by David Field
She spent two boring hours smiling enthusiastically at potential art buyers to whom she handed out Ormonde’s brochures, then sat with her employer at the back of the sales room as two out of the five Impressionist paintings that he’d placed on sale went for well above their ‘reserve’ price. Ormonde took the opportunity to slide his hand up and down the material of her skirt as it lay smoothed against her thigh, making it seem that he was merely reading the auction list and she gritted her teeth and prayed for it to be over, consoling herself with the revenge that she would be exacting upon their return.
Eventually her ordeal was at an end and as she assured Ormonde during the return cab journey that she had found the auction experience ‘most enlightening and helpful’, she was almost gloating over what awaited them. The fear and apprehension that she’d experienced when planting the hat had not returned, but had been replaced with a cold desire for revenge on behalf of Marianne and all the other women that this disgusting wretch sitting across from her had taken advantage of.
When they got back to the salon it was close to lunchtime and Abigail took off for her usual walk while Esther unpacked her sandwiches and made herself another cup of tea, plus a cup of coffee for her employer, who sat gleefully playing with the two bankers’ drafts that had secured the sales of the paintings. The unsold ones were due to be returned the following day and Ormonde also occupied his time amending the few remaining copies of the catalogue that they’d brought back with them.
Esther deduced that Ormonde was not planning on going out for any lunch, so she took as long as she could eating her sandwiches, drinking her tea, listening to Ormonde droning on about art auctions he had known, and praying for Abigail’s return. Eventually Ormonde took a paper and pencil, scribbled down the details of the morning’s sales and instructed Esther to make the necessary book entries after lunch. When she could delay her time downstairs no longer she made a slightly embarrassed excuse about needing to ‘nip outside’ and sat for as long as she dared on the outside lavatory before making her reluctant way back inside the salon. As she re-entered the back room she heard Ormonde on the final stair up to the next floor and his heavy footsteps as he walked into his own apartment, presumably to change.
As she waited with bated breath she heard him walk back across the upstairs landing, then — seemingly on a whim — entering the back bedroom. There was a pause, then a yell of horror, following which Ormonde came down the stairs at a rate perilous to his safety, raced across the salon, flung open the front door, and hurled the coat buttons as hard as he could across the street, where they bounced off the front door of the diamond dealer’s premises on the far side. Then he ran down the street as fast as he was able, looking behind him in abject terror every few yards, and eventually flagging down a passing cab.
Almost immediately afterwards, Abigail Prendergast returned from her lunchtime perambulation, wide-eyed as she looked behind her back out into the street. ‘Did you see that?’ she asked.
‘I most certainly did,’ Esther replied with a mischievous grin. ‘You may be right about his mind being a little disturbed of late.’
Chapter Twelve
The small group hovered, cooing and smiling almost in homage, over the sleeping bundle in the shawl that seemed none the worse for having recently been sprinkled with water from the baptismal font, but was not noticeably any holier for having been received into the fellowship of God. But it was the grandmother, and hostess of the celebratory luncheon that had followed, who could not resist voicing her sentiment once again.
‘This is how family christenings should be, Jackson. In the church in which you were christened, as well as Lucy. The church in which your late father and I were married, and in which you were joined in holy matrimony to Esther. There was no need to have Lillian baptised in some obscure church in that wicked city, almost as if you were ashamed to show her here in Essex.’
‘Saint Andrew’s Church in Holborn is hardly “some obscure church”, Mother,’ Jack argued, ‘and you were there to see that for yourself. It’s not as if we had our daughter smuggled out to the Jesuits or something.’
‘Even so,’ his mother insisted, ‘there are protocols and traditions to be observed. Fortunately your sister seems to be aware of that; even though she actually lives within the parish of Holborn, she saw fit to honour the family tradition for the third time.’
‘I need to feed her once she wakes up,’ Lucy explained as she stepped away from the family group, leaving them nowhere to feast their eyes except on each other.
‘And I need to rescue Lily from Aunt Beattie and Uncle Percy,’ Esther whispered to Jack as she too exited the group. This left Jack with his mother and his brother-in-law Edward Wilton, the father of the recently christened Sarah Wilton, husband of Jack’s sister Lucy, and a successful architect with an established practice operating out of premises in Chancery Lane in which the growing family also resided.
‘So how’s the detective work going?’ Edward asked Jack, in order to break the silence.
Constance tutted in faint disapproval before offering her contribution. ‘It’s to be hoped that it provides him with enough income to support his growing family, like your profession does, Edward. Now that Esther is expecting her second, he’ll hopefully shake off all this police nonsense and find himself a suitable position in the City. His father came to no harm there and as you can see from all that surrounds us, it can be the means to acquire a far better home than a few cramped rooms in Clerkenwell.’
‘I’d better go and help Esther,’ Jack offered as he slipped backwards out of the group, anxious to avoid yet another homily from his mother on his irresponsibility in following his Uncle Percy into the police force, a speech he knew by heart by now. He found Esther with Lucy, who still had a sleeping Sarah in her arms, while at her knee was her oldest, two year old George.
‘Mother’s off on her favourite topic,’ Jack complained, ‘so if anyone asks, I was needed over here, right?’
Lucy smiled one of her lighthouse beams at him. ‘Thank you so much for taking the trouble to come along, both of you. It means so much to Teddy and I to have family around us on such an important day as this.’
‘We seem to be somewhat outnumbered,’ Jack commented as he cast his eyes round the room, which seemed to be dominated by ‘colourful’ types sporting striped blazers, yachting caps, cricket trousers, party dresses, and — in one case — full morning dress in imperial purple.
Lucy chuckled. ‘They are a bit overpowering, aren’t they? But once I’d invited one, I simply had to include them all, and you know what theatrical types are like.’
‘Where did you find them all?’ Esther asked with an amused smile. Lucy and she were the greatest of friends, and it had been Lucy’s foresight that had brought Jack and Esther back together when they were in danger of drifting apart a few terrible years back in the past. Lucy had also provided a sanctuary in her own home for Esther when she’d been forced to abandon her temporary residence following an arson attack by a serious disturbed woman out to kill her.
‘They’re all from the Holborn Players Theatre that I belong to these days,’ Lucy advised them. ‘You remember that I always had a hankering to go on the stage? Well, Mother wouldn’t allow anything so vulgar, but once I was married I persuaded Teddy that there was no disgrace in belonging to an amateur company, and next month I’m playing Desdemona.’
Jack turned to smile at Esther. ‘I’d better go and collect Lily, like you were pretending to do when you used the excuse to get away from Mother. If Uncle Percy drinks any more beer, he’s likely to drop her, and he’ll never hear the end of it from Aunt Beattie.’
Freed of the burden of child-minding, Percy drifted back to the buffet table, under stern marital instruction that he’d had enough beer for one afternoon. He was helping himself to a glass of lemon squash to wash down his third pork pie when he was accosted by an eager lady who gave the impression that she was about to bid for him at auction and wanted to e
xamine her potential purchase more carefully before committing herself.
‘You’re that Scotland Yard chappie, aren’t you? Uncle of that younger Scotland Yard chappie?’
‘Guilty as charged, madam, but that now means that you have the advantage of me,’ Percy returned as the beer rendered him more sociable than he might otherwise have been on this formal social occasion that was everything he most detested in life.
‘Hilda Fancourt, lady of leisure, widow of this parish — well, the Parish of Holborn actually — and godmother to the child that is now committed to God, whether God approves or not.’
‘Friend of the happy parents?’
‘One of them, certainly. Lucy’s my leading lady.’
‘Oh yes, her theatrical hobby. Are you another actress?’
‘I was once, until anno domini robbed me of any claim to thespian dignity. I now direct.’
‘Traffic?’ Percy joked, then wished he hadn’t as the large lady pealed with laughter that shook her ample bosom like a sapling in a gale.
‘No, theatre, you naughty boy, you. I’ll be directing your niece in Othello, whose opening night is barely a month away. You simply must come along.’
‘Theatre is all about illusion, isn’t it? A bit like my profession, in a way.’
‘Ah, but you people cannot create illusion on the same grand scale that we do in the theatre. From mountainous peaks to desert islands, and from royal palaces to humble graveyards. Only last year we put on a play about a king of Scotland who murdered his way to the throne, the name of which I won’t mention for reasons of pure superstition. But for that we had to switch effortlessly from a “blasted heath” on the windswept Scottish moors to the royal palace of Glamis. And in between we had to materialise the ghost of the murdered former king.’
‘You produced a ghost?’ Percy asked in a tone of pure disbelief.
‘Of course we did, oh ye of little faith. He appeared right on cue in the midst of the assembled company, not once, but twice.’
‘You presumably don’t employ mediums in the theatre?’
‘Only the medium of fine prose professionally delivered by dedicated actors. Plus a few technical tricks of the trade.’
‘You have people in your theatre who can produce ghosts?’
‘One person, anyway. Frances Fordyce, our stage manager. She can also do thunderstorms, banshee shrieks, galloping horse hooves and ethereal lights.’
‘Can she only do them in the theatre?’ Percy enquired, an idea already forming in his mind.
‘She’s only required to produce them on stage, but she could generate them in the fish market, or inside St Pauls, if necessary.’
‘So how does she do it?’
‘Come along for yourself and find out. On Monday morning, as it transpires, we’re having a meeting to discuss the set for Othello, so if you’d care to join us, I’m sure Frances could allay your lingering doubts. And don’t pretend that you don’t have any, because it’s written all over your face. You may think that you present a “deadpan” to the world, but your eyebrows tell all. Should you ever wish to play the role of a malevolent persecutor, the part will be yours for the asking. The theatre’s halfway down Bedford Row, on the right as you approach it from Theobald’s Road. However, I see Jeremy is about to throw one of his wobblies when he’s not got an audience for one of his risqué jokes, so “a domani”, as the Italians have it.’
‘Who was that talking marquee tent who accosted you?’ Jack asked as he joined Percy at the table, to which he’d been sent by Esther in search of a second helping of sherry trifle.
‘She was a bit on the large size, wasn’t she?’ Percy agreed. ‘But she gave me a wonderful idea, if Lucy’s up to the challenge.’
On the Monday morning Percy found himself in an alien world, as he walked uncertainly down the gentle slope between rows of seats in the stalls of the Holborn Players’ Theatre towards where a group of enthusiasts were marking out portions of the stage with chalk lines and employing technical terms like ‘masking’ and ‘stage left’. He stood there uncertainly for a moment, feeling a bit like a harlot in a vicarage, until his brief companion of two days previously spotted him and bellowed for his attendance on the stage.
He was required to go out through a side door and back in through something called the ‘wings’, and when he finally fought his way through the drawn back curtains, it was to discover that most of those who had been occupying the stage had taken a tea break. The only person left on stage alongside Hilda Fancourt was a slightly built woman who made Hilda seem even more enormous as she effected the introductions.
‘Frances, allow me to present a gentleman from Scotland Yard whose name is so much a State secret that even I don’t know it.’
The lady gripped Percy’s hand as if she intended to remove it from the end of his arm as he revealed his true identity.
‘Percy Enright, Detective Sergeant, investigating your ability to produce ghosts.’
‘Percy’s your greatest sceptic, Frances,’ Hilda boomed and Frances bowed her head in acknowledgment as she opted to speak for herself.
‘It’s very simply done, actually. If you give me a moment, and if you’d care to go back out into the stalls, I’ll re-appear as my own ghost at centre stage. I can’t be there in the flesh at the same time, unfortunately. Even I have my limitations.’
Percy did as instructed, and a few moments later the heavy drape curtains swished shut across the front of the stage and furtive movements could be heard behind it. Then the house lights were extinguished, leaving the entire theatre in total darkness for several moments until the curtains re-opened and the echoing voice of the stage manager boomed out through some sort of megaphone device.
‘You thought me dead, but I live again among you.’
A circle of light appeared centre stage and within it the grinning face of Frances Fordyce.
‘Are you convinced, or do you wish me to grimace menacingly?’ came the same ghostly voice. ‘But once concede that I exist, the room shall be restored to lightness once more.’
‘I’m convinced,’ Percy shouted, ‘but I need to see how it’s done.’
‘It’s the simplest illusion in the book,’ Frances explained as she reappeared on stage in the flesh a few moments after the lights had been restored. ‘Also one of the oldest. Follow me into the wings and I’ll show you.’
A bemused Percy went back on stage and followed the directions indicated by her voice, behind the curtains to the left of the stage, where a beaming Frances stood waiting to welcome him into her domain. Then to his utter amazement he also heard her voice behind him and he whipped round to see her also standing there. He looked back quickly at where he had first seen her and finally realised that he had been looking into a mirror which had somehow not contained his own reflection.
‘Welcome to Pepper’s Ghost,’ Frances explained with a grin. ‘Perfected some thirty years ago by the man after whom it was named, and the deception device that gave rise to our popular phrase “It’s all done with mirrors”. Every theatre in the world regularly employs some version of it or other, and you just saw the simplest.’
‘So it’s simply a mirror?’ Percy said. ‘But how did you get the image on-stage?’
‘Another mirror which you couldn’t see because it was a plain sheet of glass and the light shone brightly on it. The glass back here was simply tilted at an angle to reflect the image of me, and the one on stage was placed at a forty-five degree angle to it. Once a bright light is shone on the primary image in front of the first screen, it attracts and dominates the eye of the beholder of the screen on stage, whose fixation on the image causes them not to notice the second mirror.’
‘So simple,’ Percy muttered in admiration.
‘Yes and no,’ he was corrected by Hilda Fancourt, who had joined them in the wings to invite Percy to partake of tea and biscuits in the cast tea room behind the stage. ‘It’s imperative that nothing breaks the beam of light between the two mir
rors, which requires careful stage direction. In that play I mentioned to you, when we produced the ghost of a dead king at a banquet, we had to ensure that not a single member of the cast playing the nobles at the banquet went in front of the table. That tended to produce a rather “wooden” effect until Frances had the brilliant idea of making the table deep as well as wide — almost square, in fact — so that we could put some of the main players down the side.’
‘So you could reproduce this trick anywhere?’ Percy asked as he dunked his second ginger biscuit into his tea.
Frances nodded. ‘You just need two separate areas — preferably two single rooms — so that one can be brightly lit for the image to be transmitted, and the other in as much darkness as you can get away with, to project the image into it. In the play that Hilda mentioned, we had the actors at the banquet carrying torches in with them as they arrived, which they extinguished simultaneously when it was time for the ghost to appear. Then while the lead actor came to front of stage to express his horror for the benefit of the audience, one of the actors at the table deliberately stood in front of the second mirror while the stage lights were subtly increased over the course of the soliloquy.’
‘Could it be done through a limited space, like a window?’ Percy asked, his mind already thinking it through.
