Read Online Barbara Cleverly by Ragtime in Simla - Free Book Online

glanced at his programme to see who this might be but there was nothing listed after the melodrama. He was turning to Sir George for some explanation when she began to speak.
    ‘Ladies and gentlemen, on behalf of the theatre management committee I have to make an announcement.’ Her voice was low and musical and carried well to all parts of the auditorium. This was a girl who was used to appearing on stage, Joe thought. Taking her time, she swept the gilded boxes with a confident gaze, gathering attention.
    The audience settled into a rustling, whispering expectancy.
    ‘A tragic announcement, I’m afraid. We’ve had many distinguished performers in the Gaiety Theatre and all had been looking forward to hearing perhaps the most distinguished of all – Feodor Korsovsky, booked to perform here for four nights this week.’ There was a long pause. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I have to tell you that Monsieur Korsovsky was shot earlier today on his way to Simla. He was killed on the Kalka road.’
    The gasp and the roar of astonishment that greeted her words drowned for a moment what she had further to say and once again she held up her hand for silence.
    ‘At the moment,’ she continued, ‘there is little more to say but, in his honour and in his memory, I am going to sing a Russian song.’
    The murmur of expectancy and surprise broke out again. An Indian with a stringed instrument in his hand slipped quietly into the orchestra pit below her.
    ‘This song,’ she went on, ‘should properly be accompanied by a balalaika but Chandra Lai will do the best he can.’ She nodded to the Indian who plucked a chord on his instrument. They nodded to each other again in an unbroken silence and she began to sing.
    Her voice was untrained and soft but sweet and true. Joe knew enough Russian to make out that this was a lament. A song of sadness at a parting. A song sung, as far as he could guess, in perfect Russian. And perhaps here in the foothills of the Himalayas this haunting farewell was not out of place. It was a song of the mountains, the distant Russian mountains, beyond which a girl’s lover had strayed never to return.
    The song wound its way through three verses to the soft accompaniment of the strings. Joe was spellbound. Who, he wondered, could this be? Who was this girl, herself overcome by the pathos of her song and with tears, he noticed, running unheeded down her cheeks?
    So, after all, someone had been waiting for Feodor. Someone in Simla was mourning him.

Chapter Five
    Ť ^ ť
    As the last note died away the singer smiled sadly and instantly left the stage. It was clear that any applause would have been out of place and Joe noticed that, so moved was the audience, everyone stayed silently in their seats for a full minute, eyes downcast.
    ‘For God’s sake, George,’ said Joe urgently, ‘who was that? I want to meet that young woman.’
    George rolled his eyes. ‘I don’t think even James could fix that for you. You’ll have to join the queue, I’m afraid. No use going backstage when Mrs Sharpe has just performed! I know, I’ve tried it myself. You can’t move for the bouquets and the strings of eager young mashers waiting to throw themselves at her feet.’
    ‘Mrs Sharpe?’
    ‘Wife of Reginald Sharpe. They’re both on the board of the Dramatic Society. And he’s another obstacle to intimacy with your little songbird – you’ll generally find him backstage like a lurking Cerberus!’
    ‘Look, George, my interest is purely professional,’ said Joe firmly. ‘I want to know how well that girl knew Feodor and why she was weeping at his memory.’
    ‘Oh, come on, Joe! Don’t let your romantic imagination run away with you – there wasn’t a dry eye in the house, including your own, including mine
    but I see what you mean. James! Our guest has made his choice. Help us to hack our way through to Mrs Sharpe’s dressing room, would you?’
    As steam gives way to sail, the crowds hung back and moved away before Sir George’s majestic approach. Joe