myself, Mr Didier. I am Max Hill, character studies unlimited. My companion,’ he waved a disparaging arm, ‘is Clarence Bishop, illustrator, ventriloquist, and shoulder for aged actors to lean upon.’
Clarence, a willowy, wispy elderly young man, grinned. ‘How do. What happened to old Beezer?’
‘Gorn to the Savoy,’ Lizzie told him happily.
‘Ah, his prowess with soused herring, I presume.’ Max paused. ‘Is Will Lamb here yet?’
‘He’s on now,’ Auguste told him.
‘Ah.’
‘You are on in the second half, Mr Hill?’ Auguste asked, as he rushed over a second plate of whelks.
‘No performance complete without the Magic Max,’ Hill told him complacently, scooping another whelk from its shell with practised dexterity.
‘The bells, the bells,’ yelled Lizzie suddenly anddramatically, clutching one hand to her bony chest. ‘You should see ’is ’Enry Irving.’
‘I shall make a point of it,’ Auguste replied politely.
Clarence sniggered, commandeering the rest of the whelks.
‘He follows Nettie Turner,’ Lizzie commented.
‘Sooner you than me,’ Clarence said jovially.
Max looked sad. ‘It is the way of the world as one grows old.’
‘Then comes our Evangeline,’ Clarence explained. ‘Then ’tis I. ’Umble High.’
‘No, you got it wrong. Orsini comes after Max. Evangeline’s after the interval. Always is.’
‘Not tonight,’ Clarence said smugly. ‘Sue put her foot down.’
‘And a remarkably heavy foot it is,’ Max said. ‘Unfortunately Orsini’s can be heavy too.’
Auguste listened to a torrent of information. A conjurer, a comic singer, a chorus of young ladies singing and dancing patriotic songs. And Mariella herself singing her famous Mermaid Song. Not to mention an animal act from Jamrach’s just down the street.
‘Animal act?’ Auguste asked curiously.
‘Jamrach’s Emporium of Wild Animals. One of their fellers does this turn with ’em. Jack, his Talking Raven and Amazing Monkeys. Ever so good it is.’
Auguste swallowed. The now good-humoured roar from the hall suggested Will’s act had ended. Reeking of shellfish and vinegar, and hoping his former
maître
, Auguste Escoffier, safe in the Carlton’s kitchens, would never hear of this, Auguste made his way backstage again to check on Will’s movements. Nettie was singingin the next but one spot after the interval, and after that she would escort Will home and his own duty – so far as being a personal detective was concerned – would be done. As to the very real threat he was now aware there was to Will, his task was only just beginning.
In the wings there was little camaraderie to be seen. On the contrary, a large woman in red satin was alternately shouting at and assaulting with her parasol a handsome but scared-looking young man of Latin looks. Two boards with numbers on them were being pulled back and forth out of the frantic stage manager’s hands, until at last one board remained uncontested.
Alfredo Orsini, vocalist, had won the dubious honour of the post-interval turn. Remarkably few people were interested in ‘The Miner’s Dream of Home’, but at the end of his act the audience swelled to full house. Nettie Turner was on next.
Usually the business of clearing up a kitchen after diners had departed could be enlivened by heartwarming memories of a soufflé well received, a delicate timbale appreciated, a daring combination of ingredients triumphantly rewarded. There was no such gratification to be found in the detritus of kippers and mutton chops, and Auguste saw no need to hurry back to it.
From the wings, keeping one eye on Will’s dressing-room door, until he departed with Nettie, Auguste watched the rest of the performance, brought to a close by Mariella’s clever act, which centred on her six performing dogs, a large fish tank, and her MermaidSong. He was curious to see Will’s beloved in performance. She was as striking to look at on stage as off, especially poised with
Clarence, a willowy, wispy elderly young man, grinned. ‘How do. What happened to old Beezer?’
‘Gorn to the Savoy,’ Lizzie told him happily.
‘Ah, his prowess with soused herring, I presume.’ Max paused. ‘Is Will Lamb here yet?’
‘He’s on now,’ Auguste told him.
‘Ah.’
‘You are on in the second half, Mr Hill?’ Auguste asked, as he rushed over a second plate of whelks.
‘No performance complete without the Magic Max,’ Hill told him complacently, scooping another whelk from its shell with practised dexterity.
‘The bells, the bells,’ yelled Lizzie suddenly anddramatically, clutching one hand to her bony chest. ‘You should see ’is ’Enry Irving.’
‘I shall make a point of it,’ Auguste replied politely.
Clarence sniggered, commandeering the rest of the whelks.
‘He follows Nettie Turner,’ Lizzie commented.
‘Sooner you than me,’ Clarence said jovially.
Max looked sad. ‘It is the way of the world as one grows old.’
‘Then comes our Evangeline,’ Clarence explained. ‘Then ’tis I. ’Umble High.’
‘No, you got it wrong. Orsini comes after Max. Evangeline’s after the interval. Always is.’
‘Not tonight,’ Clarence said smugly. ‘Sue put her foot down.’
‘And a remarkably heavy foot it is,’ Max said. ‘Unfortunately Orsini’s can be heavy too.’
Auguste listened to a torrent of information. A conjurer, a comic singer, a chorus of young ladies singing and dancing patriotic songs. And Mariella herself singing her famous Mermaid Song. Not to mention an animal act from Jamrach’s just down the street.
‘Animal act?’ Auguste asked curiously.
‘Jamrach’s Emporium of Wild Animals. One of their fellers does this turn with ’em. Jack, his Talking Raven and Amazing Monkeys. Ever so good it is.’
Auguste swallowed. The now good-humoured roar from the hall suggested Will’s act had ended. Reeking of shellfish and vinegar, and hoping his former
maître
, Auguste Escoffier, safe in the Carlton’s kitchens, would never hear of this, Auguste made his way backstage again to check on Will’s movements. Nettie was singingin the next but one spot after the interval, and after that she would escort Will home and his own duty – so far as being a personal detective was concerned – would be done. As to the very real threat he was now aware there was to Will, his task was only just beginning.
In the wings there was little camaraderie to be seen. On the contrary, a large woman in red satin was alternately shouting at and assaulting with her parasol a handsome but scared-looking young man of Latin looks. Two boards with numbers on them were being pulled back and forth out of the frantic stage manager’s hands, until at last one board remained uncontested.
Alfredo Orsini, vocalist, had won the dubious honour of the post-interval turn. Remarkably few people were interested in ‘The Miner’s Dream of Home’, but at the end of his act the audience swelled to full house. Nettie Turner was on next.
Usually the business of clearing up a kitchen after diners had departed could be enlivened by heartwarming memories of a soufflé well received, a delicate timbale appreciated, a daring combination of ingredients triumphantly rewarded. There was no such gratification to be found in the detritus of kippers and mutton chops, and Auguste saw no need to hurry back to it.
From the wings, keeping one eye on Will’s dressing-room door, until he departed with Nettie, Auguste watched the rest of the performance, brought to a close by Mariella’s clever act, which centred on her six performing dogs, a large fish tank, and her MermaidSong. He was curious to see Will’s beloved in performance. She was as striking to look at on stage as off, especially poised with
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