by BK Duncan
Her chest heaved convulsively as she wiped her snotty nose on her sleeve. If all the people she had lost were still alive, how different would things be for her now? Only how could she possibly know if they’d have been any better? She gripped the top of the metal polish and twisted the tin open. None of it mattered. What might have been never mattered. Especially to the dead. And if life was nothing but existence then she counted herself amongst that faceless army.
Chapter Eighteen
Horatio clapped his hands. ‘Right! Let’s have a bit of hush.’
It had no effect on the backstage boys scurrying around the apron but the line of amateurs stood to attention and shuffled a few paces downstage. This was the moment Vi had been dreading: the first rehearsal. It would only be a walk-through but she was anxious none of the turns let down her faith in them.
‘The ASM will do the blocking for each of you in the order you’ll be on the bill. It’ll only be chalk marks for now, we’ll use tape on the night. Do not, I repeat not, stand anywhere else but with your toes on the line unless you want to be performing in darkness. And if the spot is off, don’t walk into it; let it come to you. Okay, first up... you... the male impersonator. What’s your name?’
‘Ethel, sir.’
Her voice was thin and wavering and Vi hoped the girl would get through the ordeal without having to rush off to be sick; even in the sparse illumination of the auditorium chandelier she looked to be green around the gills.
‘You’ll open and close in number ones.’
Vi took pity and sidled up to her. ‘In front of the tabs - the first row of curtains - it’s a real honour to be asked to do that.’
She didn’t add that it also gave time for Mr Dansi to clear up after his poodles. Why had she ever thought they’d be a good idea? The girl allowed herself to be pulled down centre by the ASM. And then promptly fainted.
‘The first change of the day will be that Miss Tremins will now be first call after the animal act. See to her somebody; don’t just stand there like a bunch of lemons.’
Vi left Alice and the Japanese acrobats to do the necessary and walked through the wings to the pass door into the auditorium. She joined Horatio in the first row of stalls.
‘That wasn’t part of the deal. I agreed to headline your show but I won’t be the opening serio-act. Not following the novelty; you know as well as I do it’s the graveyard slot when up against the sort of audience we’re sure to attract.’
‘All the more reason to give it to a pro, then. Come on, Vi, be reasonable; who else can I get to do it? That drink of water will never be able to muster what it takes and, unless you want everyone sliding around in dog shit, the poodles have to be on first. You put them on the bill, remember?’
That’d been below the belt. She had half a mind to tell him to drop them and she’d do a double slot, when he unleashed one of his eye-crinkling smiles. God she hated the ease with which he could put a flutter in her stomach: and the fact that he knew it. He let his hand slide down the small of her back to cradle her buttock as she stood up.
‘We’ll have a little less of that, Mr Barley-Freeman; if you’re going to treat me as one of the bill fare on stage, then that goes for off-stage, too.’ She threw him a wink before sashaying back to the aisle.
The rest of the blocking went off without a hitch. Ethel returned in due course, visibly relieved to be lost in her new position between the vent and the quick-fire comedy duo. The turns were going through their entrances and exits when the theatre manager called Horatio away for a short conference about a problem that’d cropped up. Vi was left in charge. She gathered the band of, now decidedly less eager, hopefuls around her.
‘I know you all thought you’d be doing your routines but that comes later. The way it goes is that we have this walk-through so you can familiarise yourself with the feel of the thing; your first priority is to get used to ignoring the pandemonium from backstage. To the audience it will all look as smooth as clockwork - that’s the idea - but up here there’s always something about to go wrong. Backstage at any theatre is a dangerous place and this more than most: there’s equipment here that was old hat in Henry Irving’s day. Watch the ropes and especially the iron dogs - they’re the long spikes propping up the flats; you trip over one of those and you’ll be going on with a bloody nose: from the flyman, if not your fall.’
That had them focused.
‘I’m going to give you the rehearsal schedule as it stands and, unless you die in the night, you are expected to turn up at every one. Now, Mr Barley-Freeman has hired the theatre for Sunday 18th April for the dress rehearsal; other that that we have to fit in stage time between the standard bills. Our performance will be on the afternoon of Wednesday 21st - exactly three weeks and two days from now - which gives us five more sessions after this one: count them, five. You will come to each rehearsal knowing your routine backwards because when we are on stage it is about pulling the whole show together, not drilling you on your business. I’ll post the dates backstage - and it’ll be your responsibility to check for changes - but they are to be: Wednesday 7th; Sunday 18th; Monday 19th; and Tuesday 20th. The last will be a mop-up the morning of the day itself. Music is to be with the band director by the Saturday and all costumes ready for Sunday. I know it sounds as everything will be left to the last minute, but that’s how it works in the theatre. Trust me: it will come together in the end, it always does. Until Mr Barley-Freeman comes back, walk around a little. But don’t touch anything. And get out of the way quick when told; the regular show’s on in an hour and the boys have a lot to do.’
Vi watched them disperse and hoped at least one of them would remember a word she’d said. She walked down stage to the footlights to wait for them to finish their tour. The cleaners were rolling up the winding sheets of brown holland that protected the front two rows from the dust and filth that came off the stage. The back door swished and someone was coming down the centre aisle; it was impossible to see who in the gloom. She heard a pleasing female voice ask for Mr Barley-Freeman, and receive a couldn’t care less response. That was no way to speak to a civilian: they were the ones who bought tickets. Vi retreated to the wings with the intention of going front of house when an agitated voice began doing a perfect rendition of a stage whisper on the auditorium side of the pass door. She suspected Alice was the only one who could inject that much anger into what are you doing here? and knew the layout well enough to have dragged the visitor to a spot where they would only be seen from the OP wings.
‘You come to spy on me, is that it? Just because that’s what you do in your job doesn’t mean you can do it to family. The theatre’s my world and you ain’t welcome here ’less you pay for a seat like everybody else. I wish you’d get it into your head that I’m grown up now - anyone would think you hadn’t been out working three years at my age. Mrs Gibson don’t treat me like a silly kid; she’s offered for me to bunk with them so as to cut the bus ride and I reckon it’d just about show you how things are if I took her up on it.’
Presumably this was the disapproving sister. Vi was torn between going through to announce herself and taking a peek at the woman who might well try to prevent her one class turn from appearing. Curiosity won. Vi scurried backstage, crossed behind the safety curtain, and arrived in the right hand flats panting slightly. The woman was facing her way, the small light above the pass door picking her out clearly. She wasn’t as striking as Alice but she had a finished quality about her, a professional confidence - the sort Vi knew Horatio found attractive. Except she was dressed in an appalling severe skirt and unflattering blouse, and her shoes... well, they were the sort a maiden aunt would chose for comfort. Vi couldn’t eavesdrop from this far away but she watched as they played out what looked to be a well-rehearsed spat.
‘What’s going on here? Where are they all?’ Horatio’s voice boomed down from the back of the auditorium. ‘Vi, where
ver you are, round them up will you?’ He was coming down the right aisle. ‘We’ve work to do.’
Alice’s sister started walking across towards him. Vi stepped back but didn’t leave her spot.
‘Mr Barley-Freeman? I’m May Keaps, the Poplar Coroner’s Officer; I’d like a quick word if that’s convenient.’
‘Ah, I can see where Alice gets it from.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Her poise onstage; I expect it’s second-nature to you, having to do all the courtroom dramatics I mean.’
‘It isn’t the least bit like that.’
Vi sniggered: if there was anything Horatio hated it was an opinionated woman.
‘I understand Elliott Shipping imports the spices for your father’s business. No doubt you know that Miles Elliott is dead?’
‘Yes. A terrible thing to happen. Poor Miles.’
‘You knew him then? If so, I’ll be issuing you with a subpoena to appear at the inquest; the coroner wants to hear from all his friends.’
‘I wouldn’t say we were that. Played the odd game of cricket when we were boys, but that’s as far as it went. Our fathers were as thick as thieves and tried to get us to like each other except we didn’t and, besides, we both resented the feeble attempts at matchmaking - I know I did. No, I knew Miles when we were about seven, was packed off to boarding school not long after and he... did whatever it was he did. That’s about all I can tell you about Miles Elliott, Miss Keaps. I’m sorry. However I hope it goes without saying how sad I am he came to such a sticky end; found outside a Chinese restaurant in Limehouse, or so I believe. Now, if that’s all I have to get back to it; we’ve a show to put on in under a month’s time. But you know that: Alice. She’s very good, by the way...’
Winkled out of her corner by the arrival of three of the acrobats, Vi didn’t catch just how wonderful Horatio thought Miss Keaps the younger. She thought it was just as well or she’d only get irritated by his tendency to praise a pretty face out of all proportion to their talent. Making a mental note to make sure no one act would outshine the others, she retreated backstage to gather up the rest of her charges.
Chapter Nineteen
It was the day of Miles Elliott’s second inquest and May wasn’t having an easy time of it. She’d been reprimanded by Mrs Pringle, the cleaner, for walking over the wet courtroom floor, had dropped a packet of tea in the kitchenette as she attempted to tidy up, and had jammed the typewriter ribbon. Added to which she had a nervous headache. The Lord Chancellor’s Office had informed her that the deputy coroner - one Braxton Clarke - would be arriving some time in the morning to take over until elections could be held and the appointment filled permanently. May hadn’t known such a person existed; Colonel Tindal had never referred to having a deputy in all the time she had been working for him. The only thing she knew to expect was that the deputy would likely have misgivings about her being his jack-of-all-trades. So here she was, on her hands and knees sweeping up tealeaves with a dustpan and brush.
‘Bugger and blast.’ She’d managed to get a streak of dirt on the cuff of her best blouse.
‘Tut, tut. Language...’
She turned her head to see a pair of chocolate brown suede shoes walking past. She scrabbled upright but they had vanished down the corridor to the coroner’s chambers. May wanted to scream. If first impressions were everything then she couldn’t have got off to a worse start. The one time she hadn’t been listening out for his entrance. She darted through the vestibule and into the lavatory where she splashed water on her flaming cheeks. It was a full five minutes before she could bring herself to stop hiding and walk back to her desk.
One telephone call after another restored some sort of order to her thoughts. She found the expenses chits and logged them, then filled out a stationery requisition form. The post contained replies to the warrants she had issued. She was scrolling a sheet of paper into the typewriter when she heard the door to the coroner’s chambers open. His stride down the short corridor was sure and purposeful. May wanted to run back into the lavatory but knew she should stop feeling like a naughty schoolgirl and just pretend it hadn’t happened.
Nothing could have prepared her for her first sight of Braxton Clarke. She felt the heat in her cheeks again. Tall, broad shouldered, trim, dark hair which was greying enticingly at the temples, laughter lines emphasising the deep blue of his eyes. The only thing stopping him from having stepped from the pages of Film Weekly was that his suit, although obviously expensively tailored, was crumpled. And those inappropriately casual shoes. His loose-limbed walk covered the space between them before May realised she had her mouth open.
‘Deputy Coroner for the City of London and Southwark District reporting for duty.’ He perched on the edge of the desk. ‘You must be the admirable Miss Keaps.’
‘May.’ Her voice had turned croaky.
He held his hand out for her to shake. ‘How do you do. Not well, I assume, given the circumstances. I was so sorry to hear about Colonel Tindal; he served the office of coroner for many years, he’ll be hard to replace. I met him a few times at official functions - the Lord Mayor’s dinner being the last occasion - and he struck me as an authoritative and committed man. Heaven knows why he had my name down as his deputy though. I can only assume that he was being pressurised to get the slot filled and he chose me at random from his Coroners’ Society list. So, this is Poplar. Do we have any guests staying?’
‘What?’ It seemed she couldn’t quite manage more than one word at a time.
‘In the mortuary.’
‘Only Miles Elliott. The undertaker has taken the last of the others. It’s his inquest this afternoon. Not the undertaker’s, Miles Elliott’s.’
Braxton Clarke laughed. A growl that started in his throat and burst out from between his lips as if he could no longer contain it.
‘I’ve a feeling we’re going to get along very well. Tell me, do you like it here?’
‘It’s...’
What could she say that would make her sound capable, enthusiastic, dedicated and, despite her outburst in the kitchenette, professional.
‘...interesting.’
‘Not dead end, you mean?’
May looked but couldn’t see any signs of teasing on his face. Maybe he was just being light-hearted to try and put her at ease. He undid his jacket buttons. His blue silk tie below the gold clip was smeared with something yellow. He noticed her looking and lifted the end away from his shirt.
‘I can only echo your well chosen words: bugger and blast. Boiled-egg yolk. One thing you’ll have to promise me, May, is that you’ll check me over whenever I have to go into court.’ He licked his finger and smudged the stain even more. ‘You see, you’re not the only one with the unfortunate habit of spilling things. Except I always seem to manage to make it on myself.’
At last May relaxed enough to smile. This man had a soothing informality about him.
‘I must say that I’ve never come across a female coroner’s officer before.’
She felt herself stiffen again. ‘I try hard to ensure being a woman doesn’t impair my efficiency. I was born and raised in the docks and consequently don’t shirk the more physical aspects of the job. Colonel Tindal never had cause to complain.’
‘And I’m sure I won’t either. You just carry on running things in the way you always have, it’s unlikely I’ll be around much to interfere as people have a habit of dying left right and centre on my current patch.’ He bent towards her. ‘Between you and me, I think it’s a fiendish plot by the powers that be to ensure I earn every farthing of my King’s shilling. Now, do you have the papers for this afternoon’s inquest?’
May closed the folder and handed it to him.
‘Right, I’ll go through and study it.’ He stood up. ‘But first I’m going to telephone the Town Hall and see if they can’t f
ind a spare corner to archive the contents of at least one of these filing cabinets. I would expect a caged animal to have more space to move around in than you do. See you later, May, keep up the good work.’
May sat with her hands in her lap. Things were certainly going to be different from now on.
Chapter Twenty
May was surprised to see that Mr Elliott wasn’t in the courtroom. Perhaps his wife had taken a turn for the worse and he hadn’t wanted to leave her alone. Or maybe the thought of finding out any more about his son’s hidden life had been too much. Either way, Coroner Clarke had asked May to administer the oath to the witnesses and had said he would act as the family’s representative during the proceedings. Brilliant Chang was present - with his solicitor but minus his adoring entourage - as were three of Miles’ friends, a small selection of pressmen, and PC Collier’s witness. As she’d been warned the latter spoke little English, May had arranged for an interpreter.
They were the first to be called. The witness - Sing Quong - was dressed in the blue slop-shop suit of a laundry worker. May guessed he hadn’t been long in Limehouse because he still had a pigtail despite the local joy boys and their liking for trophy hunting with knives. Or maybe they had tried already and failed because he had a long puckered scar scything his cheek and jaw. The interpreter was a slight young woman who looked as though a river breeze would unsettle her. Braxton Clarke asked that she stand behind the shoulder of the witness so the jury could see him clearly.
