‘Mr Marks approved,’ James said. ‘Not so sure about His Lordship.’
Silas peeked through the drapes and looked over the audience to Archer. Despite the overture playing, he and the King were still talking, Thomas and the King’s steward were serving Miss Arnold and Markland, and by the look of it, Lady Marshall was discussing the stitching of her glittering dress with the King’s wife. Either they were all putting on an act, or no-one had been upset by Silas’ speech.
‘Yeah, well, I’ve done it now,’ he said, letting the curtain fall. The question is, what do we do next?’
‘His Lordship did say if we ran out of options we should inform the police,’ James suggested.
Silas considered this for a moment. ‘Well, His Majesty has his bodyguards,’ he reasoned. ‘Apparently, there’s already plenty of security in the auditorium. If Stella was planning to take a pot shot, I reckon he’s changed his mind.’
‘You think?’
‘Only because it would be suicide to be caught firing a gun when there’s royalty close by. He is related to the Queen.’
‘I see your point,’ James agreed. ‘But I don’t think he means to shoot anyone.’
‘Why not?’
James held up the threat letter. ‘Da capo is a musical term,’ he said. ‘Mrs Marks explained that although it literally means “from the head”, in music, it’s taken to mean “back to the beginning”, or similar. Back to the beginning, sudden and silent. Subito tacet.’
‘Oh, right.’ This was news to Silas. ‘Maybe it doesn’t mean anything. I need to sit down. Any drink left?’
‘There’s a whole bottle. Mrs Marks has polished off the first, but her husband won’t let her have any more until the interval.’
James held the drapes and Silas, having straightened his suit and wiped sweat from his brow, entered the box and sat in a spare front seat. Marks, beside him, leant close.
‘What was all that about, lad?’
‘Sudden change of plan,’ he said, his eyes on Archer.
‘You did it well. Bravo.’
Marks retreated and examined his programme as the overture played.
Across the way, Archer and His Majesty finished whatever conversation they were having and also settled back into their seats.
Silas stared at Archer, hoping he would catch his eye. He needed to know that he approved of his actions and his words. They had sprung from a deep well of honesty and, once he had accepted that he was standing in front of all those people, he had found the task less daunting than he thought. Imagining he was talking to Archer, it had been easy to say what he felt, and he had let it flow while another part of his mind worked on how to deal with the death threat.
As the curtains parted, Archer became fixated on the stage, and Silas’ eyes wandered to other parts of the house. Using the opera glasses, he identified Fecker on the top tier front row with Lucy beside him, and Mrs Flintwich choosing to ignore the fact they were holding hands. That was kind of her, he thought. They were at the front of a swathe of faces sweeping towards the ceiling. Many of the working class audience were more interested in the architecture, chandelier and toffs below than the story about to unfold on stage.
Silas looked for anything suspicious, but saw nothing.
‘Your Champagne, Sir.’ James offered the glass.
Silas patted the seat next to his, but James shook his head. He threw a glance towards Thomas, staring, his eyes wide.
Silas understood, raised his glass to Tom, who remained expressionless, and slid from his seat to join James in the corridor where they could whisper without being seen.
‘Mr Roxton isn’t on until later,’ James said, showing Silas the libretto printed at the back of the programme. ‘It’s when he’s on stage that we have to be alert. Maybe you should be back there?’
‘I’ve got Jake looking out for strangers,’ Silas said. ‘Mr Keys is guarding the stage door, and there’s no other way in other than from the front of house and across the stage.’
‘What if Stella’s in the chorus?’
‘You think that’s likely, Jimmy?’
‘I don’t know what to think.’
James was agitated, and Silas wasn’t sure if it was because he was nervous or itching to be of more use. He too was frustrated that they had come so far, but didn’t know where to go next.
‘But that’s what you’ve got to do, Jimmy. Think. I need to be seen watching at least part of this… Jesus!’
Signora Campanelli had made her appearance, or at least, her voice had. A high, sustained note rang out, piercing his ears, and beneath it, the orchestra swelled to a deafening climax as she entered at full tilt. The audience burst into applause.
‘Sit, watch and think,’ Silas mouthed over the din, and they took up chairs, this time behind the Marks couple.
The next forty minutes passed in a blur of panic. Roxton made his appearance in battle dress, marching onto the set crowded by a following of rowdy soldiers celebrating a victory, and Signora Campanelli swooned. Warbling handmaidens attended her, and someone sang a long, boring song about love, or so James said as he followed the translation in the programme. When Roxton came to sing, the audience listened in reverent silence, and Silas found himself unexpectedly mesmerised by the voice.
Roxton was a big man. He had the kind of physique suited to a rower or a boxer, and yet the sound that came from his mouth was that of a woman. His voice was high, unlike anything Silas had heard, higher than the other men, and clearer. Each held note hung on the air, cutting through it, but without disturbing it, and, in sections, climbed to unimaginable heights.
Silas couldn’t help but be impressed, and on more than one occasion found himself so engrossed, he forgot about the imminent threat on the man’s life. He was reminded of it when another soldier appeared, throwing threats of his own and brandishing a sword. Silas knew them to be wooden props and harmless.
When the chorus was on, he watched each man and women closely to see if any bore a resemblance to the Cleaver Street boy’s stature. None did, and he doubted that a boy-whore would have found himself as a member of this production. He would have to be an excellent artist, and although Silas had heard him change his voice, that was hardly enough to get him a place on this stage.
The more he watched, the more convinced he became that the business with the letter was a hoax, and put there to teach the man a lesson rather than extort a confession. It was a comforting theory, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t make his peace with it. A nagging voice in his head fought against the trilling chorus, Roxton’s passionate vocalisations and even the soprano’s protestations of love. It would have itself heard, and after a while, Silas gave in to it.
“He’s here.” The words came from somewhere deep in the orchestra pit, a repetitive motif that seeped up from the low strings to tangle itself among other instruments before finding itself beaten out by drums. “He’s here. He’s here. He’s here.” Over and continuous like a heartbeat, a constant reminder that somewhere in the building, a man was planning to kill.
The pulse altered its words and “He’s here” became “His head. His head. His head,” until the two mixed and all he could think was, “He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead.”
The sweat at his neck trickled to his back, soaking his shirt while his mouth ran dry.
From where he sat, he could see into the wings as high as the proscenium arch would allow. If he stood, he could see over the balustrade to off-stage at floor level and down into part of the orchestra pit. There was nothing to suggest anything was amiss and, as the performance rattled into a long and complicated vocal firework display from Campanelli and a similar display from Roxton, he battled the warning voice and convinced himself that the combination of the King’s entourage and his speech had deterred Stella from her plan.
The opera was well into the first act when James nudged him. ‘I think I’ve found something,’ he whispered. ‘Out here.’
Silas followed him back into the corridor.
‘What?’
‘I think we’re okay until the end,’ James said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘The letter mentions his final applause.’ He showed it to Silas. ‘It’s not definite, because he could be struck down now and still not hear his final ovation, but why mention the word “final” unless to worry him.’
‘I don’t get it.’ Silas winced against another barrage of Campanelli’s coloratura stabbing through the velvet drapes.
‘It’s torture,’ James said.
‘You’re telling me.’ Silas stuck a finger in his ear. ‘Given me a headache.’
‘Not her.’ James suppressed a laugh. ‘Stella. Look, you said that Roxton liked to take a belt to the boy. Punishment? Torture of some sort?’
‘It’s how some men get off,’ Silas said. ‘Not my kind of thing, but it goes on a lot.’
‘Okay, but I bet it’s painful.’
‘Probably, what’s your point?’
Roxton was now matching the soprano’s technical challenge, in a softer tone, though just as high.
‘What would be more torturous for Roxton than being made to think he’s going to be killed, but not telling him when? Only that it’s likely to be right at the end. He’s got to go through the whole performance thinking he’s going to die, but he can’t not go on.’
Silas looked at him. ‘While we’re drowning men clutching at flotsam,’ he said. ‘We may as well cling to that. Still doesn’t help us with the how.’
‘He, I mean his character, dies at the very end of the story.’ James showed him the programme notes. ‘Perfect cover, don’t you think?’
‘Yeah, but it’s a blunt sword. I’ve handled it.’
‘Read that.’
Silas took the programme and slouched against the wall. A footman standing to attention outside another box gave him a look of annoyance, but Silas turned his back and read.
Perhaps the most dignified death in opera, in the closing scene Aeneas gives us the famous lament, “When I am laid in earth”. Aeneas, the proud king of Troy is mortally offended when his visitor and betrothed, Dido from Carthage reveals she must leave him to return to her homeland at the behest of the gods. When she offers to stay, he rejects her, considering the mere thought of abandoning him an unforgivable betrayal. She has left it too late for the proud man to accept her protestations of love as sincere. Thus spurned and alone, Aeneas arrives at a decision: “Death will come when she is gone.” Aeneas’ tearful manservant, Belindo, can only look on as the king succumbs to death, a “welcome guest.” He throws himself on his sword** against a final, sorrowful, off-stage chorus, “With drooping wings.” Cupids appear in the clouds and scatter roses like drops of blood on Aeneas’ waiting tomb. The curtain falls.
He handed the programme to James, unconvinced. ‘You think it’s going to be then? How?’
‘I can only think of the sword,’ James admitted. ‘Could it be swapped?’
‘I suppose so, but he’d know. It’s wood, light, what he’s used to. Swap it for a metal one, and it’d be obvious. Anyway, he wouldn’t actually fall on it, and if he knew it was real, he’d definitely be careful.’
‘True.’ James frowned. ‘I’ve looked through the whole libretto, and he’s on stage for just about all of the second half. The ending is the only time he’s in danger from anything.’
‘Except her bloody voice.’ The soprano was bringing act one to a startling conclusion.
‘Ah, but he, the character, does actually die before the audience’s eyes.’ James left a pause so Silas could pick up his thread. ‘Nice and dramatic to engineer some way that the two become one and he commits suicide.’
It was too vague, and Silas was unable to compute the ideas. He understood James’ point about torturing Roxton with a threat on his life, forcing him to perform the entire piece with death hanging over his head, but still, it was too haphazard, too farfetched, and, more ridiculously, it depended on Roxton taking his own life. Archer had said the man had shrugged the whole thing off as a hoax and was ignoring it. Why then change his mind and gut himself with a prop?
‘Final applause.’ Silas thought aloud before fixing James with a blank stare.
James was concentrating as hard as he was and his determination to help and his loyalty were heart-warming. Silas respected his ideas, but they weren’t bringing clarification.
‘Just torturing him with the possibility of being killed is too silent,’ he reasoned. ‘It’s too hidden, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah,’ James agreed. ‘Sorry, I’m thinking as hard as I can.’
‘I know, Jimmy, and I appreciate it.’ Silas encouraged him with a hand on his shoulder as applause rang out. ‘And you’ve given me an idea. Sounds like we’ve got half an hour off from that racket. I need to see Roxton. He might not listen to Archer, but he’s going to have to listen to me.’
Along the passage, curtains were being lifted as the well-to-do emerged to stretch their legs.
‘Go and see to the Marks duo,’ Silas said. ‘Everything as normal. I’m going to look around backstage and do battle with Roxton.’
‘Mr Roxton is in a foul mood and not receiving visitors,’ the stage manager informed Silas a minute later. He was poring over a large book of music, distracted. ‘And, if I may, Mr Hawkins, your persistent presence back here is not helpful.’
‘Yeah, well, sorry about that, Mr…’ He still couldn’t remember the man’s name. ‘But I have been asked to keep an eye on his well-being.’
He was rescued by the sight of Jake beetling along the catwalk above and waved him down.
‘I’ll get out of your way.’ He touched his forelock to the stage manager, and noticing the book, asked him what it was.
The book was bigger than Archer’s atlas. Music was printed on one page, and lines led across the spine to the facing page linking specific places in the score to handwritten notes.
‘It’s my bible,’ the man said. ‘Now, if you wouldn’t mind.’
Silas caught a fleeting glimpse of the music as he walked away. The words were written in a language he couldn’t read, and he assumed it was Italian. Why a story about a Trojan hero should be written in Italian, by a German, for the English was beyond Silas, but then so was most of what was taking place. Whistles from the men in the tower, sweaty stagehands carrying pieces of a temple and replacing them with the decks of a ship, and women scurrying about with powder puffs; Silas hadn’t seen this much activity since the Greychurch riots.
‘Yes, Sir?’ Jake was at his side.
Silas marvelled at the lad’s habit of speedy and silent arrival. ‘I need to see Mr Roxton.’
Jake passed an uneasy glance to the stage manager, but he had turned his back and was ticking items off a list.
‘It’s alright,’ Silas said. ‘It’s His Lordship’s business.’
‘You’re the boss.’
Silas took the opportunity to touch the sword on the props table as he passed. It was still made of wood and, better, this time he saw the tip was rounded.
Jake led him to the back of the stage, onto the brick stairs and up one floor. Here, he trotted along a carpeted corridor to a dressing room labelled with Roxton’s name. A man stood outside dabbing his forehead.
‘Mr Roxton is not receiving guests,’ he snapped as they approached. ‘He won’t even see me.’
‘And who are you?’
‘His dresser, of course,’ the man replied, shocked to have been asked. ‘Who are you?’
‘Lord Clearwater’s private secretary, out of the way.’
‘I can’t allow that…�
��
‘It’s His Lordship’s business, Arthur,’ Jake said.
The dresser looked Silas up and down in a way that Silas had seen a thousand times before, his handkerchief hanging from one, limp hand, a smile spreading.
‘Sorry, mate,’ Silas said. ‘But I ain’t in that business anymore.’
‘Ha!’ The man was scornful. ‘I haven’t been to sea for years, and they still call me a sailor.’ He flicked his wrist. ‘Do what you want, love, I’m beyond caring.’
Growling, Silas sent Jake away and let himself in to the dressing room unannounced. He knew what he had to say, and was prepared for Roxton’s anger.
What he wasn’t expecting was the sight of the man, collapsed on his couch, weeping.
‘Get out!’ Roxton yelled, on hearing the door.
Silas slammed it to draw his attention and to relieve some of the instant anger the dresser had instilled. Stepping deeper into the room, he flicked his eyes over mirrors, costumes, chairs, cards, flowers and baskets, and made sure they were alone.
‘You’re in trouble,’ he said, ignoring the man’s pathetic state.
Roxton’s head snapped up. His face glowed pink through the makeup, his eyes were puffy, and his eyeliner smudged.
‘Is it Clearwater?’ he said, and leapt to his feet. ‘What’s happened.’
Silas was taken aback. He hadn’t anticipated the man’s first thought to be for the viscount.
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Yes, he’s fine. You’re the one in trouble.’
‘Me? What about you? Cancelling my speech, robbing me of the limelight…’
‘Get over it,’ Silas snapped. ‘I was trying to save your life.’
‘Rubbish.’ Roxton threw himself back on the couch. ‘I’ve been so stupid. Are you going to do it now?’
Unspeakable Acts Page 24