Death and the Chaste Apprentice

by Robert Barnard

  “I did hear whispers about that,” said Connie with a shiver of distaste. “It is rather disgusting.”

  “And I’ll tell you this: He likes them young. The younger the better.”

  “ ‘His favorite form of sinning is with one who’s just beginning,’ ” sang Connie, from the Catalogue Aria.

  “That’s it. That’s just about it. If I could catch him with one who was below the age of consent . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “That would do the trick. . . . Trouble is, at that age they’re not usually interested in classical music, are they? And the heavy tells me he’s very careful.”

  “You’ll have to find something else, then.”

  “Yes, I will, won’t I?”

  “And is there anyone else of us that you have your eyes on?”

  “Oh, yes. Oh, there definitely is. No question about that. . . .” Connie sat there quiet, but a cunning expression came into Des’s eyes. “But that would be telling, wouldn’t it? You’re not going to draw me out on that.”

  With a sigh, Connie took out her gin bottle.

  “You know what that stuff does to your kidneys, don’t you?” asked Des. He went on to describe it in detail before leaving with a wave and his favorite addendum: “Don’t mind me telling you, do you?”

  • • •

  Onstage they were rehearsing a quarrel between Sir Pecunius Slackwater, suitor to Alison Greatheart, and the whore of Deptford, who was an old acquaintance.

  SIR PECUNIUS: Out, you babliaminy, you unfeathered, cremitoried quean, you cullisance of scabosity!

  WHORE: Good words, Master Slackwater, to speak before a maid and a virgin.

  SIR PECUNIUS: Hang thy virginity upon the pole of carnality . . .

  By the wall of the courtyard, Natalya, in slacks and jumper, was standing in a patch of sunlight near the windows of the Shakespeare Bar. She was beginning to tap her feet and look anxiously at her watch, but then she saw Peter Fortnum coming through the great gates from the High Street.

  “Did you get through? Have they arrived?” asked Natalya urgently in Russian.

  “No, there’s been some confusion about times. The party’s not due for another hour at least.”

  “Oh, my God.”

  “I think it’s a genuine confusion. There doesn’t seem to be any doubt they will arrive.”

  “I’ve got to go. I’m due at rehearsal in ten minutes.”

  “I know. I’ll stick around and ring them again in an hour or two.”

  “Will you come and tell me?”

  “Yes, if I can. I don’t think I’ll be needed to rehearse here, but you never know what people may take it into their heads to want to go over. But I’ll try.”

  “Please come if you can. Please, Peter.”

  “Of course. You know I will. And it’ll be all right.”

  He took her hand, but they sprang apart as they heard an involuntary cough close to Natalya’s ear. Des Capper was standing just inside the open window of the Shakespeare Bar. From the expression of extreme frustration on his face it was clear that the fatal fascination that Mother Russia had always had for him had never induced him to learn her language.

  • • •

  In the street near the Alhambra Theater the big man with the Midlands accent was approached by a girl.

  “Excuse me, but you’re Gunter Gottlieb’s bodyguard, aren’t you?”

  He looked at her appraisingly. “Something like that.”

  “It’s just that . . . he’s always in such a hurry after rehearsals . . . and I wondered if you could . . . get his autograph for me.”

  She proffered a book. It looked very new. The big man did not take it.

  “Maybe I could . . . And maybe I could go even better.”

  “Really?”

  “Maybe I could arrange a . . . meeting.”

  She smiled up at him, looking all of fifteen. “I wondered if you could.”

  “At a price, of course.”

  • • •

  The operatic offerings of the Ketterick Festival were never premiered until the second or third night. Nothing was allowed to draw attention from that year’s play. Maybe in future years Gunter Gottlieb would change all that, but he had not done so yet. By tradition the musical event on the first night was something undemanding: a Viennese night, a Gilbert and Sullivan evening, a nice bit of Tchaikovsky. This year it was a popular operatic concert. Gunter Gottlieb, needless to say, would have nothing to do with it.

  Thus, the final rehearsal with the Midlands Orchestra in the Town Hall was under the command of a pleasant young man who had done well in a recent conductors’ competition. They’d put together a very nice program, with an overture by Rossini, some ballet music by Verdi, and lots of standard arias. Natalya was singing “Vissi d’Arte” and the letter scene from Eugene Onegin, the Mexican baritone was spitting out Iago’s “Credo,” and Krister Kroll was singing an aria from Faust that the program, through slovenly proofreading, referred to as “Slut! Demure, chaste et pure.” Singh’s arias had presented more of a problem, since the countertenor repertoire hardly counted as popular opera, but Brad had hit on two surefire Handel arias, and these he was to sing in the first half. Brad had insisted he was to conclude the first part of the concert, knowing that the scope for excitement and applause would be the greater if there was nothing coming immediately after.

  Natalya was finishing the letter aria in a glorious flood of sound when Peter arrived at the Town Hall. He listened approvingly. He was no expert on music, but he knew a good sound when he heard one. It was a very informal rehearsal, and the Town Hall was dotted with people. Peter was pleased to note approving glances going from person to person. Natalya came off the platform and into the body of the hall, looking around for him. He put up his hand, and she came over to him.

  “I got through,” said Peter.

  “And?”

  “They’d just arrived.”

  Natalya did not allow herself any obvious expression of relief, but Peter could see her tension relax.

  “All of them?”

  “Yes, all of them. I spoke to him.”

  “Oh—marvelous.”

  “He sent his love.”

  “Only three more days now.”

  Onstage Singh had launched into Caesar’s aria with horn obbligato from Giulio Cesare: “Va tacito e nascosto.” His rich, agile voice was filling the Town Hall effortlessly and was weaving brilliant patterns with the horn. Brad Mallory, sitting in the middle of the hall, looked to be purring.

  “What an extraordinary voice,” said Natalya.

  “Quite amazing.”

  “What else did he say?”

  Peter looked around, instinctively cautious.

  “It’s all right,” said Natalya. “I’m sure that dreadful man doesn’t speak Russian. I could see it in his face.”

  “No, I don’t think so. Anyway, he’s over there.”

  And as Peter launched into an account of what had been said on the phone, he looked toward the back row of seats where Des had ensconced himself, exercising in the absence of Gunter Gottlieb his right as a member of the committee to go anywhere and see anything. He was gazing ahead of him, almost dreamily, with a smile of pure, luxuriating pleasure playing on his lips.

  Chapter 6

  The High Street

  PERFORMANCES of The Chaste Apprentice of Bowe began at seven o’clock. Everything at the Ketterick Festival began early, for many members of the audience were not staying in Ketterick but came from other suburbs and were nervous about traveling on bus or underground late at night. So at six the great gates of the Saracen’s Head were closed, and the small door cut into the right-hand one was opened for the collection of tickets. Everyone, even those seated on the balconies, went through this gate, and the ticket collector stationed himself there from six onward. All the bars were closed to members of the general public until after the performance was over—enough to do to serve the players and the audience. Frank, the hotel
’s commissionaire, stood by the main entrance to the hotel, to the right of the gates, to stop anyone who might try to get into the play without paying by slipping through Reception and then through the Shakespeare Bar.

  Once through the little door in the great gates, the audience, chattering and laughing and sure they were in for a rather special experience, separated up, some going to one or other of the bars, some to sit in their seats and read their programmes, some merely to sit and soak up the atmosphere of the great courtyard. Those who had seats on the balconies had directions on how to get to them on the backs of their tickets—directions which mostly added to their confusion, so indescribable were the complexities of the Saracen’s Head.

  Behind the stage, in one half of the enormous kitchen, and screened off from the rest, the actors changed. The women had the private dining room next to it, but coming and going between the two was frequent and unrestricted. Costume was important in the Ketterick plays, for splendor and variety of dress provided the feast for the eye that compensated for an otherwise bare stage. No producer—not even Jason Thark—had yet suggested a modern-dress production at Ketterick, and anyone who did would have been firmly rebuffed. The stage demanded ruffs and bodices, buskins and codpieces.

  Fish was being served in the dining room that night. The smell penetrated into the dressing rooms and provoked feeble witticisms like “Odds fish!” A limited meal was provided for the few residents not involved in the play and the richer members of the audience. Late-night snacks would also be served after the performance: lasagne, fish pie, or risotto. Most people, though, contented themselves with drinks.

  They were pleasantly busy in the Shakespeare Bar. This meant that Win Capper was run off her feet. Hair drawn back, unhealthily sallow, she somehow looked like a woman who had been run off her feet since girlhood.

  “Des,” she called, unusually daring, when she saw her husband going around the bar doing his Harry Bailly act among the early arrivals for the performance, “do you think you could come behind the bar and help out for a bit?”

  Brad Mallory, sitting at the bar, thought this must be an unprecedented request. He had never seen Des giving a hand at anything around the hotel except Reception. Certainly Des received the request gracelessly, casting his eye up to heaven and taking his time in getting behind the bar.

  “Des,” said his wife, working on an order for three different beers, “you’re going to have to come and help at Interval. I’m not going to be able to cope.”

  “You’ll have Dawn from the kitchen to help you,” said Des, pouring soda into a whiskey in an infuriatingly leisurely manner. “There are three other bars for people to go to, for Chrissake.”

  “The Shakespeare’s the biggest and most popular. There’s only twenty minutes, and people have to have time to drink their drinks. You’ll have to come and help.”

  “All right, little lady,” said Des, leering around at a sea of proffered fivers. “Your wish is my command.”

  “No, I mean it, Des. I need you here.”

  “And I’ll be here. Am I in the habit of not meaning what I say? . . . I ask you, Mr. Mallory, don’t I usually mean what I say? Now, what can I get you?”

  • • •

  Outside in the main entrance Frank, the commissionaire, was getting bored. There was a steady queue waiting to go through the little door into the courtyard, but nobody was attempting to sneak past him into the body of the hotel to get an illicit view from somewhere or other. This was not surprising, as he was six feet two and built like a barrel. The only residents in the hotel at the moment were the festival people, in the rooms over the Shakespeare. Any other would-be guest who had arrived in Ketterick without a bed was turned away by Frank with a word, courteous but final. In fact, there was nobody manning Reception, because there was no point in it. Des had assigned the girls there to other work for the duration of the festival. Frank thought it very dull, really. Still, soon, when the play started, he could walk along and have a chinwag with Bob, the ticket collector on the gate. They were good friends and usually talked the play away during festival time. Unless, this year, that Australian twerp should take it into his head to put a stop to it.

  The poncy Mr. Mallory—Frank had got his number—had come mincing out of the Shakespeare and now came through Reception, looking pale but not interesting. He nodded to Frank as he came through the main entrance and headed off in the direction of the Town Hall, clutching his cloak around him. A cloak, for God’s sake. . . . Des Capper came out almost immediately after.

  “I’ve been helping in the bar,” he announced to Frank, as if it were a newsworthy event. “Helping the little lady. Now they’re all taking their seats. I think I’ll slip in at the back and watch the first few minutes. Mind you, I think I’ve got this play’s number, by seeing the rehearsals. It’s no literary masterpiece, you take my word for it. Still, as a member of the committee, it’s as well to see how the audience is taking it.”

  And he rambled through the little door into the courtyard. Frank gave a meaningful stare, of skepticism verging on contempt, at Bob, standing in the street by the door and taking tickets. So long a stare was it that he nearly missed seeing a young woman going through the main door of the hotel. He hotfooted it back to the door and into the open area around Reception, but by this time the young woman had crossed it and had gone, not to the Shakespeare Bar but to the stairs leading to the bedrooms.

  “Can I help you, miss?” Frank called.

  The girl turned round. She was a cool, fresh little thing, in a bright summer frock—and not much else, Frank guessed. Frank was an ex-soldier and experienced in such matters. A tingle stirred his old blood. She looked about fifteen, he thought, but when she spoke her voice was not a schoolgirl’s.

  “No. No, I don’t think so.”

  It was an attempt—and not a bad one—at upper-class impertinence. Frank bristled.

  “The play’s about to start, miss, and the bars and dining rooms are shut, and—”

  “But I’m not going to the bars or dining rooms, am I?”

  “Would you mind telling me, miss, where you are going?”

  She left a cool pause before she replied. “No, I don’t mind. I’m going to see Gunter Gottlieb. You know, the great conductor.”

  “Ah.” Frank did know. There had been other young ladies. “Mr. Gottlieb’s not occupied with festival stuff, then?”

  “No, evidently not, I should have thought. I have an appointment with him.”

  “I see. Very well, miss. Sorry to have troubled you.”

  She smiled at him, a practiced ingenue smile. Then she turned and went up the stairs. Shaking his head gently, Frank went back to take up his position outside the main door. The evening was clear and sunny, and both Ketterick folk and visitors were strolling along the High Street, window-shopping, eating ice cream, flirting and hoping to be flirted with. The odd car drove past, but no heavy trucks. They were banned from the center of Ketterick during the hours from seven to ten at festival time. Only heavy trucks could have made any impression through the massive gates of the Saracen’s courtyard. Cars, Frank knew, made no disturbance at all.

  A fragment of the play wafted out to him. That meant the ticket gate had opened:

  RALPH GREATHEART: I hope to see thee one o’ the monuments of our City, and reckoned among her worthies, when the famous fable of Whittington and his puss shall be forgotten, and thou and thy deeds played i’ thy lifetime by the best companies of actors, and be called their get-penny . . .

  So the first scene was over, and Carston Galloway was on, inciting the chaste apprentice to City greatness (with Ronnie Wimsett looking and acting about as unlike a City worthy as it was possible to get). Frank had timed things in dress rehearsal, and he knew this meant the play was ten or twelve minutes in. Turning his eyes, he saw that Des Capper had emerged through the little door in the gate and was now closing it.

  “Ah, well, it’s going very much as I expected,” he said judiciously when he c
ame up to Frank. “Quite nicely on the whole. Whether that mob knows what they’re laughing at is another matter, but so long as they think they’re enjoying themselves, that’s the main thing. Make ’em laugh, make ’em cry, eh? I haven’t read up much about this opera they’re doing yet, but I expect it’s the same principle there. That’s show biz, the world over. . . . Well, I’ll maybe look in during the second half to see how it’s going. Meanwhile, I’ll be in Reception if I’m wanted, Frank.”

  “Right you are, sir.”

  “Or up in the flat. Call up the stairs if I’m wanted. Keep on the door the whole of the first half. We don’t want any gate-crashers seeing the play for free.”

  “Right. Oh, by the way, there was a young girl, sir . . .”

  “Oh?”

  “But she was a guest of Mr. Gottlieb’s. . .”

  They looked at each other, and Des laughed lasciviously. “Someone should have told me that at festival time this place doubles as a brothel.”

  He winked and chuckled, as if that were a high honor. Then he went in and turned towards the reception desk, apparently in high good humor.

  For a few minutes Frank stood just inside the door, looking out, hearing Des fiddling around on and under the desk. Then Des went into the manager’s room behind. Frank nonchalantly went through the door into the street and stood for a few minutes there. The characters had changed a bit from a half hour earlier, but the activities were much the same. As a spectacle it lacked variety. So, giving a nod to his friend Bob, who was standing by his little door, they met halfway, towards the end of the hotel wall. From here they could both keep an eye on their respective doors, yet there were no open windows to inhibit them from launching into a fine old discussion. Men, contrary to general belief, are much the best gossips, and the festival and its artists always provided these two with ample manure to spread. Every year it was the same, and they went at it with a will.