For Silas, the next half an hour passed like a lifetime. There was no point being backstage until nearer the end, and James was trying to judge the timing from the libretto. By listening to the singing, he was able to make out the words, if not the meaning.
It was just after Aeneas had sent the wretched Dido away — a dismissal which Silas thought took far too long and was incredibly noisy — that James leant to him and whispered, ‘We are approaching the last two pages of the story.’
Silas nodded to show he understood and felt his legs weaken. Taking deep breaths, he looked across to Thomas to see him scanning the auditorium in a wide arc. The royal party were intent on the drama taking place on stage, and Silas was drinking in Archer’s look of rapture when something caught his eye. He moved the opera glasses a fraction and saw Miss Arnold admiring the audience through hers. She pointed them directly at him and waved her fingers.
‘She must be bored,’ he said.
He was about to wave back when James elbowed him urgently, showing him the programme with his thumb marking a line of text.
‘What’s that?’ Silas asked, putting down the opera glasses. It was the same passage as before where the opera’s basic story was written in summary. ‘I’ve read it.’
‘Not all of it.’
James was indicating the end of the paragraph, two symbols in particular. He throws himself on his sword** against a final…
‘What do they mean?’
James turned to the last page in the booklet.
** Addendum
In the 1888 tour of ‘Aeneas and Dido’, Herr Muller, in his direction, has preferred and borrowed from the Giulio Cesare interpretation of the libretto and has Aeneas drinking the poisoned waters of the river Styx.
The meaning was only starting to sink in when James slapped his back and pointed to the stage. Roxton was in the centre, singing passionately to the goblet Silas drank from earlier in the evening. It stood on a pedestal, left there a second before by his servant, Belindo, now exiting.
‘Jesus!’ Silas said and earned a disapproving ‘Shush!’ from Marks.
‘That’s got to be it.’ James pulled Silas from his seat. ‘Think about it,’ he hissed when they were out of earshot. ‘It is silent, probably sudden, and you take it by mouth, da capo. From the head.’
‘It’s not right.’
‘None of this is right.’
‘No, not that.’ Silas pulled away from his grip and inched towards the balustrade. There, he trained the opera glasses onto the goblet and knew he was right. He sidled back to James.
‘It’s silver,’ he said. ‘The prop is gold. Real fucking gold. I held it. That one out there is silver.’
James leant across him, saw he was correct and swore. ‘She’s not there,’ he said.
Marks gave him an aggressive glare.
Silas didn’t understand. He was too busy thinking how he could swap the stage goblet with something else. ‘Who’s not where?’
‘Look.’
James turned him and pointed to the Royal Box. His Majesty was drinking from a goblet, and those used by the rest of the party stood on tables beside the cushioned chairs. They were all silver, apart from one.
‘That’s it!’
Silas had to hold himself back from shouting. The golden chalice that should have been on the stage containing lemon water was now standing on a side table by an empty chair, and the silver one that had been there, was now centre stage and, presumably, filled with poison.
When he realised who had been sitting in that seat but was now absent from the royal party, the pieces fell into place like a sandbag falling from the fly tower.
Twenty-Six
His lapels were the nearest thing to grab, and Silas used them to drag James into the corridor. They stumbled through the curtains and staggered to a stop beneath the supercilious glare of a nearby footman. Silas ignored him and tugged James to the far wall where they huddled, whispering.
‘It’s got to be,’ he said, thinking fast.
‘Who?’
‘Stella. She… He is Miss Arnold.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. She’s with Doctor Markland.’
‘Who doesn’t know who she really is. He’s not been… intimate with her.’ Silas remembered Markland’s endless declarations of love. ‘Least that’s what he told me. Either way, it wouldn’t bother the doctor, he goes for both.’
Markland was smitten with the ‘woman’, too smitten to see clearly. Miss Arnold wore a high collar — to cover his Adam’s apple. Her flat chest, her manly appearance that Roxton commented on saying something about her playing a character who dressed as a man and a woman. She was a good actress.
No, he was a vicious whore intent on murder.
‘The letter.’ James waved it. ‘She could have put it in Roxton’s pocket at the dinner. After it. Remember? She was in a hurry to help him with his coat?’
Silas remembered. The more he thought about it, the more sense it made. He’d not seen Stella’s face in August, only a part of it, the rest had been covered by the man’s long hair. He’d recognised a laugh from that night, it could have been Stella or Roxton, but either way, they had both been at Cleaver Street.
‘She wouldn’t take her eyes off Roxton all night,’ Silas said. ‘He must have seduced Markland hoping he would get close to Roxton. He was using the doctor to get into our box.’
‘For a good shot?’
‘Ours is in the perfect position,’ Silas agreed.
‘But the King showed up…’
‘So she had to change her plan…’
They were talking over each other in tumbling realisation.
‘The goblet?’
‘She was backstage with the others in the interval.’ Silas slapped himself on the forehead ‘She switched them. Had a plan B.’
‘Where’s she gone?’
‘I don’t know, Jimmy, but she knows we’re onto her.’
He took a pace away, his hands pressing down on his head as he thought. James peeked through the drapes and reported that Miss Arnold was still absent.
‘She’s not going to leave until it’s done,’ Silas reasoned. ‘Better for her to be seen leaving with the rest of the royal party. Less suspicious. Perfect alibi.’
‘Good point. But what can we do?’
‘I’m working on it, mate.’
‘Listen!’
James clamped his hand over Silas’ mouth and lifted a finger. The music had changed. Before, it had been heavy and full of deep strings and brass, but now it was lighter. A flute played a melody Silas recognised.
‘It’s the last aria,’ James said. ‘”When I am laid in Earth.” It’s a direct copy of the lyric from Purcell’s “Dido and Aeneas.” The words of this aria were written by Nahum Tate in the seventeenth century, not by Giulio Cesare in this one.’
‘Jimmy,’ Silas said pulling a face. ‘You read too much. Come on, we’ve got to work fast.’
‘I reckon we have about six minutes,’ James said, heading towards the backstage entrance.
‘How d’you know that?’
‘Because that’s how long it took Roxton to sing this song with Archer playing the piano.’ He held back the drapes.
‘Really? Felt like two hours to me,’ Silas muttered as he slipped through.
Beyond the connecting door, he kept his back to the wall, staying out of sight of the stage manager.
‘What are we doing?’ James was also pressed flat and static, but his eyes were darting like fireflies.
‘I’m looking for Jake,’ Silas explained. ‘He should be near that desk.’
The stage manager was hunched over his book and didn’t look up from it even when he raised a hand to give a signal. A second later, a
light dimmed. From where they stood, the music was distorted, the sound coming partially from beneath the floorboards and partially from the orchestra pit. Silas made his way cautiously around the desk, creeping deeper upstage with James following, and the music became quieter still. They caught snatches of Roxton’s voice, but only when the singer faced them. Otherwise, all other sound was magically projected outwards, over the heads of the audience. Silas stole carefully to the props table. Sure enough, the tray for the chalice was empty, but in the tray beside it lay the scroll. It gave him a brilliantly idiotic idea.
He felt the familiar tug on his arm as Jake appeared.
‘What’s up now?’ he asked, barely audible.
Silas cupped his ear and whispered while James looked on apprehensively. Jake pulled away, shrugged and cocked his thumb at James.
The footman raised his palms questioningly.
Silas pointed to Jake, who was now pulling at James’ jacket, trying to take it off.
Seeing that Silas was orchestrating the events, James allowed the lad to take his tails but insisted on removing his own waistcoat. Silas was busy writing on the scroll at the time, using a pencil he pulled from behind the ear of a surprised, but unquestioning stagehand. He didn’t see the tussle when Jake tried to remove James’ trousers, and by the time he turned back, Jimmy still wore them, but Jake had disappeared.
‘What the fuck?’ James mouthed urgently.
Silas kept him at bay with one hand while searching beneath the props table. He didn’t find what he was looking for.
‘Damn!’ It was said through gritted teeth.
‘What are you doing?’ James mimed.
Jake was back carrying another frockcoat. He passed the garment to James, and the shock on the footman’s face was comical.
‘If I can do it, so can you,’ Silas hissed. ‘Put it on.’
‘I’m not doing this,’ James protested.
Silas took no notice. ‘I need another gold cup,’ he whispered urgently. ‘A glass? Anything.’
The lad was off again, leaving Silas to help James trembling into the costume.
‘I don’t know what to do.’ James had turned pale.
‘Do what you were doing before.’ Silas grinned and handed him the scroll.
The music was building to what Silas expected to be a chorus, but it suddenly changed. Aeneas apparently sang an even longer version of the aria than that provided by Archer’s library. All the same, the end of the act was fast approaching, the chorus had started to gather at the back of the wings, and two youths were clambering up the gantries to the clouds suspended high above.
Jake was back, thrusting a champagne glass into James’ hand.
‘Do what you’ve been doing since you came to Clearwater, Jimmy.’ The words were mouthed rather than spoken, and only the faintest breath escaped Silas’ lips. ‘You’re a footman and a messenger. There’s no-one better qualified.’ Jake was about to fill the glass, but Silas stopped him.
‘Mr Roxton wants lemon water,’ Jake breathed.
‘He’s not going to get it. Empty is safer. How long until…?’ He sliced a finger across his throat.
Jake held up five fingers.
‘We better get a move on. Ready Jimmy?’
‘No.’
‘Wait!’ Jake held James back and whispered, ‘You’ll put Mr Roxton off. Give him ten bars, and he’ll be downstage. You can do it without him seeing.’
Thomas was confused and concerned. One moment Silas and James were in the opposite box apparently not interested in the opera, and the next they had vanished. Silas had been coming and going all evening and had even turned up backstage. There had been no time and no way to communicate, and he could only hope Silas knew what he was doing.
The viscount had been panicked by His Majesty’s unannounced visit and would have been on edge even without the threat against Roxton. Lady Marshall had calmed him and taken the lead until Archer was able to clear his head of everything apart from entertaining a royal. Thomas kept a close eye, discussed the King’s preferred etiquette with his steward, and had done all he could to ensure the viscount didn’t put a foot wrong.
It hadn’t been easy, but Markland and Miss Arnold had been charming, the actress distracting His Majesty’s young wife when the conversation turned to foreign affairs. Silas’ appearance instead of Roxton had made Archer blanch, and Thomas caught him trembling. He gave him more Champagne to calm him, and Archer was grateful, but when the speech was over, His Lordship demanded something stronger.
That had been the first of a few surprises. The second came when the audience gave Silas’ impromptu speech a loud ovation, and the third when Archer told Thomas he had no idea it was going to happen. The royal party were blissfully unaware of what was taking place backstage and finding Silas scurrying about behind the scenes had been the next shock. It was made more troublesome because it was apparent to Thomas, and probably to Archer that something was wrong. His frustration increased through the second act when, luckily, there were no more surprises, but the closer they came to the finale, with no sudden assassination, the tighter the knot of tension gripped.
He had just completed a scan of the auditorium and was turning his head imperceptibly to the wings when Lady Marshall sat bolt upright. Archer did the same a second later, but no-one else in the house made a movement, so intent were they on Aeneas’ impending suicide.
Thomas glanced to the stage to see a messenger enter at the back. He was a fine figure of a man, dressed the same as Belindo, but he carried himself with more precision, balancing a tray on one palm like a waiter. Thomas thought he would make a fine butler.
Then he saw it was James and nearly fainted. The viscount turned his head accusingly, and all Thomas could do was shrug and gape.
He was distracted from his amazement when Miss Arnold rose to excuse herself and he held back the curtain.
When he turned back, Aeneas was downstage, singing powerfully to the audience about a welcome death and milking the scene for all it was worth. Thomas held his breath. James walked calmly to the pedestal and collected the poisoned chalice Mr Roxton was, at that moment, bewailing. Some of the audience exchanged whispered words, and a few hurried to confer with their programme notes, but by the time they looked up, James had exchanged the chalice for a wine glass, and a scroll had appeared on the pedestal, partly unrolled.
James took two steps back and turned away. Thomas assumed he would exit where he had entered, but he stopped mid-turn. His head spun to the opposite side of the stage and lifted as if he was watching something climb the wall beyond the flats. He changed his tack and walked sedately off stage towards it as Mr Roxton thrilled his audience with complicated vocals that ended with an impossibly high note.
Aeneas had accepted that his end was inevitable, but the composer had decided that the aria wasn’t, and the verse began again. He turned and once again aimed his words at the chalice. To give him his credit, he didn’t flinch when he noticed it had miraculously become a Champagne flute, and approached it, entreating it to bring him a swift end. He reached for it and lingered, presumably reading the note which curled away when he lifted the glass. Holding it for the world to see as if it was a beacon of hope for mankind, he launched into another section of music. It brought a few sniggers from below, and Thomas assumed he was singing the praise of godly gold and ancient jewels while holding something bought at Fortnum and Mason the previous week. Not only that, the goblet should have held the elixir of death from the river Styx, and the wine glass was blatantly empty.
Roxton wasn’t perturbed. He sang with invigorated passion, joy almost, and real tears came to his eyes. He brought the glass to his lips, but Aeneas couldn’t bring himself to drink from it, and crumpled to the floor, wailing that he was not brave enough to die. At least, that’s what Thomas hoped he was saying, there
was no other excuse for his outlandish behaviour.
The aria was starting to drag, and Thomas wondered how much suffering one man could endure. His feet were thumping, and his back was sore from standing to attention for over two hours. He pulled his shoulders and heard them crack. It relieved some tension but didn’t ease his confusion.
Roxton trilled on, now sounding more like a happy sparrow than a suicidal hero. Saving the best for last, his notes were high and true, his range incredible, and he employed excellent projection. He shook the dust from above, and waves of it floated down, catching in the lights, some of which shimmied as if the lanterns, high up and out of sight, were being blown in a breeze.
After what seemed like the longest death scene in theatrical history, the music finally gave an indication of the home straight. The pace increased, the timpani beat a heartbeat cross-rhythm against the swelling strings as death stalked nearer. The orchestra swelled, and more dust and debris fell as if the heavens were being rocked by grief. Aeneas gripped the glass with renewed determination, lifting himself from the floor with the resolve of a fatally wounded man about to throw himself back into the battle. His voice rose and pierced the humid air, bringing tears to the eyes of men and women alike. The lower-class audience cried the same as the upper-class below them. Dock workers passed greying rags to their wives while in the stalls, lords passed monogrammed pocket kerchiefs to theirs. Roxton’s voice temporarily healed the class divide, and for a few emotional minutes, there were no barriers. Everyone knew his pain, understood the agony of his loss. They wept for his suffering as the poisoned glass came ever closer to his lips. Death was classless.
Unspeakable Acts Page 26