,’ said Robert, ‘do the best you can for the moment. Bruce dear boy,’ he added to the young man in the orchestra pit, ‘you’ll play it for the moment, won’t you? Straight through, two choruses.’

  The young man in the orchestra pit nodded gloomily. ‘Why was I born?’ he said. ‘Why am I living?’

  ‘That’s right. It’s an old song, but quite nice.’ (To Yseut) ‘Ready, dear? Now, what in God’s name is the cue? Oh, yes. Clive says: “Well, get on and sing the thing if you must”.’

  ‘Quiet please!’ A subdued murmuring from the wings ceased abruptly.

  ‘WELL, GET ON AND SING THE DAMN THING IF YOU MUST!’ roared Robert suddenly.

  The pianist played a couple of bars’ introduction, and Yseut began to sing.

  ‘Why was I born,

  Why am-?’

  ‘Sorry, sorry, just a minute!’ said Robert suddenly. The music ceased. ‘Yseut dear, you’ll be upstage centre at the beginning. We’ll get the moves for the song set later; do what you like for the moment. All right “Get on and whatever-it-is, diddle-diddle-diddle.”’

  Robert retired backwards up the gangway, and the music began again.

  Nigel went across to Donald. ‘Hello!’ he said.

  Donald, whose eyes had been fixed on the stage, started violently, ‘Oh, hello,’ he answered. ‘Couldn’t think who it was for a moment. Let’s go and sit down, shall we?’

  When they had got settled, Nigel’s attention went back to the stage again. Against his inclination, he was forced to admire the way Yseut sang, adopting for the occasion a slight American accent and a slight lisp. She put it across beautifully; it was all very provocatively sexy.

  ‘Why was I born,

  Why am I livin’?

  What do I get,

  What am I givin’?

  Why do I want the things I dare not hope for?

  What can I hope for? I wish I knew!

  Why do I try

  To draw you near me?

  Why do I cry? –

  You never hear me!

  I’m a poor fool, but what can I do?

  Why was I born to love you?’

  The song over, the young man at the piano played through another chorus with a bored expression, and Yseut danced. She danced well, with a sort of naïve seductiveness, but it did not seem to please Donald. ‘Wretched display!’ he muttered; and then, turning to Nigel: ‘I can’t think how these women can bring themselves to do that sort of thing. Yet they seem to love it.’

  ‘It’s quite harmless, you know,’ said Nigel mildly. ‘I suppose you mean the music.’

  ‘No, I don’t, I mean the sex. And they adore showing off that way.’

  ‘Well, it’s not very surprising,’ replied Nigel, ‘that a woman should enjoy making an elementary form of sexual advance to a roomful of men without the slightest chance, so to speak, of being taken at her word. It must be a most delightful feeling.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you mind if it were your wife?’

  Nigel looked at him curiously. ‘No,’ he said slowly, ‘I don’t think –’

  ‘Right!’ The conversation was cut short by the conclusion of the song and Robert’s voice. ‘That’s lovely, dear, thank you,’ he said to Yseut.

  ‘Did you really like it, darling?’

  ‘One or two things may have to be altered when we get it properly set,’ he said, sternly refusing to be drawn beyond the bounds of conventional politeness. ‘Jane, dear!’ he continued hastily, ‘will you ring for everyone: we’re going to do Act 1.… And Jane!’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Has Clive arrived yet?’

  ‘Yes, he’s just got in.’

  ‘Thank God for that.’

  The call bell clamoured vociferously all over the theatre. The company assembled little by little, including the miserable Clive, a bland young man in a black hat, who seemed quite unaware of the delay he had caused; and after a while the rehearsal was launched.

  About half-way through the act, a girl approached Donald and Nigel whom Nigel had not met before. It was Jean Whitelegge, and with her appearance Nigel realized he had found yet another part of the tangle whose centre was Yseut, and which had been so aggravated by Robert’s arrival. That the girl was madly in love wi
th Donald there was no doubt: little tricks of speech, gestures, everything made it obvious to the very blindest. Nigel groaned inwardly; he couldn’t imagine what Jean saw in Donald, whom he thought rather a silly little man, and even less could he imagine what Donald saw in Yseut. It was all very difficult. He inquired politely whether she were watching the rehearsal.

  ‘No, I’ve been working here for the last few weeks,’ she said. ‘They let me do props out of term-time.’

  Let you do props, indeed! thought Nigel, who knew enough about the theatre to be aware of the thanklessness of the job. Jean, he decided, was one of that all-too-large body of amateur actresses who get excited at the smallest contact with the professional stage, and fritter away their lives in useless jobs connected with it. But while he was still summoning up an interested grimace, she turned and began talking to Donald in a low voice. Donald, Nigel saw, was becoming irritable under a stream of reproaches. It’s ordinary comedy, thought Nigel – a pure Restoration drama situation – but it refuses to be comic; it’s bitter and dull and sordid and witless. Later he was to realize just how bitter these quarrels were, and to reproach himself for not paying more attention to them.

  At a quarter to twelve they finished the act. And Nigel, who had been watching, fascinated, the way the thing came to life even with the players reading and frequent interruptions to arrange moves, was sorry to hear Robert say:

  ‘All right, people, break for coffee! Quarter of an hour only!’

  ‘There’s coffee in the green room if you want it,’ said Jean to Nigel. ‘And by the way, have you got a ’cello?’

  ‘Good heavens, no,’ said Nigel in alarm.

  ‘And you wouldn’t lend it even if you had; I know. I’ve got to get a ’cello from somewhere for next week.’ She disappeared down the gangway.

  ‘Frankly,’ said Donald, ‘that girl’s a nuisance.’

  Something in his sans façon, man-of-the-world tone suddenly irritated Nigel.

  ‘I thought her charming,’ he said shortly, and went off down the gangway to see Robert, who was on the stage talking to the scenic designer and the stage manager.

  The company had melted away like magic, the women to the green room for coffee, the men for the most part to the ‘Aston Arms’ across the road. Robert greeted Nigel a little absently.

  ‘I imagine you’re finding this very dull,’ he said.

  ‘Good heavens, no. It’s fascinating. And a very’ – Nigel hesitated for a moment over the adjective – ‘delightful play, if I may say so.’

  ‘I’m glad you like it.’ Robert seemed genuinely pleased. ‘But of course, this is only the skeleton of the whole thing. No business, no props. But the company’s much better than I dared hope. If only they can be induced to learn their lines!’

  Nigel was surprised. ‘Are they likely not to?’ he asked.

  ‘I gather one or two of them make a point of drying about six times every night until the Friday. However, we shall see. Are you having coffee?’

  ‘If I shan’t be drinking someone else’s.’

  ‘Good Lord, no. Do you know where the green room is? If you don’t, Jane will show you. I’ll be down in a minute. We can’t afford to break for long, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Coming?’ said Jane, who was a slim, attractive young woman of twenty or thereabouts.

  ‘Right,’ said Nigel, and looked round a little guiltily for Donald. But he had disappeared.

  As they went out backstage, Nigel looked curiously about him, at the big electrician’s gallery in the prompt corner, the flats stacked against the walls, and the circular line which marked the edge of the revolving stage. The backs of the flats, he noticed, were scrawled with pictures of animals, caricatures of members of the company, and lines from past plays – relics of a sudden exuberance before an entrance or at a dress rehearsal. Even in repertory, with a new play every week, the excitement of a first night never becomes insipid.

  They went out of a swing door at the back (carefully sprung and padded to prevent banging) and up a short flight of stone stairs to the green room.

  ‘Were you here for Yseut’s song?’ asked Jane.

  ‘I was, actually.’

  ‘And you liked it?’

  ‘Very much,’ he said, not without truth.

  ‘I’m understudying for her, and I’m terrified I shall have to do it. I can’t really sing a note, but Robert asked me to, so I suppose he anyway thinks I can. But it’s going to be a bore having to learn lines for a thousand-to-one possibility.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Nigel non-committally; be was thinking of Helen, who had not appeared in the first act. He added: ‘I suppose Helen Haskell’s on at the beginning of the second act?’

  ‘Helen? Yes, that’s right, dear. She’ll probably be in the green room now.’

  Nigel was slightly taken aback. He was not yet used to the vague and indiscriminate terms of endearment which fly about in the theatre.

  They entered the green room. It was tolerably full, and Jane was some time getting him some coffee. Having presented it to him, she abruptly disappeared, leaving him to his own devices.

  It slightly hurt his vanity to find that nobody took any notice of him. But he saw Helen sitting by herself looking at a copy of Metromania, and decided to take the bull by the horns. He went over and sat down beside her.

  ‘Hello!’ he said, not without some trepidation.

  ‘Hello!’ she replied, giving him a charming smile.

  ‘I hope I’m not interrupting you learning your words,’ he pursued ungrammatically, somewhat emboldened.

  She laughed. ‘Good Lord, no, not at this time of the week.’ She threw the book on to the chair beside her. ‘Do tell me who you are,’ she said. ‘I hear you’ve been in front. It must have been dreary.’

  Damn the woman! thought Nigel: she makes me feel a babe. And I’m sure I look awful (he automatically put up a hand to smooth back his hair). I wish she weren’t so attractive – or do I?

  He said more or less composedly: ‘I’m Nigel Blake.’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course! Robert has told me about you – and Gervase.’

  Nigel’s face assumed an expression of sedate alarm. ‘I didn’t know you knew Fen,’ he said. ‘Anyway, don’t take any notice of anything he’s told you about me. He just says the first thing that comes into his head.’

  ‘Oh dear, what a pity! He was rather complimentary.’ She put her head a little on one side. ‘Still, when I know you better I shall be able to tell for myself.’

  Nigel felt ridiculously elated. ‘Will you have lunch with me?’ he said.

  ‘I’d love to, but I doubt if we shall finish much before half past two, and that’s awfully late, isn’t it?’

  ‘Dinner, then.’

  ‘Well, we go up at 7.45, and I have to be in fairly early to change and make up. I should have to rush madly away. Tea?’ she added hopefully.

  They both laughed.

  ‘Supper,’ said Nigel firmly, ‘after the show. Tea’s such a dull meal. Perhaps I can persuade the hotel to let us have it in my sitting-room.’

  ‘La, sir, what a suggestion!’

  ‘Oh, well, it doesn’t matter where. I’ll pick you up after the show. What time?’

  ‘About half past ten.’

  ‘Lovely.’

  Robert came in, and, after a brief nod to Nigel, began talking to Helen about her part. So he wandered off on his own, precariously balancing his coffee-cup in his left hand. Donald, Yseut, and Jean Whitelegge were in a little group by one of the windows, and the atmosphere looked far from intimate. With a vague idea of pouring oil on troubled waters, Nigel walked over to join them.

  ‘Hello, Nigel,’ drawled Yseut as she saw him approaching. ‘Have you been enjoying the masterpiece?’

  ‘I like it,’ said Nigel.

  ‘How curious. So does little Jean here.’ Jean began to speak, but Yseut interrupted. ‘It’s all appallingly superficial, of course, and no opportunities for real acting. But no doubt dear Rachel’s na
me will bring them in, like wasps round a jampot.’

  Mentally, Nigel added himself to the already over-burdened list of those who disliked Yseut Haskell.

  To his own surprise, he found himself remarking dogmatically: ‘Comedy is necessarily superficial. And the technique of comedy acting, even if it is different from the technique of acting in serious plays, isn’t any less difficult.’

  ‘Why Nigel!’ said Yseut with exaggerated surprise, ‘how clever you are! And we all thought you knew nothing about the theatre!’

  He flushed. ‘I know very little about the theatre. But I’ve seen enough of actors and actresses to resent their assumption that they are the only people who know anything about it.’

  Yseut, feeling that the possibilities of unpleasantness in this topic had been too rapidly exhausted, changed the subject. ‘I see you’ve introduced yourself to my sister. Don’t you think she’s attractive?’

  ‘I think she’s very attractive.’

  ‘So does Richard,’ said Yseut. ‘I think they’re quite serious about one another, don’t you?’

  Nigel’s heart sank. He knew Yseut was being malicious, but there must be some foundation for what she said.… He replied, as casually as he could:

  ‘They’re attached to one another, are they?’

  ‘Oh, but of course. I thought everyone knew. But you’ve been here such a short time, why should you? And anyway, I’m sure it’s a matter of complete indifference to you.’

  Nigel, who was about to say ‘It is’, stopped himself in time. If he did, there was every possibility that Yseut would tell Helen at the earliest possible opportunity. Childish intriguing and hypocrisy! But Yseut’s game was one which, temporarily at least, she compelled those with whom she came in contact to play. He said:

  ‘On the contrary. As I said, I find your sister very attractive.’

  He was relieved to hear a cool, sensible voice behind him. It was Rachel.

  ‘Hello, Nigel,’ she said. ‘Are you enjoying this chaotic rehearsal? Silly question,’ she added with a smile before he could reply. ‘I expect everyone has asked you that and you’re tired of answering it.’