‘Best just to forget about it now and move on,’ said Jane. ‘She’ll learn.’
‘Blessed are the peacemakers,’ said Iwan cynically.
‘What would you have done, then? We still need the man’s money.’
‘Anyway, it was only a warning,’ said Sam. ‘We’re not any worse off for it, are we?’
‘We could scarcely be any worse off,’ sighed Millicent. ‘The creature can’t even speak proper English or read a line without fluffing it. She’s never going to be a Prince Charming by Saturday. Frankly, Alastair, if you’re not prepared to sack her, we’re sunk.’
‘And the five hundred pounds?’
‘He can hardly take it back now.’
‘Don’t you believe it.’
‘I’ll be going now, then,’ said Clare, shouldering her heavy equipment bag.
Alastair jumped to his feet. ‘Clare, dahling, I’m so sorry. I’ve neglected you dreadfully. Can we expect you tomorrow, for the mice? We sell the mothers their photos, you see, for a small profit. The money goes straight to the cast, and to you, naturally.’
‘Yes, of course. See you tomorrow.’ She glanced a little awkwardly at Jane and Figgy. ‘If I could just have a word with you two?’
They paused outside in the meandering corridor, known to all as the catacomb, that also contained the dressing rooms and other offices.
‘Did you want to walk home with us?’ said Jane. ‘I have to change first.’
‘No, it’s all right, thanks,’ said Clare, ‘John’s meeting me at the stage-door today; though it’s a little early yet. It’s just . . .’ she glanced behind her. ‘It’s a bit awkward actually.’
Figgy drew her into the untidy dressing room she shared with Jane, switching on the light. There was the usual waft of stale sweat, powder and greasepaint. ‘Don’t you want to do this anymore?’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t blame you if you don’t. It’s rather a tense atmosphere at the moment.’
Clare shook her head. ‘No, it’s not that. I’m really enjoying it; although I don’t like to see you all so miserable obviously, but —’
‘It’s not Arthur, is it?’ said Jane. ‘The wandering hands. He’s perfectly harmless, you know, and always apologises. I think it’s a sort of tic.’
‘He responds well to a good kicking,’ added Figgy.
‘Is he like that?’ said Clare, surprised. ‘I’d never have guessed. But it’s not Arthur, it’s Vladlena actually. You see . . . well, you know about my bit of bother with the Russians?’
‘Oh Lord! I hadn’t thought of that,’ said Figgy. ‘It will have brought it all back to you. How awful!’
‘No, it’s not that either. Well, it sort of is. You see, I don’t think she actually is Russian. In fact, I’m sure she isn’t. That’s what I wanted to tell you.’
‘Ah!’ said Jane. ‘I did wonder.’
Clare looked relieved. ‘You don’t think she is either?’
‘I wouldn’t claim that,’ said Jane. ‘It hadn’t even occurred to me, to be honest. But I started to get a funny feeling about her when I was dressing her and I think she knew it because that’s when she started to become hostile towards me.’
‘If someone was cranking my melons into a Victorian corset, I’d become hostile towards them,’ said Figgy, looking down at herself. ‘That’s if I had any.’
‘It was a bit more than that,’ said Jane. ‘What do you think she is, then, if not Russian?’
‘I don’t know, but Russians trying to speak English don’t sound like that. Mine didn’t anyway. German perhaps?’
Figgy shook her head. ‘Nicht Deutsch.’
‘Why don’t we just ask her?’ said Jane. ‘Nicely, of course.’
They found Vladlena sitting at her make-up shelf, frowning over her script. ‘Vot you vont?’ she said suspiciously.
‘Why are you pretending to be Russian?’ demanded Figgy. ‘We know you’re not.’
The girl looked at them blankly for a moment, then, to their amazement, her chin began to quiver and she burst into tears. ‘Oh, please don’t tell anyone,’ she sobbed. ‘Please, please don’t, especially not Charlie. I’ll do anything!’
Jane gave Figgy a cross look. ‘We won’t necessarily tell on you,’ she said, rescuing the script from the flood, ‘but we’d like to know why.’
‘You owe me that much,’ said Figgy, ‘since you pinched my part.’
‘How about telling us your real name for a start?’ asked Clare gently. ‘It’s not Vladlena, is it?’
‘It’s Betty,’ sighed the girl, defeated. ‘Betty Bagshaw.’
◆◆◆
‘I told Charlie I was Russian when I met him,’ Betty explained, ‘and he swallowed it. Not many people know what a Russian accent sounds like, do they?’ She looked reproachfully at Clare. ‘Not normally anyway. I thought it’d make me sound more interesting and it certainly worked with him so I decided to keep doing it. The trouble is, I’m frightened to stop.’
‘Is he your gentleman friend?’
‘Yes. He wants to marry me, or says he does. I know what you’re probably thinking, but lots of girls do it after all, and he’s terribly rich and I don’t want to be a fan-dancer all my life.’
‘What’s a fan-dancer when it’s at home?’ frowned Figgy.
Jane winked at the others. ‘She’s a little bit sheltered, you know.’
‘No, I’m not! I’ve just had . . . different experiences.’
‘You have two great big fans, big as you are,’ explained Betty, ‘made of ostrich feathers – well, mine were – and you sort of dance between them naked, one at the front and one at the back. I was very popular, though I say it as shouldn’t — because of my side view, you know.’
‘I could do that,’ said Jane. ‘I could use a couple of chicken feathers.’
Everyone laughed, including Betty. ‘I’m actually quite relieved I’ve told someone,’ she said. ‘It’s been a bit of a strain.’
‘But how on earth did you get from there to Prince Charming?’ said Clare.
‘Well, it’s the strangest thing. I told Charlie I’d like to be a proper actress, not really seriously, and – hey presto! – before I knew it, he’d got me this job.’ She turned guiltily to Figgy. ‘I’m really, really sorry I stole your part, Figgy. And I’m sorry I was so horrid to you, Jane, but I guessed you’d seen through me and I just panicked. I didn’t know you were the real, proper Cinderella, what with you helping me dress and everything. I thought you were just standing in for her or something, and if I complained they’d fetch the real one or give me someone else. I don’t really know yet how everything works, you see.’
‘I can see that, I suppose,’ said Jane doubtfully, ‘but we do need a Prince Charming. How are you going to manage?’
‘Oh, don’t worry about that,’ said Betty. ‘We’ve four days yet and I’m not stupid.’
◆◆◆
They sat around drinking coffee and watching Jane take off her makeup.
‘There’s a little kitchen through the green room,’ said Figgie, ‘if you ever want some.’
‘I’m not saying it was all lies,’ said Jane. ‘The facts might or might not be true but the intention was to deceive.’
‘Didn’t you realise?’ said Figgy.
‘Can’t say I did,’ admitted Clare. ‘I’m not entirely convinced now.’
‘Well, take it from me,’ said Jane, ‘she was acting a part. And, I might add, rather competently too. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she was a pro.’
‘Or just a very good liar,’ said Figgy.
‘Or that,’ agreed Jane. ‘Though it’s not everyone can cry on demand.’
‘But you don’t know better, do you?’ Clare objected. ‘If you’re right, and I’m not saying you’re not, you don’t know anything about her at all!’
&n
bsp; ‘True,’ admitted Jane. ‘Anyway, I’m a little more confident that she can do it now, given that she’s English, and that’s what matters. At the worst she can always ad lib.’
‘All in a cod Russian accent, presumably,’ said Figgy. ‘I’ll tell you what, though, that’s a very nice mink she’s got there, and that ring didn’t come out of a Christmas cracker either. Did you see it?’
‘Perhaps that’s what I should do,’ said Jane, ‘marry a rich old man and stick him in a draught. Is that your John, Clare?’
‘Yes, it is. See you tomorrow.’
‘Just let me grab my coat,’ said Figgy, ‘and I’ll come and say hello.’
◆◆◆
Hurrying to catch up with the others, Jane was surprised to encounter a dark, handsome and fashionably besuited young man descending the stairs towards her. ‘Andy! What on earth are you doing here?’
‘Nice surprise for you, eh?’ grinned Andrew Haigh. ‘I presently have the honour to be Charlie Sullivan’s personal assistant and general factotum, no less. And what do I find but “the lovely Jane Herring” gracing every shop window and lamp-post from here to Piccadilly. Far more gorgeous in the flesh, I hasten to add.’
‘Yes, well you can cut the flattery and get in here,’ said Jane, unlocking her door. ‘I want to talk to you.’
‘Oh, I say, really?’ exclaimed Andrew, drawing her to him. I’ve never kissed a leading lady in her dressing room.’
‘Get off! I said talk. First of all, who and what is Charlie Sullivan, apart from being the dubious saviour of our fortunes?’
‘Do you mean to say you’ve never heard of the foremost impresario of our age? I’m shocked!’
‘Nope, and nor, it seems, has anyone else.’
‘And I suppose no-one follows the gee-gees either?’
‘He’s a bookie? I might have known.’
‘We prefer turf accountant, though he has other interests. The theatre, however, is a new departure.’
‘And I suppose you’re going to tell me he’s honest. Honest Charlie Sullivan, the punter’s friend.’
‘That’s exactly what he is; trust is everything in our business, as I’m sure you know.’
‘Why is he employing you, then? And who is Vladlena Ossipova?’
‘Ah! The fair Russian. I presume you’ve met? According to her, she’s practically his fiancée. According to me she’s a manipulative exploiter of elderly gentlemen with whom he is expensively, and I hope temporarily, infatuated.’
‘Oh, yes? Turned you down, did she?’
‘Not my type,’ said Andrew, ‘whereas you, as you well know, are my idea of female perfection. Come to my arms, delectable one. It’s been a long time.’
Jane felt herself weakening, as she’d known she would. ‘Just one kiss,’ she said, ‘and that’s all you’re getting.’
‘Come on! What’s keeping you?’ demanded Figgy. She paused at the door in confusion. ‘Oh! Sorry.’
‘Figgy,’ said Jane, sounding distinctly wobbly. This gentleman, who is just leaving, is Mr Andrew Haigh, right-hand man, apparently, of Charlie Sullivan. Miss Figg is my friend and flatmate.’
‘How do you do, Miss Figg?’ smiled Andrew. I’ll let you two get on, then. See you again, Jane. Watch out for those princes, now; they’re not always what they seem.’
‘Very original,’ sniffed Figgy. ‘He’s going into Betty’s room.’
‘Thought he would.’
‘You’re frightfully pink. Old flame, is he?’
‘Yes.’
‘Serious?’
‘Yes.’
‘But not quite serious enough?’
Jane sighed and shook her head. ‘In many respects he was. I just didn’t fancy having to hang around courtrooms all day, or bake him cakes with files in them; you know what my cooking’s like.’
‘I see. And now he’s here.’
‘Which puts a rather different complexion on things, doesn’t it?’ Suddenly she stamped her foot. ‘Oh, why did he have to turn up now? It really is too bad!’
Chapter Three
In the next three days, Betty Bagshaw, if that was truly her name, appeared to be making a Trojan effort to learn her part, though progress was slow and halting. This welcome transformation was ascribed by the rest of the cast to Alastair Bethencourt’s ticking off, and Jane and Figgy did nothing to disabuse them of that. True to their promise, they said nothing about Betty’s revelations, or their doubts about them, and she continued to be known to all as Vladlena Ossipova. Neither did Jane mention the charming rogue whose unexpected reappearance had so disturbed her.
There was little opportunity, in any case, for gossip. It was now officially “tech week” or “cue-to-cue,” when lighting, curtains, scene shifting and special effects had to be coordinated with the action. When not so employed, all were working on their parts; not least Jane and Buttons who were kept busy putting through their paces the horde of pink and white mice, each with a string tail, painted whiskers and charming little satin ears.
‘Pity about the fat one,’ said Buttons. ‘There’s always a fat one, isn’t there? Maybe we should set a trap? It’s bound to be the greediest for cheese.’
‘I was the fat one,’ snapped Jane. Far from being bright and jolly, as Clare had described her, she now seemed permanently grumpy. She was also obliged to modify the Fairy Godmother’s costume for the hopelessly unpractical Figgy. It had been let out to encompass Millie Maidment’s generous dimensions and had now to be taken in again. There was no dressmaker at the cash-strapped Regent. If you wanted something doing, you did it yourself, though they did have a sewing room to do it in.
Meanwhile, Clare was everywhere. Having taken the formal photos as directed, she wandered the theatre, Leica in hand, snapping all and sundry as they went about their business. Quietly self-effacing she became so familiar that eventually no-one took any notice of her or the flash of her camera, which was, of course, what she wanted.
Alastair Bethencourt spent much time conferring with Bill Hutchings the stage manager on such arcane matters as Cinderella’s outsize pumpkin, which had been rather badly damaged in storage, and its miraculous transformation into a golden coach. The problem of drawing the latter across the stage was solved by a pair of child-sized pantomime horses, but an apparently irreconcilable difference between the front and back halves of one of them had caused it to be dropped at the last moment and another – one hoped more biddable –had to be broken and trained.
Wandering among this chaos and looking a little overawed was the company’s new benefactor. ‘Who’d have thought there was so much to it?’ he said wonderingly. ‘How’s my girl coming along?’
Alastair waited until a storm of banging from the carpenters had subsided before replying. ‘She’s making progress,’ he said diplomatically.
‘She’ll be fine, you’ll see,’ said Sullivan, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘Can’t wait to see the show.’
◆◆◆
Anyone sufficiently familiar with Jane Herring might have been surprised at the change in her. Quite apart from her uncertain temper she seemed suddenly to prefer her own company and could often be found wandering alone about the theatre, prone to popping up anywhere from high to low.
Once, bent on obtaining an aerial shot of the stage, Clare found her in the little foyer behind the dress circle, staring, apparently unseeing, at a curtain. ‘Just thinking,’ she said, as if surprised to find herself there.
‘I was wondering about the Bad Thing,’ said Clare, as they grabbed a cup of tea. ‘Has it happened yet?’
‘I wondered that too,’ said Figgy. ‘Does Vladlena qualify, do you think? She certainly does from my point of view. Or is it Loverboy Andrew perhaps?’
‘Who is Loverboy Andrew?’ asked Clare.
‘One of our leading lady’s legion of sloughed-off
admirers,’ said Figgy cynically. ‘Seems he’s working for Sullivan.’
‘The Bad Thing hasn’t happened yet,’ said Jane testily. ‘You’ll know well enough when it does, I daresay. And I didn’t slough him off, as you put it. We agreed to go our separate ways.’
‘She’s still in love with him,’ confided Figgy.
‘I . . .’ began Jane. ‘Oh, I’m not continuing this conversation!’ And she stalked away.
Clare glanced at Figgy with interest. Jealous, she decided. But of whom?
Perhaps unsurprisingly, Vladlena (or Betty Bagshaw, as they privately knew her) soon began to receive the attentions of those with a predilection for well-endowed blondes. Most she sent packing, even the Adonis-like second scene shifter, but Iwan Parry was seen quite often to enter her dressing room and stay there. ‘I’m helping her with her English,’ he said. ‘You ought to be grateful.’
‘The blind leading the blind, isn’t it?’ said Millicent in her best Welsh accent.
‘Cer i grafu,’ snarled Iwan.
‘Shall we tell him?’ whispered Figgy.
‘No, let him find out. If he can.’
◆◆◆
It was past two-thirty in the small hours of Friday morning when Figgy snapped on her bedside light. ‘And what sort of time do you call this?’ she said.
‘Sorry,’ said Jane, ‘did I wake you?’
‘You know quite well I can’t sleep until you’re home. And don’t bother telling me; it’s written all over you. You’ve been in his bed!’
‘All right, I shan’t bother telling you,’ shrugged Jane, getting into her own.
‘On again, is it?’
‘Not sure. We’ll see.’
‘What’s the matter, then? Didn’t he come up to your high expectations, dear?’
‘Oh, he always does that. Night-night.’
‘As a dog returns to his vomit,’ muttered Figgy sourly. But Jane was already asleep, or feigning to be.
◆◆◆
It was, thought Andrew Haigh, strangely quiet for Wembley — nothing to be heard but the tinkling of horse-harness, the occasional mysterious splash, and the restful babble of ducks. For a while he lay struggling to separate dream from reality. Horse harness, yes, but ducks?
Death and Cinderella (The Inspector Felix Mysteries Book 11) Page 2