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Authors: Diana Killian
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stagehand broke off.
“That can’t be true,” Grace protested.
The stagehand shrugged, not looking at her. He turned back to the bar. Grace found herself sharing a table with Roy Blade. They ordered a round and some cheese and apple tartlets.
“I’m afraid the old bat was right. Manfred would have been the stronger work,” Blade said, pushing a pint of beer toward Grace. “Somehow this version simply isn’t living up to the promise of Polidori’s vision.”
“It is challenging,” she said tactfully, redirecting her attention to the play.
Though Grace secretly agreed with Lady Vee, she focused on the bright side. According to Roy, who possessed all kinds of strange and arcane knowledge, there was a German opera based on Polidori’s tragedy called Der Vampyr, which had been updated by the BBC in the early 1990s and retitled The Vampyr: A Soap Opera . So Grace counted her blessings. Maybe they weren’t doing Manfred, but at least there weren’t any singing vampires in her immediate future.
“The old witch pushes my buttons with that Upstairs, Downstairs stuff,” he grumbled.
No question of which old witch he was referring to, although Grace suddenly remembered the poppet that she was still carrying in her purse. She had intended to show it to Peter but had never had the chance.
She noticed that the stagehands excused themselves after one round and departed. “I guess like all of us she’s a product of her generation,” she offered vaguely, her thoughts circling back to Bill Jones’s mysterious end.
Blade snorted, blowing foam from his brew. “What generation is that? Crustacean? She’s the reason people have revolutions.”
Absently, Grace sipped from the mug.
The beer was locally brewed, one of those golden bitters with a hint of citrus. Before her stay in Innisdale, Grace hadn’t known a lager from a malt liquor, but Cumbria was home to many famous breweries, like Jennings, which had been around since the 1800s, or Barngates, which named its beers for the dogs that had lived at the Drunken Duck Inn.
Microbrewing was a thriving cottage industry in the Lakes. In fact, every June there was an enormous beer festival in Keswick, attracting nearly four thousand partiers.
She said, a little tentatively, “You haven’t heard anything about there being something strange about the security guard’s death, have you?”
“What security guard?” Blade looked blank.
“Bill Jones. The man who worked for the Crosbys. The one who was injured during the robbery.”
“No. Well, just that they may have tried to run him down deliberately. Why?”
“I don’t know. I’ve heard a couple of rumors.”
“That what you were researching downstairs this afternoon?”
“Oh that . No.” She changed the subject quickly. “Anyway, Lady Vee seems to have bailed.” Lady Vee had not been in the theater that evening, so it appeared she was making good on her threat to abandon the project if she couldn’t control it.
“Don’t get your hopes up. Lady Be Damned isn’t happy unless she’s got everyone chasing their tails. Look at the summer before last.”
Grace knew to what Blade referred, but thought it tactful to ignore this. “At least Allegra hasn’t deserted us,” she said.
The Honorable Allegra Clairmont-Brougham, Lady Vee’s niece, had played a large and somewhat unpleasant role in Grace’s adventures the previous year. But her relations with the Hon. Al, who was the art director for the play, had improved fractionally since Grace had joined the production. Grace put this down to the social principle of Misery Loves Company.
Blade wiped the foam from his beard with the back of a tattooed hand. “I’ve known the Honorable Al since we were kids. My dad used to work in her ladyship’s stables.”
“Oh. Right.” The biker and the aristo? She couldn’t really picture Blade and the Hon. Al together, but there were people who probably couldn’t see the schoolteacher and the ex–jewel
“That can’t be true,” Grace protested.
The stagehand shrugged, not looking at her. He turned back to the bar. Grace found herself sharing a table with Roy Blade. They ordered a round and some cheese and apple tartlets.
“I’m afraid the old bat was right. Manfred would have been the stronger work,” Blade said, pushing a pint of beer toward Grace. “Somehow this version simply isn’t living up to the promise of Polidori’s vision.”
“It is challenging,” she said tactfully, redirecting her attention to the play.
Though Grace secretly agreed with Lady Vee, she focused on the bright side. According to Roy, who possessed all kinds of strange and arcane knowledge, there was a German opera based on Polidori’s tragedy called Der Vampyr, which had been updated by the BBC in the early 1990s and retitled The Vampyr: A Soap Opera . So Grace counted her blessings. Maybe they weren’t doing Manfred, but at least there weren’t any singing vampires in her immediate future.
“The old witch pushes my buttons with that Upstairs, Downstairs stuff,” he grumbled.
No question of which old witch he was referring to, although Grace suddenly remembered the poppet that she was still carrying in her purse. She had intended to show it to Peter but had never had the chance.
She noticed that the stagehands excused themselves after one round and departed. “I guess like all of us she’s a product of her generation,” she offered vaguely, her thoughts circling back to Bill Jones’s mysterious end.
Blade snorted, blowing foam from his brew. “What generation is that? Crustacean? She’s the reason people have revolutions.”
Absently, Grace sipped from the mug.
The beer was locally brewed, one of those golden bitters with a hint of citrus. Before her stay in Innisdale, Grace hadn’t known a lager from a malt liquor, but Cumbria was home to many famous breweries, like Jennings, which had been around since the 1800s, or Barngates, which named its beers for the dogs that had lived at the Drunken Duck Inn.
Microbrewing was a thriving cottage industry in the Lakes. In fact, every June there was an enormous beer festival in Keswick, attracting nearly four thousand partiers.
She said, a little tentatively, “You haven’t heard anything about there being something strange about the security guard’s death, have you?”
“What security guard?” Blade looked blank.
“Bill Jones. The man who worked for the Crosbys. The one who was injured during the robbery.”
“No. Well, just that they may have tried to run him down deliberately. Why?”
“I don’t know. I’ve heard a couple of rumors.”
“That what you were researching downstairs this afternoon?”
“Oh that . No.” She changed the subject quickly. “Anyway, Lady Vee seems to have bailed.” Lady Vee had not been in the theater that evening, so it appeared she was making good on her threat to abandon the project if she couldn’t control it.
“Don’t get your hopes up. Lady Be Damned isn’t happy unless she’s got everyone chasing their tails. Look at the summer before last.”
Grace knew to what Blade referred, but thought it tactful to ignore this. “At least Allegra hasn’t deserted us,” she said.
The Honorable Allegra Clairmont-Brougham, Lady Vee’s niece, had played a large and somewhat unpleasant role in Grace’s adventures the previous year. But her relations with the Hon. Al, who was the art director for the play, had improved fractionally since Grace had joined the production. Grace put this down to the social principle of Misery Loves Company.
Blade wiped the foam from his beard with the back of a tattooed hand. “I’ve known the Honorable Al since we were kids. My dad used to work in her ladyship’s stables.”
“Oh. Right.” The biker and the aristo? She couldn’t really picture Blade and the Hon. Al together, but there were people who probably couldn’t see the schoolteacher and the ex–jewel
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