Plot Devices

10

Plot Devices

    General Sir Arthur Murray was too busy a man to have much time to haunt White’s Club; but they knew him there, of course, and he was greeted with polite pleasure, assured that he was expected, and shown into one of the smaller downstairs rooms. On a fine afternoon in early June the club was almost deserted. One or two gentlemen who had dined might have been observed with their legs stretched out and glasses of port or brandy to hand, in a somnolent mood. There was only one gentleman in the small downstairs room, in a big chair in the window; and certainly he did not look very wide awake.

    “Don’t get up,” said the General, as, the footman having respectfully announced him, this gentleman blinked and sat up straight.

    “Lor’, what’s the time?” said the gentleman sleepily.

    The footman closed the door; General Sir Arthur came over to the window and said with a little smile: “You can drop that now, Edward.”

    Lord Sare got up and shook hands. “Thanks for coming.”

    The General smiled but murmured: “Could we not have had this conversation at the Horse Guards?”

    “No.—Sit down, Arthur, please.—No, for I’m due to show me face at a damned salon this afternoon: would not have had time to change.”

    “You certainly bear no resemblance to Mr Frew, in that rig-out,” he noted cheerfully.

    “No,” said Lord Sare, glancing over his shoulder.

    “The door’s shut; and I’m sure they don’t listen at White’s.”

    “I’m damned sure they do,” he replied placidly. “Though it does their reputation no harm to have the credulous believe the myth that they don’t.”

    “Really, Edward! And if you were that keen for privacy, I could have come round to Sare House.”

    “No, it’s full of plasterers and painters and God knows what. Repairing the ravages of several generations of old Neddy’s damned tenants,” he explained with a grimace.

    The General’s eyes twinkled. “Oh, yes? The Stamforths are in Blefford Square, too, are they not? No doubt they will be able to give you some useful hints for your refurbishing.”

    “You mean, he’ll recommend Fioravanti’s of a morning for working it off, and she’ll have a list of five dozen fribbles, in or out of scarlet coats, that’ll be able to advise where to hang portraits of undesirable ancestresses,” he noted very drily indeed.

    The General chuckled very much at this sufficiently obscure reference but said: “Thought it were a set of chairs, or some such?”

    “That was the same fribble in a scarlet coat; but it was another lady entirely,” he said primly.

    General Sir Arthur laughed again, but noted: “Enough to put a man off the whole idea of matrimony.”

    “Quite. And if it were not, Winifred and Annabel on the subject would be. Do you wish for refreshment?”

    “Later, perhaps, Edward. Is there news?”

    Lord Sare grimaced. “Of sorts.”

    “Found the boy?”

    “Not yet, no. Though I have some reliable information; I think it will not be long.”

    “Ah. And Martin himself?”

    “Dead as mutton, I am extremely glad to say. The details you had from the girl were correct.”

    “Yes? The date?”

    “Mm,” agreed Lord Sare neutrally.

    “And was there any indication whether he knew Neddy had come in for the title?”

    “I did not manage to get over there myself, but my sources are very reliable. From what they could ascertain, he had completely lost track of Neddy over the years and had certainly never breathed his name to any of his cronies. Though Martin was always damned cunning: dare say it might have been a crumb he did not feel like sharing.”

    “No, well, that seems as likely as anything… Where was he, in ’15?” asked the General, frowning over it.

    “Nominally, in his gaming house. Well, I was certainly not using him, though he had offered his services to one of our contacts,” he said tranquilly.

    “Yes. I suppose I meant, just after the battle.”

    “If you mean, not just after, but at about the time that Wellington and Meinhoff were receiving a handful of very frightened financiers who had had the bad sense to back Boney, he was certainly nowhere in evidence.”

    “I mean, if we may stop talking in riddles, at about the time you were back in uniform, with the regiment, and had just received a ball in the arm plus field promotion to Lieutenant-Colonel!” said the General on an annoyed note. “Lieutenant-Colonel Luton,” he said pointedly.

    “Had he been anywhere near Brussels at the time, I think he would have attempted to persuade me that the victory was entirely due to himself.”

    “Or lain low and tried to work out what benefit he might gain from the discovery that your name was Luton!” said General Sir Arthur crossly.

    “Yes,” he agreed tranquilly.

    Baffled, the General glared speechlessly.

    “Well, don’t let us quarrel about it, Arthur. The point is whether the girl came over with the knowledge of Neddy’s succession and our relationship.”

    “Er—yes,” he admitted. “I suppose it is.”

    Lord Sare’s long mouth twitched just a little. “I have had nothing but glowing reports of her. Even Mevrouw Hos, though determined that an English girl with not a penny to bless herself with was no fit match for her ewe-lamb, had nothing but praise for the girl’s character. Honest, decent, full of integrity, charitable, hard-working, and a mystery how she came to be his daughter!” he ended with a smothered laugh.

    “I told you so,” he said smugly.

    “Mm. And there appears to be no doubt that the girl whom you met as Cressida Martin is indeed she,” he said airily.

    The General’s jaw had sagged.

    “Those eyes are very unusual,” he murmured.

    “Mm? Oh: yes. A very light brown… That’s not quite it. Pale sherry? Not quite. Um, did I mention them?” he said dubiously.

    “Well, obviously, Arthur.”

    “And the boy?”

    “Copper curls, big blue eyes like his mother’s: the consensus being that he should have been the girl. That is, the consensus of the matrons. The young gentlemen of the neighbourhood were as satisfied with Miss Cressida in that rôle as they were dissatisfied with Mr Ricky Martin’s character. –A gambler, knew every trick in the book and then some, and not above using loaded dice. Added to which, apparently blessed with the luck of the Devil.”

    “They say he takes care of his own,” noted General Sir Arthur. “So, any indications of where he might have gone?”

    Lord Sare was gazing out of the window. “Mm? Oh: yes. Initially to Vienna, in the train of a Frau von Bülow. Thence Paris, with a Baronne de Léoville. Both widows, considerably his elder. There was a rumour of a duel over a Mlle d’Aubain, from the Comédie Française, but the other rumour, that it did not come off, was more accurate, I think. Won a packet in a choice little hell not far from the Place— Call it what you will. Place de la Concorde, last time I was in Paris!” he said with a smothered laugh.

    This time it was the General’s turn to glance over his shoulder at the door. He cleared his throat. “I believe that was the name given it under the Directoire. I collect you mean the Place Louis XV.”

    “Of course,” Lord Sare agreed smoothly. “Let me see: then he dumped the baronne—whether this were a wise move or not I leave to your judgement, Arthur—and took up with a very pretty little opera dancer, on the one hand, and began paying more serious court, on the other, to a Mlle de Marty-Joinville, who may have been more moustachioed than he himself, but was certainly rumoured to be in the possession of a snug dowry.”

    “I know a Mme de Marty-Joinville,” said General Sir Arthur, frowning. “You cannot mean her little daughter, surely?”

    “No, no, her sister-in-law,” he said, the mouth twitching very, very slightly.

    The General gulped.

    “Forty if a day,” said Lord Sare placidly. “There were no details as to the fate of the pursuit: one can only conclude that the family investigated Master Ricky and he sheered off.”

    “Is that it?”

    “Almost. He turned up in Belgium about a year back and attempted to extort money out of his uncles, but caught very cold at that one. The last glimpse of him is an unfounded rumour, about six months old, that he had attached himself to the train of a Mr and Mrs Douglas who were heading for Amsterdam and thence the Grand Tour.” He shrugged.

    “About six months back? Mrs and Mrs Douglas?”

    “Yes.”

    “Paul Douglas?” demanded the General, staring.

    “Mm. So?”

    “Edward, he’s eighty years old, and that creature he married in the teeth of his entire family is barely thirty!”

    “Convenient for Master Ricky, then.”

    “Not if he hopes to see a penny of old Paul’s fortune, for it’s all tied up in the grandchildren,” returned the General drily.

    “No, well, possibly he will just help Mrs Douglas to spend her vast allowance until something better comes along. I have a sketch of their route, and if they keep to it, they should be back in England this autumn,” he said calmly.

    “Aye; if old Paul don’t drop dead on an alp, or some such!”

    “Yes. Care for coffee now, Arthur?”

    “Thank you. –I need it,” he muttered.

    Lord Sare waited until they were both sipping it, and then reminded him, glancing at him mockingly over the rim of his cup: “Bully Matt did not recommend the boy to the care of Uncle Neddy, Arthur.”

    “And just as damned well!” he said forcefully. “Oh: she has gone down to the Dearborns in Devon, you know.”

    “Yes, you told me.”

    “So I did.” The General looked at him uncertainly, but as he had asked previously why Edward had wanted him to hold off for so long in the matter of providing Miss Martin with the Dearborns’ direction, and had received no satisfactory answer, did not bring the topic up again. Instead he said: “So you did not go to over to the Continent, yourself?”

    “Mm? Oh—no.”

    “Oh? I think you were out of town for a while?”

    “Oh, but I could not have attended Mrs G.-G.’s ball, while in mourning for old Neddy, you know. Not even in order to dance with one of the G.-G. girls in the hopes of being permitted to pay my court,” he explained sweetly.

    “My God, no! Ain’t this year’s one one of Curwellion’s?”

    “Well, no, I think that was the previous two, old man; but personally I would not care to ally myself with one of old G.-G.’s, neither. And so I told Winifred,” he ended tranquilly.

    The General choked over his coffee and had to be patted on the back and mopped down with Edward’s handkerchief.

    “I have been down in the country,” he murmured, reseating himself.

    “Eh? Oh; of course. How are things at Sare Park?”

    “Quite peaceful. And will continue to remain so, so long as I can persuade Lukey not to do out the downstairs sitting-room in pink silk.”

    “Er—yes. Fearful thought!” he agreed, grinning at him.

    Lord Sare drank coffee tranquilly. “Indeed.”

    General Sir Arthur finished his coffee and cleared his throat. “So—nothing smoky about the little Martin girl, hey?”

    “Nothing at all.”

    “So—er—what do you intend to do about her, Edward?” he said cautiously.

    Lord Sare looked dreamily out of the window. “Speak to my lawyers, I suppose.”

    The older man had reddened. “Look, it seems to me that Neddy’s heir has an obligation to look to the girl, Edward! Whatever the legal position might be.”

    “Mm, you are possibly right.”

    “I’m damned sure I’m right! What’s the matter with you?”

    “Er—nothing. The thought of being in loco parentis to Mr Ricky Martin is not an enticing one.”

    “You wouldn’t be! Thought we had just agreed on that? Added to which, he’s of age!”

    “Ye-es. Well, yes. How long is it since Amy actually saw Mrs Dearborn, Arthur?”

    “Eh? Lord, I don’t know, dear fellow! Many a long year, I dare say: Amy and Michael have that place in Lincolnshire, y’know, and though they get up to town fairly regular, the Dearborns don’t. –Well, never liked the woman, myself,” he admitted. “Or him, much.”

    “Yet you cheerfully dispatched that innocent girl to their care?” he said, goggling at him.

    “I— Look here, he is the girl’s closest relative in England! Dare say there is no harm in him. And they have several girls of their own. Added to which, if you was that concerned, all you had to do was step in and claim legal guardianship. And if the fellow had disputed your claim, it would have shown he was a decent fellow and you had nothing to worry over!”

    “Mm, very possibly. Arthur, old fellow,” he said, leaning forward, “can you recall nothing more at all about Dearborn? Think!”

    The General scratched his head and obligingly thought. “No. Uh—look, I do know who might know: William Hartshorne. Has a very pleasant property down that way—Sidmouth, ain’t it? Yes, near there. Married that rather frightful woman who was a… MacInnes, I think. Uh—no, I have it wrong. She was a Warrender.”

    “The two names are so alike,” he said arctically.

    “Mm? No, well, old Warrender—this was in m’father’s day,” he warned—“old Warrender and the Lord Ivo of the time were inseparable. And a third fellow. Oh, yes, old M—” He choked slightly. “Old Martin,” he said weakly.

    “Bully Matt’s father? Cressida’s grandfather?”

    “Yes,” said the General limply, not remarking on his use of Miss Martin’s first name. “That’s right. The Warrenders have that decent place in—”

    “Kent,” said Edward Luton through his teeth.

    “Mm.”

    “Near Orpington.”

    “Look, it’s odds-on the present Warrender don’t even remember old Martin, he died before the turn of the century!”

    “That is certainly one of the points of interest,” he said sweetly. “Is Hartshorne in town?”

    “Yes. Look, why are you so stirred up? We have tracked down the cousins, it can't matter a damn who lived next whom back in old Martin's day!”

    “Possibly not. Please excuse me,” he said, getting up. “I have to attend that damned salon. –Oh, will you be at the Frobisher wedding?”

    “Yes. Anne is dragging me,” he said sourly.

    “Well, I have no wife to drag me, but my sisters are all prepared to make my life Hell should I not attend, so I shall see you there. Unless you have anything else to report?”

    General Sir Arthur got up, a very dry look on his square face. “No, Colonel, nothing more to report,” he said pointedly.

    Unexpectedly, Lord Sare grinned at him. “Don’t call me that, old man. Thanks,” he said, holding out his hand.

    The General shook it somewhat limply. The man had considerable charm, when he bothered to exert it. His trouble was—or one of his troubles—he did not bother to exert it very often.

    … And what the Devil had been so urgent about the meeting, anyway? To let him, Arthur Murray, know that the little girl was above suspicion and that Bully Matt Martin was well and truly deceased? Hardly. It could have waited until tomorrow, or even next week. He shook his head, sat down slowly, and absent-mindedly let White’s waiter foist a brandy upon him. The which Anne would have maintained he most certainly did not need, in the middle of the afternoon.

    “Well, drat!”’ cried Mrs Hetty loudly, her round cheeks very flushed, looking up from the perusal of her correspondence.

    “A bill?” asked Mrs Mayhew sympathetically.

    “No; it’s from Miss Cressida, all the way from Devon, and it sounds as if them cousins of hers is a right-down pair, and she wants my advice, bless her!”

    Mrs Margery immediately held out her hand for the letter. Mrs Hetty handed it to her, looking hopeful.

    “I’d shoot the lot of them!” she concluded shrilly.

    “Yes, but that ain’t of no practical use, Margery. What’ll we do? Well, first orf, what’ll I tell her?”

    “Don’t tell her nothing: how are you going to get a letter to ’er what they won't see?” retorted Mrs Mayhew promptly, all trace of her usual refinement vanished from her voice.

    Mrs Pontifex’s plump jaw sagged. “You’re right.”

    “’Ere, she hasn’t wrote how to manage it, ’as she? –No,” she ascertained. “Damnation.”

    “I better get on down there,” she decided, drawing a deep breath.

    “Hetty, aside from the fact that it takes about a week, it costs a bundle what you ain't got!”

    “No. Um—ask Sid? I think ’e would corf up, for her,” she admitted.

    “Yes. Well, yes, he would, at that. And then what? Abduct the girl from her lawful relatives? It’d be Newgate if you was caught, Hetty. And if they want to marry her orf to their son, they’ll be hanging onto her like grim death, you mark my words.”

    “I don’t care if I swing for it!” she cried, tears starting to her eyes. “We got to do something, Margery!”

    Mrs Mayhew got up and put a kind arm round her. “Yes. Only we don’t need to go orf ’alf-cocked, Hetty, love. We need a plan.”

    Mrs Hetty sniffed dolefully. “A plan. Yes. –Me head feels like mush,” she reported sadly.

    Mrs Mayhew’s did not feel much better, but then, there was the influence of a very late night and the absorption of a considerable amount of champagne to be taken into account, in her case. “It’s the shock. ’Ow about a bracer?”

    They were, as usual, in Mr Buxleigh’s sitting-room. The Beau was out, and the sacred cupboard under lock and key. “It’s all locked up,” she reminded her.

    “Oh—damn. Well, pot of tea?”

    The ladies had recourse to a pot of tea.

    Mrs Pontifex was just reporting that her head still felt like mush, and all she could come up with was, maybe send a note care of Briggsy, though Lord knew if he was even near enough to be able to get it to Miss Cressida, let alone get it to her without them relations of her spotting him, when there was a tremendous commotion in the street, and a thunderous banging at the front door. And Bessy rushed in, all agog, to ask should she answer it.

    Mrs Mayhew had shot to the window. “Can’t see… Hire coach. And a waggon. Think it’s safe enough. Go on, then.”

    Bessy rushed out like a whirlwind. The front door was heard to open—very clearly, as she had left the sitting-room door wide open behind her—and a deep voice was heard to say: “Good-day, Bessy, my love! What a sight for sore eyes!” and Bessy was heard to give a mad shriek; and then footsteps were heard racing up the passage, accompanied by a high-pitched yell from Fred Hinks: “Mr ’Artington! ’E’s come back! Cor, look at the coach! ’Ullo, sir!”

    And the deep voice said with a laugh in it: “Hullo, young shaver! Not in Newgate yet, eh?”

    And Mrs Hetty and Mrs Margery gave in entirely and shot out to the hall.

    It was, indeed, the actor-manager. The tour had done splendidly, and the laden coach contained half of the troupe and many of the props they had used.

    When the dust had settled somewhat, and Mr Hartington had ordered Bessy and Fred to pop out for jugs of sustaining beverages for the entire household, and Mrs Wittering had been persuaded to come downstairs, Mr Bagshot to come inside, and Cook to come into the sitting-room and never mind her apron, in order to share in them, Mr Hartington, sitting back very much at his ease and casually throwing most of the Beau’s remaining firewood on what had been a very small blaze that Mrs Mayhew and Mrs Pontifex had been warming their toes at, said with a laugh: “Well! So what’s all the news, hey?”

    And there was a complete silence.

    Finally Fred Hinks volunteered: “Miss Cressida, she’s gorn orf, and Trellis wiv ’er, and now we don’t got no dawg at all!”

    “Eh?” replied the actor-manager simply.

    Whereupon Mrs Pontifex, Mrs Mayhew, Mrs Harmon and Bessy all burst into explanation.

    When the dust had settled after that, and Mr Hartington had graciously intimated that he would accept Cook’s offer of a toasted muffin or two, aye, even if it were June, he more or less managed to get the matter straight. And summed it up: “I see. You all like her, if she is a lady, and now you’re afraid these damned relations down in Devon are going to force her to a distasteful marriage. –An interesting plot device, but it has been done.”

    “The Fatal Marriage,” agreed Mrs Mayhew.

     Mr Hartington eyed her tolerantly. “More or less, Margery: aye. You did say Devon?”

    “Yes. Like Sir Francis Drake. You know: the thing you did with the bowls, Harold,” she reminded him glumly.

    “A minor success, if I say so myself,” he owned, inclining his head graciously.

    “Never mind that!” said Mrs Hetty crossly. “What are we going to do?”

    The burly actor-manager appeared to lapse into a pensive mood. “Ah… Devon?”

    “YES!” she shouted.

    “Which side of the county, Hetty?”

     Mrs Hetty just looked at him helplessly.

    “I’ll get the map, Mr ’Artington!” volunteered Fred Hinks.

    “Over my dead body,” replied Mr Hartington sepulchrally, and Fred collapsed in giggles.

    “Um, it’s near a place called Sidmouth,” revealed Mrs Mayhew, looking at Miss Cressida’s letter.

    “Splendid!” he said, rubbing his hands.

    “Harold, it ain’t splendid, acos it’s nigh to Land’s END!” shouted Mrs Hetty.

    “Wait: all will be revealed,” he said, laying a finger to the side of his nose.

    “That’ll be a nice change,” noted a sardonic voice from the doorway. “Hullo, Harold. Welcome home. Those your bundles in the hall?” Mr Deane, his chin in the usual state, strolled in looking unimpressed.

    Mr Hartington returned cheerfully: “How are you, Daniel? Looking well.”

    Mr Deane shook his head and grudgingly allowed he was as well as could be expected.

    “Never mind him, he’s doing the overlooked brother in that damn’ piece of Sid’s,” said Mrs Mayhew impatiently. “Hetty’s had a letter from Miss Cressida, Daniel. It don’t sound too good.”

    “Oh?” Mr Deane tipped Fred Hinks bodily off a chair and sat down on it, stretching his toes to the blaze.

    Mrs Hetty and Mrs Margery explained it all in chorus, what time Mrs Harmon bustled in with a plate of muffins, followed by Bessy with a pair of toasting forks, a dish of butter, and a pot of jam on a tray. The two gentlemen taking it upon themselves to perform the delicate operation, a certain hiatus intervened.

    “What were you being so mysterious about, anyroad, Harold?” asked Mr Deane, looking somewhat happier with two very buttery muffins inside him.

    Mr Hartington licked his fingers. “I wasn’t. I was about to tell them. Been offered a summer engagement—no, I tell a lie: a series of summer engagements, down on the south coast. Starting down at a place very near to this Sidmouth place your little friend’s gone off to! Now! What do you think of that, eh?”

    After the dust of congratulation, exclamation, and amaze over this coincidence had died down somewhat and those who preferred their muffins jammy were licking butter and jam off their fingers and those who did not were merely licking butter, and Mr Hartington had graciously allowed that as there was one left, Mrs Wittering could have it, because she had got left behind, and Mrs Wittering was promising Fred and Bessy they could each have a bit of it, the actor-manager elaborated: “We had got as far as Reading, on our way home, when we were met by a messenger. With the offer to tour the south coast, with guaranteed engagements at half a dozen country houses!” He beamed at them, but did not meet with further congratulation.

    “What, one night each?” asked Mrs Hetty sourly.

    “Nuh— Well, most probably, but in between them, theatres as well!”

    “Who was this offer from, Harold?” asked Mr Deane suspiciously, without any evidence of enthusiasm in his voice.

    Mr Hartington felt in his breast pocket and found a piece of paper. Solemnly he read out: “Mr George French, care of Messrs Rundleby and Stout, solicitors-at-law, in the City. Retired businessman interested in becoming a patron of the theatre,” he explained on a smug note.

    There was an unimpressed silence.

    Finally Mrs Hetty summed up: “Retired lunatic, more like. ’E must be dotty!”

    “More money than sense?” ventured Mr Deane.

    “If it were that, one would not look a gift-horse in the mouth,” opined Mrs Mayhew, “but for myself, I incline rather to Hetty’s opinion.”

    “Yes. Are you letting your enthusiasm run away with you, Harold?” asked Mr Deane brutally.

    This phenomenon had been known to occur in the past; the burly actor-manager reddened. “No such thing! A genuine offer, and guaranteed by a bank in the City, what’s more! And one of the engagements is at the gent’s house itself!”

    “When do you get the money?” asked Mrs Hetty pointedly.

    Mr Hartington looked superior. “I have an appointment tomorrow morning, ten sharp, at Messrs Rundleby and Stout’s office, to sign contracts. At which point I receive an advance sufficient to fit out the troupe with new costumes and subsidise the journey to—”

    An excited outburst of speculation here drowned his deep voice quite out. Mr Hartington just waited, looking superior, until it had died down somewhat. “—to the southern counties,” he finished loftily.

    “By God, if it comes off, Harold—!” cried Mr Deane, all trace of the lugubrious vanished from his tone.

    Mr Hartington beamed and nodded.

    “So, have you cast?” demanded Mrs Mayhew.

    “Not all of the parts, by any means, Margery. Should you care to join us, there will be some excellent rôles for you. Likewise yourself, Hetty: I can guarantee at least one solid part.”

    Mrs Hetty beamed and nodded but could not forbear to ask on an anxious note: “There wouldn’t be no fairies or Classical goddesses in it, would there?”

    “My name,” he replied superbly, “is not Percy Brentwood.”

    The company collapsed in sniggers at this unkind reference, but granted it was not.

    “No, well, the gentleman has expressed a preference for one Shakespearean piece, but otherwise, left the choice of repertoire entirely to myself.”

    “At least until you see this contract,” noted Mr Deane with a return to his earlier cautious manner.

    “Sufficient unto the day, Daniel, sufficient unto the day! All being well, I’ll cast the rest of the parts this week, and we’ll leave at the end of the week. Expected down at a place called Exley St Paul, which is quite near to this Sidmouth of yours, Friday week! The great house there belongs,” he said impressively, “to a viscount!”

    “It sounds all right, but you be sure you get the money in your hand,” ordered Mr Deane firmly.

    Meekly Mr Hartington, a fine figure of a man who in the very earliest period of his professional career had been known as Atlas the Strongman, and who could probably have thrown the slender Mr Deane across the room with one well-muscled arm, agreed he would do that, Daniel.

    “Gawd,” drawled Mr Lefayne, raising his well-shaped eyebrows.

    Mr Hartington reddened. “Don’t be like that, Sid!”

    “I might not be, if you would tell me there ain’t a Mrs French in the case, Harold,” he drawled.

    “No such thing! Well—wish there was. A nice plump widow,” he said on a glum note. The warmer side of Mr Hartington’s life had been in a state of some neglect for the past two years, owning to an irreconcilable difference with his former landlady over his having sunk all his capital into Hartington’s Players. Which subsequently had led to his removing, bag and baggage, to Mr Buxleigh’s.

    “If she was a widow, old man, there would not be a Mr French,” drawled the actor.

    “True. But it does all seem above-board: a retired merchant what always had a hankering after the boards, himself!” he said eagerly.

    Sid looked unimpressed. “Did you meet him?”

    “Er—well, no. But I met his lawyers, all right and tight! Very respectable firm. And they had a letter from his bank, guaranteeing— What are you looking at me like that for?”

    “Harold, cast your mind back to the summer we spent doing the Russian thing.”

    It had only been last year. Mr Hartington scowled. “So?”

    “Documents,” said Mr Lefayne dreamily, gazing at the ceiling. “Deeds. Authentic Russian deeds on authentic Fred Greenstreet aged parchment—think he does it with tea, or some such, and then gets all the little Greenstreets to jump on it with their hob-nailed boots; authentic land grants from His Imperial Majesty the Tsar of all the Russias, writ out by old Rostropovitch’s very own hand; authentic letters of credit courtesy of old Weeble, the sly old devil, from authentic banks—”

    “All RIGHT!” he shouted.

    Mr Lefayne eyed him sardonically.

    “That was different.”

    Sid looked unimpressed.

    “Um, I know I played the lawyer meself, but that were different, Sid—” He stopped, Sid was in hysterics.

    After quite some time the noise had died away sufficiently for Mr Hartington to say grimly: “I’ve seen the colour of his money, and if you don’t want to be in it, you can do the other thing.”

    “Oh, I want to be in it!” he said with a laugh.

    Mr Hartington rubbed his chin. “Um, well, haven’t cast all the parts, yet, Sid. Um… Well, thing is, Mr French wants something Shakespearean, and I thought, nothing too heavy, since it’s summer. Um, well, was thinking of Twelfth Night,” he admitted.

    “Which boyish figure shall you cast as your Viola, Harold?” asked Sid sweetly. “The refeened Margery? The sultry Lilian? The irresistible Clarissa C.? –She’ll wear the old bracelet on the wrist and the new one on the ankle, it will give the breeches rôle quite a new touch.”

    “Lumme, has he given her another bracelet? The man must be blind.”

    “Oh, I would not say that,” he drawled.

    “No, well, not blind as such,” said the actor-manager with a sheepish grin. “Blind to her little tricks, though! Um, well, original I had no such intention, but turns out Sir George Drew lives down that way—”

    “Mr George French is Sir George Drew,” deduced Sid faintly, closing his eyes. “We shall see the fair Clarissa take Portia yet!”

    “Not on any stage of mine, you won’t! Um, well, no: don’t think he is, Sid. Only, she come round here yesterday afternoon, and if you weren’t in don’t blame me, and they all let it out to her, of course, and so she shoots off to twist his arm.”

    “It is rumoured,” said Sid with his eyes shut, “that there is a Lady Drew.”

    “Eh? No, no, he’s a widower, Lily Cornish remembers when the wife popped off. Don’t mean he’s going to offer lawful matrimony to Madam, though. No, well, I said to her she could have the part for that one performance, provided she could get him to cough up handsome. And half in advance. So she done it. –Messenger come this morning, first thing, while you were still snoring in your pit, to say she’s got the gelt, and he wants us to fix the date, acos he’s off down to Cowes end of the week. The scene of which, Madam has decided she’ll grace with her presence, and will join us for the show.”

    “She’ll turn up at the last minute, won’t know half her lines, what am I saying, will not know more than a tenth of them, and the performance will be frightful.”

    “Yes. But she reckons she’s got him to promise he’ll put us all up in the house itself! Three days, what’s more! And I don’t care if he does make us eat in the servants’ hall!”

    “No, well, better than nothing,” agreed Mr Lefayne mildly. “Well, good. Let’s just hope she doesn’t try to hold out for more than one performance.”

    Mr Hartington looked knowing. “Don’t think she will, Sid: the cow’s bone lazy, you know. She might want to if there was crowds of nobs coming, but not in them sleepy little country towns down the south coast. Well, if them lot go and let it out about all the other grand houses we’re slated to play at, we’ll remind Madam about the hours of jolting in waggons over bad roads that your normal tour of the provinces entails, and that’ll finish it!”

    “Good. In that case, I don’t mind being in it. What do you want me for, Harold? Duke Orsino? Damned boring part, but I don’t mind taking it.”

    “Good: thanks.”

    Sid looked at him sideways. “Cast the other parts yet? Who’s taking Malvolio?”

    “Vic. Promised him, if it goes good, I’ll put it on in town this autumn.”

    “Ye-es… He might underplay it, Harold.”

    “Well, that’s what I thought. We’ll see. I’ll take Sir Toby Belch meself. Did wonder if Beau might fancy it, but he never did like travelling. And then, they was telling me he lost his nerve the last time he played this Porteous fellow. David can take Sebastian, it’s about his level.”

    “Mm. And Sir Andrew Aguecheek? I've always had a fancy to do him,” he said carelessly.

    The actor-manager gulped.

    “Oh, go on, Harold!” he urged, leaning forward eagerly. “It’d be fun!”

    “Uh, Sid, I’m planning to tour it, y’know, it won’t be for just one performance.” Sid just nodded; he eyed him uneasily but continued: “Um, well, I thought I might give the little Trueblood girl a go at Viola, apart from the one show with Madam. She ain’t bad, y’know. Decent pair of legs on her, too: she’ll look good in breeches. Thought we might do it real Elizabethan.”

    “Clarissa will certainly fancy the farthingale and the ruff; don’t know about the padded breeches and hose! I warn you, the lower limbs resemble those of a pianoforte,” he said lightly. “I see Aguecheek in a plate-like ruff with a tendency to droop at the edges. Mournfully fair, with a wispy beard—no?”

    Mr Hartington rubbed his chin. “It’ll be a draw, for them as has heard of you… I’ll have to re-read it, make sure he don’t come on with Orsino and we can manage the changes,” he said weakly.

    “Huzza! And if it do come off, and only if you would like it, Harold, I can probably fit it in for you in town, as well!” he said with a laugh.

    Mr Hartington smiled weakly. Visions of the crowds of fashionable ladies who would flock to see Roland Lefayne taking two rôles, the one such a departure for him, had begun to dance before his eyes… “Um, maybe,” he conceded feebly. “Try it on the provinces first, eh?”

    His expressive eyes sparkling, Sid Bottomley nodded eagerly.

    Mr Hartington had listened to readings, and cast innumerable parts, though managing to share them amongst a limited number of physical persons; he had arranged for some of the troupe and the gentleman in charge of the properties, one Samuel Speede, himself an actor and in fact the junior partner in the enterprise of Hartington’s Players, to get on down to Exley St Paul in advance of the rest of the company, and get set up; he had in person gone shopping for fabrics with Mrs Wittering and Mrs Hetty, who together would be managing the wardrobe (this in addition to Mrs Hetty’s acting duties), and had returned from the expedition flushed with success; he had successfully routed a round half-dozen maturely experienced actresses who had ambitions to play opposite Roland Lefayne, and had brushed off like flies two dozen or so ingénues with similar ambitions; he had in person superintended the loading and dispatching southwards of a waggon, apparently not trusting the perfectly competent Mr Speede to perform this duty; he had, in short, been everywhere and done everything. He was a person of considerable energy.

    Nevertheless he confided to Mr Lefayne with a sigh as Friday drew near: “I’m getting past this, Sid.”

    Harold had been saying as much for the last several years. Still, it was true that his sixtieth birthday was not so far distant as all that, though he certainly did not look his years. Sid therefore replied sympathetically: “You’re not past it, Harold! But you have just come back from a long tour; why don’t you put your feet up—take it easy for the rest of the week?”

    M Hartington raised objections but Sid countered all of these smoothly, and finally he conceded grudgingly that he might take it easy for a bit.

    “What I wouldn’t mind,” he confided with a sigh, propping his feet on Mr Buxleigh’s footstool and leaning his head against the back of Mr Buxleigh’s large armchair, “would be for this tour to finish up in a nice little coastal town with a nice little plump widow in it. I’d sell up, and gladly.”

    This topic had come up more than once over the last couple of years, so Mr Lefayne, taking the chair opposite his and advising the Beau to pull up one for himself, merely agreed sympathetically.

    “A widow with a nice little nest-egg,” put in Mr Buxleigh.

    “Out of course.” The actor-manager sighed gustily, but generously passed a jug of refreshment round.

    Sid sipped a tankardful cautiously, eyeing him over the rim. “You’re not still pining over the Marsh hag, are you?”

    “No!” he said angrily, reddening.

    “Uh—this was the female what you played the Russian prince trick on, wasn’t it?” groped Mr Buxleigh. “Thought it was Sid what she fell for?”

    “That was one of the problems, certainly,” murmured the actor, still eyeing Mr Hartington cautiously.

    “All I ever said was that she had a fair two handfuls, there, and I would not half mind the opportunity! What is wrong with that?” he said angrily, reddening.

    “Nothing. But as I recall it, you also said that you would not mind being bossed within an inch of your life for the rest of your natural, with her holding the purse-strings, so long as the handfuls were—er—there when required. Words very much to that effect.”

    “He never!” gasped Mr Buxleigh in horror, goggling at him.

    “Look, she was a gazetted bitch, and I never envisaged it seriously for more than an instant!” said the actor-manager hotly. “It’s just the general idea, that appeals.”

    “Aye,” said the Beau with a gusty sigh, nodding his head gravely. “Aye, one can seize the essence of that, Harold.”

    With difficulty Sid refrained from rolling his eyes over the pair of them, and urged them to further refreshment. The which was duly downed, but to the accompaniment of further gusty sighs. The Beau then adding that Sid ought also to be thinking of settling down.

    “At my age: quite,” he agreed on a sour note.

    “You ain’t no spring chicken,” returned his landlord severely.

    “What woman would put up with him?” asked Mr Hartington, tolerantly enough.

    “With the right woman, would there be any putting up with to be done?” returned Sid lightly.

    “Yes,” said Mr Buxleigh instantly.

    Mr Hartington’s lips twitched slightly but he said solemnly: “I have to concur in those sentiments, Sid.”

    The actor merely shrugged.

    “One has to admit,” the Beau conceded weightily, draining his tankard, “—aah! One has to admit, that the actor’s life is not one what the average woman can support with equanimity.”

    “No, quite. Which is why I’d give it up like a shot,” said Mr Hartington longingly, “for a nice little widow with a nest-egg.”

    “Aye. But ’e wouldn’t,” he noted, eyeing him drily.

    “It is how I earn my living, Beau,” replied Mr Lefayne lightly. “Added to which, I don’t particularly want a plump little widow. Not unless she be under thirty—well, stretch a point, thirty-five.”

    “And not bossy,” added Mr Hartington sepulchrally into his tankard.

    “Quite. Well—one need not accept offers of provincial tours, you know, Harold,” he said airily. “Performing in the metropolis only would make for a more settled life.”

    “What, you and Mr Kean, both?” said the Beau, two seconds before Mr Hartington could.

    “Aye,” he concurred. They both eyed Sid drily.

    “This last frightful thing did damned well, and as I had an interest in the box office writ into me contract, I did not too badly, either. Likewise the vicar thing last winter. And of course Richard Three,” he said, inclining his head in Mr Hartington’s direction. “One could take a pretty little house—not too far out. St John’s Wood? Quite pleasant.”

    “Oh, go the whole hog, dear boy: nice house on the river at Richmond,” said Mr Hartington sardonically.

    “Rumour to the contrary, I am not in the habit of letting the money run through my fingers as soon as received,” replied the actor calmly. “But Richmond is too far out.” He got up. “If you two are proposing to sink into a melancholy, I’ll leave you to it.” He strolled out, looking unconcerned.

    After a moment Mr Buxleigh, ascertaining sadly that the jug was empty, but not offering on that account to the unlock the sacred cupboard and disgorge any of its contents, said: “How much of that was serious?”

    “Very little, I should say. Though I admit it’s the first time I’ve heard him suggest taking a house. What’s been going on in my absence, Beau?”

    “Well, nothink, don’t suppose. Well, think he fancied little Miss Martin like nobody’s business, between you and me, Harold; only he held orf. Being as how she was a lady and barely eighteen.”

    “One of those points might have weighed with him, yes. Was she—er?” Mr Hartington’s hands described shapes in the air.

    “No. Skinny little thing what hadn’t been used to eating too well.”

    Mr Hartington rolled his eyes. “That is a change for him.”

    “Speak for yourself,” replied his landlord automatically. “Well, you’re not far wrong.”

    “Maybe I shouldn’t have asked him to come on the tour,” he said, frowning. “If she’s down in Devon.”

    “Uh—oh.” Mr Buxleigh looked uncertain. “He is a grown man.”

    “I’d say that makes it worse. Still, if he wants to spend the summer baying for the moon, let him. No, well, hankering after the might-have-been? Something like that,” he said, shaking his head.

    “Yes, well, it’d be beyond ’uman capacity to stop ’im! Um—s’pose he could afford somethink better than my place,” the Beau owned on a mournful note.

    “Er—been with you a while, Beau, hasn’t he? He’s comfortable here: knows everyone, and they know him. It ain’t easy for a member of the profession to fit in, you know.”

    “No. Damned if I can see him in one of them little houses in St John’s Wood.”

    Mr Hartington knew a successful painter and a successful musician who had both removed there with their families and were apparently quite content. He refrained from saying as much, however. For one thing, there was no point in upsetting Beau before it happened; and for another, there was no knowing, really, whether Sid Bottomley was in the least serious about the idea. He always had been, whilst giving the impression of complete affability, one who was able to keep his own counsel.

    But for his own part, Mr Hartington silently determined that he damned well would look about for a nice little widow with a nice little nest-egg! He had had enough, really, of the uncertainties of the theatrical profession. He would not mention it to the company—no sense in alarming them before it happened. But a leisurely summer tour should certainly give him ample opportunity to look about him! It was, when you came to think about it, quite providential.

    “Quite providential, ain’t it?” summed up Mrs Hetty happily.

    The costume piece having come to an end, and a certain generous lady having gone down to Brighton, Mr Lefayne had had leisure to think. And had come to the conclusion that it was possibly rather too providential. Unless Mr George French were indeed Sir George Drew. But on the whole, it seemed unlikely. He might sponsor them for one or two performances down at his country place with Madam in the leading rôle—yes. But to guarantee a whole summer’s touring? Sid could not see it. “Oh, very,” he murmured.

    Mrs Hetty made happy plans to contact Miss Cressida the minute they got down to Devon. Sid listened with half an ear, thinking it all over. “Hetty,” he said eventually, “did anyone go with Harold to see these lawyers of Mr French’s?”

    “Eh? Um—he took David, I think. Dunno why. Because ’e was up, most probably.”

    “I see.” The actor had already interrogated Mr Hartington himself, and had got nothing out of him except that it had been a respectable address in the City, nothing in the least suspicious about it. With a genuine brass plate.

    The young second lead was out in the garden with Mr Grantleigh and one, Mr Paul Pouteney, who was generally reckoned by his elders to have a bit more nous than the rest of them. Mr Lefayne strolled outside without haste, and drew Mr Darlinghurst aside.

    “Um, well, it was just a lawyer’s office,” he said blankly.

    “Thanks, David.”

    “Well, what do you want me to say?”

    “Anything, David. Anything that sprang to your notice.”

    “Um… Looked like a pack of Jews,” he offered.

    “Oh? Anything like Weeble?”

    Mr Darlinghurst shuddered. “No.”

    Mr Pouteney was listening with interest. “Or old Rostropovitch?”

    “No! What would a fellow like Rostropovitch, with that beard and side-curls, be doing in a respectable law firm?” he retorted hotly.

    Mr Pouteney eyed Mr Lefayne sideways. “Just a thought. Er—this aforementioned brass plate, David—”

    “What about it?” he said on a sulky note.

    “Did it have a suspiciously new and shiny appearance?” he asked with a laugh in his voice.

    “How the Hell should I know?” he cried.

    “There you are,” said Mr Pouteney smoothly to Mr Lefayne.

    “Mm. Thanks,” replied the leading man drily.

    Mr Pouteney winked at him, but offered helpfully: “Why not talk to that lodger, the one that’s a clerk or some such? He'll know if they’re a real firm, and what sort of reputation they have if they are.”

    “I might do that.”

    “Bit sudden, wasn’t it? I mean, we’re almost back in town with not a prospect in sight and suddenly this fellow rolls up with a munificent offer from a gent no-one’s ever heard of.”

    Sid gave him a dry look. “Quite. Not that it appears to have struck anyone else that way, Paul, but I’m entirely of your opinion. Er… though it may just be a gentleman who wishes to patronise the arts.”

    Mr Pouteney made a rude noise.

    “I don’t see why not!” objected Mr Darlinghurst.

    Ignoring him, Mr Pouteney suggested: “Someone what’s after Madam?”

    “A rival to Drew? Why didn’t I think of that!” said Sid with a chuckle.

    Mr Pouteney eyed him from under his sufficiently long and curled black lashes. “Or, dare I say it? A lady who’s after your gracious self?”

    Sid laughed, looking not unpleased, but shook his head and admitted: “Don’t think so. Why shouldn’t she come right out and offer, if she is? Nice thought, though! Well, I might have a word with Peebles, at that.” He nodded to them, and strolled inside again.

    After a moment Mr Grantleigh, who had seemed sunk in contemplation throughout the preceding discussion, looked up and said: “Ay say, Ay’ve had ’n aydea.”

    Though he had known Reggie Grantleigh for some time, Mr Pouteney made the mistake of responding eagerly: “Yes?”

    “Ay shall get Mrs Witt’ring to cet down that bleck velvet cloak of mayne for a Tudor jarkin and short cloak: shall wear them à la ’Sar.”

    Having worked out that Mr Grantleigh meant à la Hussar and that the reference had therefore nothing to do with last year’s Russian saga, Mr Pouteney retorted hotly: “Elizabethan courtiers were not Hussars, y’fool! –Brainless!” he explained hotly to Mr Darlinghurst.

    The second lead merely replied calmly: “Yes. It would look good, however.”

    Glaring, Mr Pouteney retreated from his friends’ landlord’s garden. And, having nothing to do until the rehearsals for the tour should begin, was driven to ask Mr Lefayne if he had a book he might read. The leading man’s mobile mouth twitched a little, but he did not tease him, merely offered him Tom Jones. Mr Pouteney took it provisionally, explaining that it looked rather long. But having peeked inside it, cheered up very much and allowed that he would give it a try! Mr Lefayne watched with a little rueful smile on his lips as he went off with his head buried in it. Once upon a time he, too, had been just such a green young hopeful: plenty of brains, less knowledge of the theatre than he fondly imagined, and almost no knowledge of anything else, including the great works of English literature and the ways of the human heart. Hey, ho!

    The remainder of that afternoon was spent fidgeting, comparing his watch with the time by the Beau’s mantel clock and by Mrs Harmon’s kitchen clock, and fidgeting.

    “Peebles will have been kept late by the office. Delivering a document to God knows where, at the last moment,” explained Mr Vanburgh.

    Mr Lefayne fidgeted, and looked at his watch.

    “Get up in your part,” suggested Mr Vanburgh.

    “Orsino? Vic, it will take less than an afternoon!” He wandered out restlessly. Two minutes later Mrs Harmon’s bass might have been heard booming at him crossly from the kitchen regions.

    Mr Lefayne went and communed silently with Mr Bagshot for a while. Eventually asking: “Don’t he usually get home about now?”

    Mr Bagshot shook his head.

    “Later?”

    Mr Bagshot nodded.

    “Well, dammit!”

    … “I don’t KNOW!” shouted Mrs Hetty ten minutes later. “Get orf! Find somethink useful to do! Get up in Orsino!”

    Mr Lefayne wandered out, looking cross.

    … “Pray do not ask me, Sid, I have no notion of Mr Peebles’s daily scheduary. I am due to sup with Pretty this evening in precipitation of my departure for the southern counties, so if you will excuse me?” said Mrs Mayhew politely as he poked his head into her room.

    Mr Lefayne sighed, but wished her a pleasant evening, and retreated.

    … “No idea,” grunted Mr Deane into his book, not looking up. “Clear off, I’m studying.”

    “Hear your lines, Daniel?” he offered eagerly.

    “Not got that far, yet,” grunted Mr Deane.

    Baffled, Mr Lefayne retreated.

   …  “He will not,” said Mrs Deane, giving him a sultry look from under her lashes, “be with a female person, I can guarantee it! As to where he might be, I haven’t a notion.”

    “Damn. Hear your lines, Lilian?”

    “No, thank you, I’m not yet up in the part. But you might tell me, how old she’s supposed to be?”

    “Hey?” Mr Lefayne came to look over her shoulder. “Oh—Maria? Um… play her any age you wish, Lilian,” he said, scratching his head.

    “That is of no use, Sid,” she said crossly. “I can do a part any way it is desired, but I do require direction!”

    “Oh; um—hasn’t Harold said what age he wants her to be?”

    Apparently he had not. “Um, well, if I tell you to play her as a youngish woman of great good sense, let’s make it fifty times greater good sense than those noddies Belch and Aguecheek, will it help, Lilian?”

    Apparently it would: Mrs Deane thanked him gravely and buried herself in her lines.

    Mr Lefayne wandered off, looking dubious. A sultry black-haired Maria was not his idea of a truly Shakespearean portrayal of the character. Just as well it was only a provincial tour.

    … “There you are, Peebles!” he cried, bouncing up at a sufficiently advanced hour, as the meek clerk tapped at the door of the Beau’s sitting-room and came in, looking cautious. “Where the Devil have you been?”

    “Good evening, Mr Lefayne. Was you looking for me? I haven’t missed supper, have I?” he replied timidly.

    “No; we’ve put it forward to ten, since nobody’s working at the moment, but you’re in time,” said the Beau tolerantly. “Ignore Sid: he’s been like a cat on hot bricks all day.”

    “I want a word with you; come upstairs,” said the actor, taking the clerk firmly by the arm and drawing him out.

    Upon reaching his own room Mr Peebles sank down somewhat limply on the edge of the bed. “Rundleby and Stout? Entirely respectable, Mr Lefayne,” he said in a weak voice. “What their business is largely with City gents, like from the City, if you take my meanink. Shipmasters, importers and exporters, and gents what is in the business of business, as it were.”

    “Oh? Moneylenders? The Jews?”

    “Nothink like that, sir!” replied Mr Peebles in shocked tones.

    “Oh? Like what, then?”

    Mr Peebles cleared his throat. “Not to say that some of these gents might not be, as we say in the law, of the Semitic persuasion. Acos I did hear as Rundleby and Stout, they deal considerable with banking firms that has connections on the Continong.”

    “Jews: right,” said Mr Lefayne very drily indeed.

    “Some very large firms, I did ’ear tell,” he replied dubiously.

    “Mm. Be that as it may, they are an established legal firm, and well thought of?”

    “Very well thought of indeed, sir. May I ask, Mr Lefayne, if you were thinking of perhaps transferring your own business to them?”

    “Oh, Lord, no! Well, what business I have my brother’s solicitors handle for me: Archer and Lewett.”—Mr Peebles nodded respectfully.—“I just wondered whether there might be something smoky about this Mr French that’s offered to back Harold in the summer tour, and if you might have heard anything to the detriment of his lawyers.”

    “Nothink at all, sir,” he said firmly.

    “Oh. Right, well, thanks.” Mr Lefayne was about to leave him in peace but paused on the threshold. “Ever heard of this French, yourself?”

    “No, sir. Absolute no connection with Mr Henry French, Rural Magistrate, and late of the firm what I have the honour to work for, being Hartley, Hartley, Fitch and French, sir.”

    “Oh, yes; thought I had heard the name in a legal connection. No, well, he must just be some fool with more money than sense,” he said, shrugging. “But I shall make damned sure that Harold has the cash in his hand before he signs any agreements to take these promised country-town theatres for a week at a time!” He nodded kindly to him, and lounged out.

    Mr Peebles sat on the edge of his bed, staring into space, a very odd expression indeed on his regular features, for quite some time. It would have been impossible for an onlooker to determine what he was thinking. But one of the thoughts that was certainly running through his head was that Mr Sidney Bottomley, known to his public as Roland Lefayne, was considerably shrewder than his pretty looks and customary careless, good-humoured manner might give one to suppose. The which was not all that surprising, given that Joseph Bottomley, known as Bottomley-Pugh, was one of the wealthiest self-made men in the country. Excepting only your true nabobs, who had made their fortunes in the Indies. Roland Lefayne might have no interest in commerce but his mind was clearly almost as sharp as that of his wealthy brother. Eventually Mr Peebles said half under his breath: “Yes. Quite.” And gave a little sigh which, curiously, to the onlooker might well have sounded like one of relief. Though what, precisely, the clerk had to be relieved about was not at all clear.

Next chapter:

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