‘What do you mean?’ asked Holmes, a note of curiosity in his voice.
‘To speak frankly, we were very fortunate to secure the services of Miss Ballantyne for The Lavender Girl. At the time I approached her with the offer, she happened to be between engagements. Since then, however, as I am only too aware, several other offers have been made to her and she could probably increase her earnings, and appear in a somewhat more fashionable class of theatre, by accepting one of these other offers. I know for a fact, for instance, that my great rival, Kempston Vernon, would dearly love to have Miss Ballantyne as his leading lady in his forthcoming production at the Agora. This offer, of course, she would be free to accept if The Lavender Girl were cancelled.’
‘But that is surely not a circumstance she would welcome,’ interrupted Holmes. ‘As one of the financial sponsors of the production, her husband would, I take it, be considerably out of pocket if your production were cancelled.’
‘That is certainly true – and the sum would not be a small one. A great deal of money has already been invested in The Lavender Girl.’
‘The financing of the production is divided between the two of you?’
Hardy shook his head. ‘It is divided three ways. Count Laszlo of Sipolia is also standing for a third of it. You may be familiar with his name. He is a great patron of the London stage, renowned, among other things, for the lavish receptions he holds at the Langham Hotel, and a man I have known for many years. It was largely as a result of his encouragement – and financial support, too, I must admit – that I made the decision to purchase the Albion and the Southwark Palace three years ago. Of course the Palace is a ruin and was consequently thrown into the bargain for practically nothing. Count Laszlo’s idea was that we would use the profits from successful productions at the Albion to finance the rebuilding of the Palace, which we could then let out to others. Count Laszlo is also, I might add, a long-time admirer of Miss Ballantyne. I believe he once even entertained thoughts of seeking her hand in matrimony. Whether he asked her and she turned him down, or whether he never quite reached the point of asking the question, I cannot say. Either way, it doesn’t matter now, as his opportunity has gone; but I know that he still follows her career with great interest. When he heard that she had agreed to appear in The Lavender Girl, he approached me and offered to provide some, at least, of the finance for the play. I say that he ‘‘offered’’ the money, but to say that he insisted on my taking it would be nearer the mark. “With Isabel Ballantyne in the leading role,” said he, “the play cannot fail to be an unparalleled success!” I hope he is right.’
‘If Miss Ballantyne were to withdraw from the production for any reason, could it continue without her?’ asked Holmes.
‘In theory it could; but our chances of having a success with it would be very greatly reduced. If it were to happen, Lydia Summers would take over Miss Ballantyne’s role and one of the girls from the chorus would take over that of Miss Summers. I am sure they would all do their best to make it a success, but it would not be the same, either for us, or, more importantly, for the public. Isabel Ballantyne is like one of the stars in the firmament at the moment: in respect of her gifts and her accomplishments, she is an immeasurable distance above all her rivals; her radiance is steady and unblinking, and the public’s desire to gaze upon it appears to be insatiable. For Miss Summers to take over Miss Ballantyne’s role would be a difficult and unenviable task. Miss Summers is an enthusiastic enough young lady, and has a reasonably pleasant singing voice, but she is very inexperienced and her acting perhaps leaves something to be desired.’
‘What, if I may ask, made you choose Miss Summers for the present production, considering that you appear unsure as to her accomplishments?’ asked Holmes.
A look of discomfort came over our visitor’s features. ‘It is one of those compromises which life is constantly demanding of one,’ he replied at length. ‘Her father is Sir Cecil Summers, the wealthy ship owner. I met him socially some eight or nine months ago, and in the course of our conversation he implied that he was interested in becoming a patron of the theatre and perhaps investing money in our future productions. He even offered to purchase the Palace from me, although what he intended to do with it, I don’t know. Anyway, you will understand that when his daughter applied for the second female role in The Lavender Girl, I felt obliged to give her application greater consideration than I might otherwise have done. I discussed the matter extensively with Count Laszlo and Captain Trent, who both thought she should be given a chance, and it was decided in the end that we would offer her the part. She would not, in all honesty, have been my first choice, but she is acceptable and will not, I think, let us down. Whether, in the long run, she will make much of a career upon the stage, I do not know. She is not the most gifted young performer I have had under my wing; but on the other hand, I have observed in her a certain streak of ruthlessness, which can be useful in this business. No doubt she takes after her father. They do say that it was his ruthlessness which brought Sir Cecil Summers his great wealth.’
‘And your leading men, Ludovic Xavier and Jimmy Webster?’ queried Holmes, as his visitor paused.
‘The first thing to say is that they are like chalk and cheese, and do not get on very well together.’
‘I rather fancied as much from an incident Miss Ballantyne recounted.’
‘And yet they play well together on the stage, and the public seems to like both of them; so the fact that they scarcely speak to each other when off the stage does not appear to matter. I dare say you are familiar with their names, for both have enjoyed considerable success and popularity in recent years, and have had their names blazoned across theatrical posters throughout London.
‘The case with Ludovic Xavier, however, is an unusual one. A year ago, I should have said, as in the case of Miss Ballantyne, that we were fortunate to secure his services for the present production. He has always been a useful sort of actor, known for his fine speaking voice and a certain “presence” on stage. He is also very experienced, having played in many different types of theatrical production. Indeed, many years ago, as a young man, he worked with Solomon Tanner himself, at the Albion. This last year, however, has been something of a singular one for him, as a result of which I am inclined to think that he benefits from our present agreement quite as much as I do.
‘Somewhat over a year ago he became bored with the London stage and determined to display his talents to the country at large. He therefore booked theatrical halls here, there and everywhere, and set forth on a tour of the provinces in a special entertainment devised and performed entirely by himself. This seems to have consisted largely of brief extracts from Hamlet, Macbeth and others of Shakespeare’s plays, blended together with selections from Gulliver’s Travels and Robinson Crusoe, with numerous connecting passages written by Xavier himself, which were, according to his brochure, both humorous and pathetic. This bizarre concoction was described by one critic, with what I must admit seemed like justice, as a “monstrous farrago”. The title Xavier gave to it, incidentally, was “Ludovic Xavier in Strange Times and Places”, and I gather that this title rather summed up his tour of the country. In many places, I understand, the patience of the audience proved less enduring than the performance. In Newcastle-upon-Tyne, I am told, half the audience took advantage of the first interval to escape from the theatre altogether and, in Carlisle, Xavier was heckled from the stage. It was therefore in a somewhat chastened humour that he returned to London. In some quarters he had by then been re-christened “Ludicrous Failure”, although I don’t think he was ever aware of it. No one would dare say such a thing to his face. He is a dangerous man to cross and he never forgets a slight. Anyhow, at the time I met him he was feeling somewhat lowered, and eager to accept any part which promised to restore in some measure his professional pride and his fortune, both of which had taken something of a battering in the previous months. Since our rehearsals began, however, his old pride being evidently rap
idly restored by his new employment, he has scarcely ceased to complain about the limitations of his role in The Lavender Girl, the inadequacy of the dialogue I have written for him and goodness knows what else. If he were able to cancel his contract tomorrow and seek another production, I suspect that he might do so. Much to my surprise, however, in the midst of his dissatisfaction, as it were, he has taken a professional interest in Lydia Summers. Perhaps he sees something in the girl which reminds him of himself when he was first starting out in the profession, many years ago. Who can say? Anyway, whatever the reason, he has been helping her a little, coaching her with her performance and so on, which I have been pleased to see.
‘Jimmy Webster, the comic actor, is, on the surface at least, as different from Xavier as it is possible to be. He is generally an agreeable sort of person and is fairly amenable to most suggestions put to him. He has been very popular with the public in recent years and, as with Miss Ballantyne, I considered myself fortunate to secure his services. I know, from previous experience, that there is an odd, dark side to his character, but he keeps it well hidden in public. He can also be extremely bad tempered sometimes; but at least he is usually sober, unlike many other comic actors I have known. His chief vice, at least as far as his fellow-actors are concerned, seems to be to deliberately provoke irritation in others for no reason other than his own satisfaction. He also has a habit which some people find tedious, of couching much of what he says in mock-Shakespearean language. This irritates Xavier intensely, for some reason, but most other people simply ignore it.’
‘Is Webster content to be in The Lavender Girl?’ asked Holmes.
‘So I believe. He has certainly given me no indication otherwise.’
‘And the remainder of the cast?’
‘They are in the main fairly young and inexperienced. As far as I am aware, they are all keen to play their parts in the production.’
Holmes sat for some time in silent thought, his brow furrowed in concentration, as he considered the matter. Presently, with a shake of the head, he took up his pipe from the hearth, knocked out the old tobacco and began to refill it with fresh. As he did so, he recounted briefly to his visitor the incidents which Isabel Ballantyne had described to us earlier. ‘Is there anything else you can recall which Miss Ballantyne has overlooked?’ he asked at length, as he lit a spill in the fire and applied it to the bowl of his pipe.
‘As a matter of fact,’ responded Hardy, ‘there is an incident of which she is quite unaware, as it occurred only yesterday evening, after she had left the theatre. To speak plainly, it was this incident which finally made up my mind that I would seek your advice. I did not wish to mention it earlier, whilst Miss Ballantyne was present, as I feared it would only increase her anxieties.’
‘The details, please!’
‘I cannot vouch for the reliability of my informant, who is one of my seamstresses, but I will describe it to you as it was described to me. I must first, however, tell you something of our costuming arrangements. You may not be aware of it, but many theatrical companies nowadays have only very small wardrobes of their own and hire in most of what they need from a few large specialist costumiers. The inevitable consequence of this, of course, is that whichever productions theatre-goers choose to attend, they are likely to see exactly the same costumes over and over again at different theatres. I made the decision, when we took over the Albion, that we would make as many of our own costumes as possible, and thus present the public with something fresh to look at on almost every occasion they could be lured into the theatre. I have, I believe, a certain flair in the costume line myself. I may be no Charles Worth, but, between us, my needlewomen and I have produced many memorable stage costumes. After all, you don’t need the services of a master tailor to produce outfits for pirates, brigands and the like, and my ladies have a real eye for pretty outfits to costume their own sex. Already, my decision to be independent of the large costumiers has reaped its own rewards: we now hire out our costumes to other companies and, I might say, make a handsome profit from doing so! I dare say the public is of the opinion that the actors are the most important part of a theatrical company, but their contribution to a production is frequently exaggerated – and I speak as one who was an actor for more years than I care to remember! Apart from exceptional talents, such as Isabel Ballantyne, most actors could in fact be replaced by others without any difference in the performance being apparent. This, however, is certainly not the case with seamstresses. A gifted needlewoman, Mr Holmes, is truly worth her weight in gold! It is for this reason that I am especially anxious at yesterday evening’s incident, which concerned these ladies. There are four of them and each one is a treasure! They have all been with me for almost as long as I have had the Albion and have played a large part in making our company the success it is. I cannot have them upset in this way! Were they to leave, I really don’t know how I should carry on!
‘Now, as to the incident in question. It occurred early yesterday evening, not long before the ladies were due to set down their needles for the day. One of them had left the sewing-room and entered the costume store-rooms, which are immediately adjacent, in order to select a dress, which was to be altered slightly and adapted for Miss Summers. These store-rooms, I should explain, consist of several interconnecting chambers. The two which are nearest to the corridor contain our ladies’ wardrobe. As the girl entered the first of these rooms, she had a lantern in her hand, for there is no gas laid on in there. She hung the lantern on a hook by the door and proceeded to sort through a rack of dresses. Whilst she was so engaged, she became conscious of a slight noise somewhere in the room. Next moment, something touched her upon the shoulder. She turned, and was startled to see someone standing immediately behind her.’
‘Who?’
‘She could not make it out. All she can say is that it was a dark figure, wearing some sort of hood, which hid his face. Then he blew out the lantern, leaving her in the dark, and ran off. Of course, she screamed and carried on screaming until the other seamstresses, hearing her cries through the adjoining wall, hurried to see what had happened. It took them some time to calm her down, as you will imagine, and then they all came together to report the matter to me. I have promised them that I will take steps to improve the lighting in the basement and have given them strict instructions not to mention the incident to anyone else. If it were to become public knowledge, I have little doubt that the result would be absolutely disastrous. My staff would resign in such numbers that it might prove impossible to keep the theatre open at all. It is bad enough having the needlewomen upset. It would be even worse if everyone else was in the same state! As it is, one of the other needlewomen told me that she, too, had heard odd noises in the costume store a week or so ago, but had kept the matter to herself. Whether that is true or not, I don’t know; but in any case they have all vowed not to enter the costume store alone in future.’
‘When this dark figure ran off,’ Holmes interrupted, ‘did the girl see in which direction he went?’
‘Unfortunately not. The light had, as I say, been extinguished, and in any case, she was too frightened to look. She heard his footsteps in the corridor, that is all.’
‘Very well,’ said Holmes. ‘You are returning to the theatre now, I take it? Will your seamstresses still be there?’
‘Certainly.’
‘Then I shall come with you, take a look about, and interview these ladies of yours. Would you care to accompany us, Watson? It may prove an interesting experience!’
I readily agreed, and three minutes later, heavily muffled against the bitter cold, we were in a cab and rattling through the West End towards the river. As we passed along the Strand, a heavy shower of hail beat upon the roof of the cab like lead shot. This was followed, just moments later, as we turned on to Waterloo Bridge, by sheets of icy, driving rain.
‘Thank the Lord for civilisation!’ cried Hardy in a humorous tone, as he surveyed the dismal scene outside. ‘Thank goodness for coal
fires and warm sitting-rooms! Let us just hope the weather is not so bad on Saturday, when The Lavender Girl opens, or no one will turn up! I don’t suppose,’ he continued, turning to Holmes, ‘that you have been able to form any theory as to why we have been suffering such persecution lately, at the Albion?’
Holmes shook his head.
‘The data are very meagre,’ he replied, ‘and one cannot make bricks without clay. There are too many possibilities for it to be worth our while even enumerating them.’
‘Oh, quite,’ said Hardy, sounding a little disappointed at the response.
‘Nevertheless,’ continued Holmes with a chuckle, ‘I am confident of turning something up. I appreciate how highly you esteem your needlewomen, Mr Hardy, and shall devote all my energies to bringing peace and tranquillity to your sewing-room once more!’
III
The rain had stopped by the time we reached the theatre, but the pavements were wet and greasy, and the front of the theatre, its brickwork darkened by years of exposure to London soot and smoke, had a damp and dilapidated appearance after the recent showers. A grimy glass canopy stood out from the wall all along the front of the building and protected the lower part, which was adorned with bright posters announcing the forthcoming play, upon which the name of Isabel Ballantyne was prominent.
‘This way, if you please,’ called Hardy over his shoulder, as he led us in through the front entrance of the theatre. Off to one side, just inside the doors, was a small room, with little windows which overlooked the entrance lobby, and here we left our coats before following our guide through into the auditorium. There, a group of cleaners was at work in the stalls, and from the rear of the stage came busy sounds of sawing and hammering. We passed through a door on the right, near the front of the auditorium, then through a second door, and down a stone staircase to the basement, where corridors went off to right and left.
The Mammoth Book of the New Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes Page 11