‘Really?’ said Pauline. ‘Miss Tavelock, in that case. How odd. But don’t worry about the play. Leonard is very strict about “text”.’ She groaned. ‘Don’t ask why unless you’ve got an hour to spare.’
Penny gave a sour look. Leonard, I gathered, was not to be laughed at. ‘We double up, Mother,’ she said. ‘It keeps down the wage bill. Julian plays Malcom and he also plays second murderer and Menteith, I think.’
‘No, Miles is Menteith,’ said one of the young men. ‘And Donalbain, a doctor, first murderer, a lord and a king.’
‘But how is it possible?’ Minnie said. ‘Doesn’t it turn the play into a farce?’
‘Not at all,’ said Penny. ‘Leonard has put it together exquisitely, like a watchmaker.’
‘I’m not just Lady Macduff,’ said Pauline Tavelock, cutting in on the paean, which was indeed rather sickening. ‘I’m also the first witch and Fleance with my hair tucked in a cap.’ She pointed over to a hoydenish young woman standing up in the back of the other cart. ‘Tansy there is third witch, the boy Siward, MacDuff’s son, and a servant. And Roger over there,’ she hailed a rather barrel-like young man who was hefting trunks like a navvy, ‘is MacDuff, a sergeant, a Scottish doctor, a king and an apparition.’
Nothing less like an apparition could ever be imagined; Roger was red faced and shining from his exertions and his waistcoat buttons strained over his middle in a testament to his tailor. As he let the last of the trunks drop to the cobbles he wiped his neck with a red-spotted handkerchief and then shook us all vigorously by the hand. Even Ottoline, who looked astonished by the impertinence.
‘Thank you for letting us invade your castle,’ he said, in an unexpectedly sweet voice. When he spoke, at last one could believe he was a stage actor. ‘It’s perfect for us, Mrs Bewer, and we shall do our best to make it profitable for you.’
Despite the bald reference to money the speech was so nicely turned that Minnie merely smiled. As the actors moved off, dragging trunks towards an open door, and Penny busied herself coiling up the ropes that had held them in place on the carts, Minnie murmured: ‘Why couldn’t she fall for him? He’s obviously been properly brought up. And heaven knows he looks to be good stock.’
‘I’m glad to see such thrift in the company,’ I said hastily as Penny jumped down and joined us. ‘One does wonder about actors, doesn’t one? That they might be grand and starry and ask for oysters at breakfast. But this lot seem very …’ I drifted into silence at the sound of a motorcar trundling over the rickety bridge and through the gatehouse arch. It was an elderly but well-cared-for Daimler and as it drew to a stop, out of it stepped two equally elderly but almost as well-cared-for actors of the very grandest type I could imagine.
They were the very starry oyster-eaters I had just been congratulating Minnie on avoiding. The gentleman, who had been driving, wore a soft hat of a pale camel colour and had a light mackintosh draped about his shoulders like an opera cloak. Add the mauve handkerchief that foamed out of his top pocket in artfully careless trails and the outfit of a dandy was complete. I decided that he had been such a dandy in his dreamy youth and had never updated his wardrobe. These days, he was a mountain of a man – he would have made even the navvy Roger look willowy, if standing by his side – and his hair, eyebrows and moustaches were dyed the harsh black of a dead crow, which clashed nastily with the complexion of a lifelong bon viveur.
His companion stood in the shade of his hat, and looked like a pixie sheltering from raindrops under a toadstool. She was barely five feet tall and as slim as a boy. She was, truth be told, rather too slim for her advanced years, the lack of flesh beneath her skin making her look dried out and rather raddled. Her hands, one of which was held aloft by the large man, as if he thought they were about to dance a minuet, were skeletal, liver-spotted and trembling.
Then she smiled and one could see the point finally. Her face lit up, eyes shining, cheeks gleaming, teeth twinkling and even her hair, unlikely loops of bright yellow, turning to gold.
‘Reporting for duty,’ the grand man said, sweeping his soft hat from his black hair and bowing low.
‘Welcome to Castle Bewer,’ Penny said. ‘Mother these are Mr and Mrs Dunstane.’
‘Now, now,’ said the elderly lady, ‘I’m Sarah Byrne when I’m working, Penny. I’m only Mrs Moray Dunstane when I’m bent over my mending basket.’ She simpered up at her husband, who crooned down at her and stroked her hand. I turned slightly away; I have never been able to bear married people flirting.
‘And besides, we are more properly Duncan and Lady M,’ her husband said.
‘Duncan, Old Siward, an old man, Third Murderer and a King!’ said Penny. ‘I’ve just been explaining how clever Leonard has been. And Lady Macbeth is a king too, Mrs Gilver. In the procession. Because of Queen Mary. Do you see?’
Sarah Byrne had, however, drawn herself up to her full, if rather negligible, height and was staring haughtily at Penny. ‘Never,’ she said. ‘I am Lady Macbeth and Moray is Duncan. We are not dogsbodies.’
‘I think the contracts—’ Penny began.
‘My contract is with the bard,’ said Mr Dunstane in a voice quaking with emotion. ‘I give my Duncan!’ He paused. ‘And Siward.’
‘Hmph,’ said Penny softly. ‘Contract with the bard, my eye. Siward has a speech on the last page and Duncan’s dead by the end of Act I!’
I had to look down at my feet to make sure of not giggling.
‘Although the Old Man is too important to leave to chance,’ Dunstane went on, stroking his moustaches. I was half-surprised not to see the extraordinary black come off on his fingers.
‘Middle of Act II,’ Penny murmured from the side of her mouth. ‘The thing is, Moray,’ she said at normal volume, ‘that this parsimonious casting doesn’t allow for any further switches. Leonard has it worked out to the last little scene, quick changes and everything.’
‘I change in my dressing room,’ said Sarah. ‘With my dresser.’
‘Well, as to dressers,’ said Penny doubtfully.
Then the day was saved. Grant and Alec – very much Grant and Alec; that billing – made themselves known from where they had been lounging behind a stout buttress.
‘There’s no need to worry,’ Grant said. ‘I can be Bloody Mary in the procession of kings. It won’t be the first time. And what is it you need by way of a gentleman, Miss Bewer? Another king?’ she displayed Alec as though he were a side of salmon on the fishmonger’s slab. He lifted his chin regally.
‘And third murderer,’ Penny said.
Alec rounded his shoulders and narrowed his eyes.
‘And I’ll very happily dress you, Miss Byrne,’ Grant went on. ‘There’s a whole act between the kings and when you need to be back on in your nightgown.’
She had not sounded happier since the days we used to go to Paris to look at the new season’s modes. I was ready to step in as her second should Sarah Byrne cavil, but the arrangement seemed to meet with guarded approval from the great actress.
‘Your name, child?’ she said.
‘Cordelia Grant,’ came the reply. It is always a surprise when I am reminded of Grant’s Christian name and I think it was Alec’s first hearing, for he opened his eyes very wide. ‘My parents’ company did not only do Shakespeare, but my father’s Lear was the jewel of the repertoire. I got to shake the thunder sheet if I’d been a good girl.’
The approval was not even guarded now. Grant’s credentials had been presented and were given the seal of approval. Miss Byrne put out a hand and Grant managed something between a shake and a curtsey without making it seem the least bit awkward.
Muttering that she would need Leonard’s blessing, Penny hurried away.
‘Well now, Miss Byrne,’ said Minnie, ‘now that that’s all taken care of, I shall summon Pugh to show you to your quarters. Dandy, if you would just give Mama your arm to her sitting room.’
‘No need, Mrs Bewer,’ said Grant. ‘I had a quick look at the players’ roo
ms first thing, just to check them over – actors need good air moving through and couldn’t settle with a smoky chimney. It’s the voice, you see. They must protect the voice at all costs at the start of a run. Isn’t that so? So I can show the Dunstanes to their room.’
I thought I saw Sarah open her mouth again to insist on ‘Miss Byrne’ but since the topic at hand was her sharing a bedroom with Mr Dunstane, decency prevailed and she merely inclined her head. Minnie, though, had reached her limits. My maid might have burst into the breakfast room with fairy wings and might have cast herself in a play and inspected the castle’s appointments but she was not to show distinguished guests to their quarters. The four of them moved off together, leaving Alec, Ottoline and me.
‘That girl will go far,’ Ottoline said. ‘And how are you two getting on?’
‘We’ve been making sketches of the castle,’ Alec thundered. ‘No don’t worry, Dandy. I must try to get into the habit of projecting before opening night. And we’re going to search—’
‘I’m not deaf,’ Ottoline said. ‘I heard everything except whatever Penny was muttering. I’m glad to think someone is going to constitute a proper search at long last.’
‘Has no one ever mounted a search?’ I said. Alec was clearing his throat; if he were going to ‘project’ for eight performances a week he would need Grant to coach him in the technique.
‘I didn’t care where the bally thing had got to,’ Ottoline said. ‘Bluey was too superstitious to want it for Minnie and I think Minnie didn’t like to appear too avaricious. Penny used to amuse herself with it when she was a child. Hunt the ruby is a lot more fun than hunt the thimble, at least until it begins to dawn that one’s never going to find it. But unless the servants have gone rootling, I’d say no.’
It was hard to believe. A priceless jewel had been lost for thirty years and no one had looked for it? I was sorry I had announced aloud my plan to go bothering retired servants. Alec’s fingers twitched.
‘I think I’ll just shoot off then,’ he said. ‘As you pointed out, Dandy, the bedrooms of the players should be searched first and then the guest rooms.’
‘And I’m off to the village, Ottoline,’ I said. ‘But when I return, I’d like to look at Richard’s letters to you from all those years ago. Assuming you kept them.’
‘His letters? Why?’ Ottoline said.
‘Oh, we always like to have a good look at everything,’ I assured her.
‘Any letters at all, to get his measure? Or just the last ones from abroad, to …?’
‘Ideally, the ones from abroad,’ I said. ‘Could you lay your hands on them easily?’
‘I don’t have them tied in a pink ribbon under my pillow,’ she said. ‘But yes, I daresay I could find them if I hunt through my belongings.’ She looked troubled and I hastened to reassure her.
‘I shan’t mind a scrap what’s in them, if he said mean things to you. We very often catch people at their worst moments, you know.’ But still she looked worried. ‘It’s more the postmarks and any hints of his whereabouts that interest me. If we could find out through friends of friends – consulates or embassies, even – that he ended his days in comfort we might conclude that the sale of the ruby provided it.’
‘Hmm,’ said Ottoline. ‘Well, there might have been a consulate at his first stop, but when he got as far as Zanzibar …’
‘It’s worth trying,’ Alec chimed in. ‘If we could find out that he actually showed someone the ruby, then we can all stop worrying about the curse falling, the taxman grasping and the lodgers stumbling on the thing.’
Ottoline’s brow twitched at the word ‘lodgers’ but then cleared. Her smile to me was wide with relief. ‘I don’t see what harm could come from any of that,’ she said. ‘Although success seems unlikely.’ She turned to Alec. ‘Young man, if you would escort me to my sitting room, I shall start searching for the letters right now.’
My heart was touched to see Alec so solicitous, slowing his pace and bending to catch her feeble voice, and I stood staring after them until the door was shut at their backs. I was not wool-gathering now. I was troubled: I was experiencing that oh-so familiar and oh-so unwelcome sensation that I had missed a turning on the path already. Someone had told me something, deliberately or not, that I should have noted. I drew out the little notebook and propelling pencil, beloved of me and scorned by Alec, and made in it the very first of a great many scribblings.
‘Letters? Cast? Multiple roles? Dresser? Floor plan? Hunt the thimble? PIP!’
The last of these was my own personal code telling me to find the tiny nugget that mattered amid an ocean of senseless chatter. I knew better than to rush after it. I simply put it out of my mind and took myself off to visit Nanny.
8
Castle Bewer’s pension cottages lay a pleasant half-mile along the lane from the field-gate and a lane in June is a pleasant thing indeed, when the rain stops. The meadowsweet waved in the light breeze, releasing its pungency, and red butterflies dotted here and there between the cornflowers and purple vetch. If I had ever met this Nanny I might have picked her a posy but – not knowing whether she’d welcome them or whether she, like my Nanny Palmer, would rather have a neat bunch of dahlias well-shaken out by the gardener to remove the earwigs – I held myself in check.
The cottages were built after the fashion of alms houses, I noted as I drew near, with more of a view to the pride of the benefactor than to the comfort of the residents, since they bristled with picturesque details – the middle one in the row had a clock tower on top of it – but were truly tiny. Even if Nanny herself proved too loyal to be indiscreet, no one living at such close quarters with her neighbours could be much of an enigma.
The front gardens were a picture. I rather thought, as I looked over the hedge, that a gardener must have retired here and set himself up as the commander of the entire row, for the same effusion of roses was rioting in every little patch, with the same carpet of columbine below, the same musky currant bushes at each gate and the same lavender lining each path. It was delightful to the eye, if rather overwhelming to the nose, and I paused at the gate of number three to drink it in.
Nanny, as a result, got the chance to take a good look at me through her lace curtains and then stump to her door on two sticks and throw it wide. She was an ancient woman, or at least appeared so. Bent like a crochet hook and with a face lined in stripes like mattress ticking from brow to collar. Her hair was no more than a few wisps peeping out from under a limp cap and the rest of her costume was a black garment that skimmed the floor as she walked and a blue cambric apron on top, the like of which I had not seen since my mother’s maidservants turned out whole rooms in their great spring cleaning. She took a long moment to see if there was any way she could slam the door without speaking and failing to find one, she hailed me.
‘Are you an actor?’ she said in a voice, somewhat gruff from age but still not one with which I would trifle. I wondered briefly if something about me suggested it, since this was the second enquiry on those lines today, but I answered genially.
‘I’m a friend of Mrs Minnie, Nanny. I’d like to beg a little of your time, please?’
It was a message in code and she swiftly deciphered it. A woman in her forties calling a perfect stranger by what amounted to a pet name and referring to a third party by another was really saying: I am one of the club. I am something you understand. You have no reason to fear me.
Nanny gave a thoughtful nod then, after a final swift look up and down, deemed me acceptable and waved me in the gate with one of her sticks.
Once I had jostled myself into the cottage, negotiating a hallway – so small with its three doors that it was more like the way into a sheep pen than the anteroom to a human dwelling – I settled in the little room that served as parlour, dining room and kitchen combined. I congratulated myself on eschewing the hedgerow posy. Nanny’s cottage was a testament to orderliness, the only flowers being made of folded coloured paper and stuck into a cork
dome like hatpins. My blowsy meadowsweet would not have been welcome here.
I sat down, while Nanny pegged out to the scullery on her sticks with an enormous black kettle under her arm, pish-poshing vehemently my mild suggestion that I might help her. Clearly, I would make some unbearable mess of her household if I were to attempt anything so ambitious as turning on a tap and holding a kettle spout under it. It was hard to believe that this woman had ever watched a household fall into disorder simply because its mistress had stopped paying attention.
There were two armchairs in the little living room, one either side of the range and each with a baggy crocheted slipcover tied on top of its original leatherette. They were terrifically slippery as a result and one had to brace one’s feet against the floor to save from shooting right off and landing on the hearthrug with a wallop. This curtailed quite a bit of my attempt to twist around and make a proper survey. I had to settle for a close scrutiny of the high mantel where, as I had expected, I saw photographs of Minnie and Bluey, another of an infant Penny on a donkey and one of her in her coming-out dress.
There was, as well, a framed telegram; that same, framed, black-edged telegram that adorned so many cottage mantels still. If Hugh was right, I thought, and trouble really was brewing again from the same quarter, future generations would not even bother to keep the two wars apart in their minds and we – our lives, lived after 1918 and before whatever was coming – would be a forgotten interlude. I turned my thoughts as resolutely from these notions as I turned my eyes to the table by Nanny’s chair. My sons were twenty-one and twenty-two and there could not be a war until they were each safely forty. I would not countenance it.
The little table containing the requisite items for Nanny’s quiet fireside days was very revealing. There was no Bible upon it, but there was the latest issue of Picture Show and two earlier issues lower down in the pile like the kind of evidence archaeologists use to establish early history. I used these to establish Nanny’s character as open to the entertainments of melodrama, should any be in the offing. It was possible, of course, that the magazine was an unwanted gift subscription. It is the fate of us all to be a burden to our loved ones when it comes to the choosing of gifts. Donald and Teddy, once they were past the age of offering taper boxes they had made themselves in the nursery, racked their brains each birthday and again at Christmas and never managed to think of a single desired item to wrap in crepe paper and present to me. I thanked them for handkerchief cases, china models of Dalmatians and more writing paper than I could use if I were exiled to Alba for the rest of my days, then quietly bought my own little treats. As for Hugh, he took my hints about sapphire earrings and emerald bracelets as jests, smiled grimly, and on Christmas mornings spent so much time explaining the wonders of the new telescopic toasting fork or self-replenishing blotter he had found for me that my disappointment had gone by the time he was done and I always managed to thank him nicely.
Dandy Gilver and a Spot of Toil and Trouble Page 8