by Jon Redfern
“Hold on,” Betty said. “We’re on our way to heaven.”
* * *
He needed his suede gloves and his large coat. He placed them into the satchel. He smelled the soup, and with a sense that his plan would work, Endersby left his room and found himself happily within five minutes of his early supper. Harriet arrived at the dining table wearing her new brooch and her new blue frock. Owen stood up and pulled out her chair. He gave her a quick kiss on her cheek. She smiled at him and patted his elbow as he passed her to sit down again. His mind was jumping and turning, and he needed to eat something very soon. The door to the kitchen opened, and Solange entered with the tureen. Her face was noticeably more cheerful at this hour. Had she received another letter, wondered Endersby? Or had she instead recovered, pulled her senses together, forgotten the chap and gone on to cook a meal for which she would be duly commended?
“Soup, madame,” she said. Her voice was chilled, flat. Endersby decided the woman had returned to her duties, but not to her normal self.
The salty broth wanted stirring. This was not a good sign. Endersby shrugged and began lifting and lowering his spoon. Harriet remained quiet. Harriet’s younger brother, Caleb, rushed into the room a moment later, a flustered man, his hands with plasters on them from being cut by the paper he was selling below in his shop. He apologized, sat down and started into his soup. Wine was desired next, and Caleb waited patiently as Solange went out to fetch the carafe. All three of them finished the soup, their eyes down at their soup plates. No word was shared among them.
“Fish, madame.”
This course displayed a runny sauce. Through all of this, Endersby remained complacent. In no way would he allow this incident to thwart his expectations of a fine night in the theatre. Like a bird intent on its solitary flight, he thought intensely of how he might address let alone cajole the person he knew he must face later on in the evening. He examined his own motives, he reviewed his need to pursue, he formed words and steadied his resolve. There would be recriminations; there would be denials. Then again, he thought, there may be resignation, then confession.
“Fowl.”
The pigeons were delicious. Succulent, plump, the sauce full of sage and butter.
“Well done, indeed,” said Harriet. Solange managed a smile.
Caleb raised his glass, proposed a toast and offered a glass to Solange. “It is Christmas Eve, my friends, and I wish for all of us a happy Christmastime.”
Solange downed her glass. She dashed into the kitchen and returned with a mound of sugared cakes, all piled like little snowballs into a pyramid.
“Joyeux Noël,” she said.
Endersby smacked his lips. He chased murder, blood and fear from his mind.
“Now,” said Harriet. The pyramid had disappeared by this time, and she was on the verge of rising. “I have a great surprise for you.”
“Yes?” said Endersby. His wife paused before her attentive company.
“Mrs. DeWinter has informed me that the Chronicle this morning confirmed a most wondrous fact.”
“Yes,” said Caleb, now impatient.
“Her Majesty will attend Old Drury this evening with the Prince.”
“Wonderful indeed,” said Endersby.
“Most wonderful, husband. So we cannot be late.”
Harriet ushered her men into the hall. On with their coats and down the stairs where Solange stood holding an umbrella over the doorsteps. The cab arrived in good time and the doors were clacked shut. The whip cracked, and the bouncing ride took longer than expected given the huge crowds along the streets. Even as he witnessed the joyful chaos around him, Endersby sensed a feeling of desperation. Christmas was a time of much sorrow for many. The faces in the streets told him people were anxious, excited, expectant, fraught. There was one person who by now must be full of trepidation. But Endersby decided he would not imagine what would soon come to pass.
“Good evening, sir,” said the ticket-taker.
As Harriet and Caleb charted their way through the thick mass of chattering spectators, Endersby found the hall to the backstage. He met the stage manager, who bowed to him, recognizing him and pointing to Sergeant Stott and Caldwell waiting in a corner. Endersby approached them.
“Birken in place?”
“Yes, Inspector,” said Stott.
“Fine. And now the boy?”
“Coming presently, sir,” said Caldwell. His face was healing. His cheeks rosier.
“Happy Christmas to you both,” said Endersby.
“Thank you, sir,” said both sergeants in unison.
“Remember to be stalwart and quick.”
“Without fail, sir.”
“I have brought a whistle, too. If I need it.”
“Stott will stand by the pit door, sir. Two blows was it, sir?”
“Correct, Caldwell.”
“We are ready then. Good luck.”
* * *
“You look so lovely, truly you do,” said young Reggie Crabb, out of breath from running all the way downstairs to the costume room. He gazed at Betty Loxton in her glittery costume for the pantomime.
“Do I, Carrot?”
“You will see her majesty from up in the flies. You will see her better than anyone when she comes in.”
“She will look at me, too, Carrot. I have a surprise. But tell no one.”
Plates of mutton stew were handed to him and Betty by Mrs. B. The two sat together at the long table in front of the hearth. Mrs. B. put the lid back on the great stew pot and came and sat across from the two of them, their spoons poised to dip into the steamy food.
“Well, my rose, you shall charm the queen herself, I hear.”
Betty Loxton smiled and started to gobble down her dinner.
“You can stay by me—stay here in Old Drury, I mean—if you want,” said Reggie in a whisper, chewing and swallowing as if he had never eaten hot food before in his life.
“What are you two ragamuffins doing?” asked Mrs. B. She reached over and patted Reggie on his head. “Now don’t hurt yourself eating like a madman. Take your time. And do not go making any plans, Mr. Busybody. You have no say as to where or how Miss Loxton shall live. She can come and go as she pleases.”
“But what shall I do, Mrs. B.?” asked Betty with a concerned expression. “I have no home any more. My brother John will kill me for certain for bolting from him.”
“Let me speak with the stage manager. He is a testy but a kind man. I am certain we can find you some work here. We don’t take in many orphans, mind. But we do make exceptions.”
Betty smiled and wiped her greasy mouth.
“Who knows,” said Mrs. B. “Mr. Dupré himself might want to keep you on as a supernumerary. Stranger things have taken place in this old theatre, I can assure you.”
“What do you think, Carrot?” asked Betty.
Reggie Crabb put down his spoon. “As I said, you can stay by me, on a pallet in the scene room. It’s warm there. Lots of room. And most mornings there is sunlight in the window.”
“Let me think on that,” said Betty. But she was grinning as she spoke. When she and Reggie had cleaned their plates, they rose and went to warm their legs by the hearth. “You keep an eye on me tonight, Carrot. I want to surprise you as well. I have put some extra things on my costume. Sssh, do no tell a soul. Watch me when I fly for her majesty.”
Betty saw Reggie’s face fill with curiosity, then she tapped him on the shoulder, her own features full of smiles and mischief, and ran off upstairs to the noise-filled stage.
Reggie Crabb watched her go; he pulled out the tin whistle she had given him. He blew it once then shoved it into his pocket. He thanked Mrs. B. for his dinner and scampered up the same stairs to the stage. He was panting and hot. So much to do this evening, he said to himself, but not aloud, not so the others around him, the chorus, the shifters, the actors waiting in the wings could hear him. He ran into the hallway, out to the stage-door foyer, where the old stage-door keeper was
arranging letters and warding off a long line of women in holiday bonnets.
“No passes this evening, none at all,” Hartley, the stage-door keeper, kept crying. There were moans and arguments. Carriages splashed by the entrance and shouts of complaint filled the air as disgruntled ticket-holders brushed slush from their clothes.
“Yes, boy, what is it?”
“Mr. Hartley, sir, you sent for me?”
“Not at all, boy. Get on with your calls.”
“But Mrs. B. insisted, sir. Told me before my dinner. Said an urgent matter. A packet.”
“Packet? Packet? No indeed. Now do not pester me…oh, a moment, boy. Yes, of course.”
Old Hartley led the boy to a nearby door. He opened it and pointed to a man with a bruised face, a black hat and long coat. “Caldwell, the name is, lad. A trusty man. Mr. Endersby the detective has sent him, and you, boy, are to be given a task.”
“But I cannot, sir, with all respect. I have calls to do. And it is Christmas Eve.”
“No carping now, boy. Get on with it. You shall have plenty of time for your calls.”
Young Reggie Crabb walked through the door and headed toward the man with the bruised face. The man saw him coming and took off his hat. Reggie stopped for a second. A shadow fell between him and the man in the distance, the flickering gas jet making the man’s face look like a mask. Reggie took one step forward. The man motioned him to hurry along. Passing through the shadow, Reggie brushed his coat front and removed his cap.
“Young Crabb, I presume?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Sergeant Caldwell, at your service.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You have calls to do, I know.”
“Yes, sir. I do.”
“I will take none of your time, lad. Here is a small packet.”
Caldwell pulled a long, soft object out from his coat. It was wrapped in brown paper.
“Most urgent that Mr. William Weston receive and open this before the performance.”
“Mr. Weston, sir.”
“Do not hesitate, lad. Off you go.”
Young Reggie Crabb ran past the sergeant, up the stairs and onward to Mr. Weston’s dressing room door. He tapped.
“Enter, Mr. Sprite.”
“Five minutes, Mr. Weston. And a happy Christmas.”
“Thank’ee, Mr. Sprite. You have brought me a gift?”
“A packet, sir. And I was instructed to have you open it before the performance.”
“Who told you to do so, lad?”
Reggie had not anticipated this. He had not been warned to lie. But to save time, as time was running out, he said. “Mr. Dupré, sir. A gift, he claimed.”
“How kind,” said Weston. He was covered in a white powder, even his arms. On his head sat a great mass of wool curls and the snout of a lion. “I shall open it as soon as I dress. A happy Christmas to you, young boy.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Crabb, breathing hard, closed the door and went to Miss Root. She did not answer right away, but after a third tapping, the door flew open, the spaniel began to bark and the two sisters in black top hats stood at attention.
“Miss Root?”
Young Reggie Crabb’s voice fell into silence. Before him framed in the far door stood a tall, magnificent creature. It was blue and green in hue; its feet were clad in white leather boots which sparkled with rubies; its face, rounded by curls, and painted a shimmering gold, was surmounted by a helmet piled with feathers, beads and a tiara of diamonds. A shield with a dancing unicorn was held in its right hand.
“Well, my dear Crabb. What do you think of Miss Beauty?”
“Time, Miss Root. Lor bless me, but lovely you are.”
“Ah, Crabb. Lead me on then.”
With majesty in his steps, Crabb walked ahead of the splendiferous Miss Root, down the corridor, through the crowded and hushed side stage and up to the second set of wings, where a wooden pony on a rail was latched to a chariot of peacock feathers. The stage manager blew his whistle in one sharp blast. Miss Root climbed into the chariot. “A pause, ladies and gents,” said the stage manager in a loud whisper. “Her Majesty is about to enter. Once the trumpets are off, we go.”
The shifters and actors, all with glistening eyes in the half-dark, bowed their heads.
“Run, boy,” whispered Miss Root. “Finish up.” She took Reggie’s hand and gave it a squeeze then let him go. Blushing hot, Reggie Crabb ran toward the wooden stairs to the fly loft. Was she ready? Was she in place? He climbed and scampered, past the huge fly drums, over the ropes laid out for the pullers. The lines of gas jets blazed by the wavering sheets of canvas. The sconces below had been turned up by the light men, and the blue and yellow gauzes set in place. He looked for her. He asked the carpenter on the loft. He said he had yet to see her come up. Where was she? Her wand and spear were laid out by the harness. She would come alone, then, he said, and ran across the bridge to the other side of the stage. There, the chorus of birds, young girls in masks, waited, and they curtsied to Crabb as he checked and counted all six of them. Down the far stairs, across the back stage he marched, and as he did so his heart leapt and he heard from the orchestra beyond the curtain the sound of a regal fanfare.
* * *
“Oh, my, she is beautiful.”
Harriet Endersby had tears in her eyes. The trumpets and drums played in full force a tune by Mr. Handel. The audience, all in holiday finery, stood in rapt attention. Into the centre box of the Grand Circle, a short, slim woman with black hair moved with a delicate grace. On her head sat a diadem which caught the light in such intense flashes that Owen Endersby had to blink. The woman had a small chin and skin the colour of a white rose. Behind her came a cluster of larger women, ruffles, sashes, evening caps, brooches of rubies and emeralds, and hands held crossed in front of them. A tall man with chestnut sideburns and a small beard stood next to the Queen. He wore a blue tunic and a sash with a diamond studded star pin on it. The older gentleman to his side raised his hand, and the orchestra finished its fanfare. A silence of tense expectation filled the auditorium. Not even a baby in the upper galleries dared to cry. The Queen took her seat. The Prince, with his stern face and his sideburns, sat beside her. The older gentleman then lowered his hand, and the others in the royal box sat down.
Within a second, before a breath could be taken, whistles, laughter and huge clapping stormed the auditorium. Huzzahs and shouts of “Your majesty” blasted the air. Harriet took out a second handkerchief to wipe her eyes. Endersby counted hats off, hands up, babies held aloft, children bent over railings to get a glimpse, clerks, servants, merchants, soldiers, matrons, all with cheering mouths welcoming the diminutive figure in her flouncing gown and bare shoulders. The Queen smiled. The cheering increased. The curtain parted, and the entire cast of the huge extravaganza came forward, helmets and spears, all before a grand forest of trees on banks, on platforms, all the figures of the play taking a short bow to their sovereign. The players stepped back. The huge chandelier full of light flickered with the sitting down of three thousand spectators. Owen Endersby reminded himself to memorize this sight. This was a great occasion.
The orchestra now drummed out a long tirade. The curtain rose a second time, and a chorus of maidens began to sing. Miss Root entered in her chariot, and once again the theatre filled with claps and shouts. She stepped down and came to the front of the stage, the footlights making her boots shine like mirrors.
“Oh, Beauty bright, oh Queen of Light, this night of nights shall be.”
She had to pause as the audience again huzzahed the Queen. Harriet handed a sugared orange to Endersby and whispered in his ear. “Are we not so fortunate, dear Owen?”
Endersby chewed on the sweet rind. He mumbled a response and turned his gaze toward the small door opening near the proscenium arch, where Sergeant Stott was quickly stepping in.
* * *
Betty Loxton snapped on the harness.
“There you are, miss,�
� said the carpenter. “What are those you’ve put on?”
“Wings, sir,” she said boldly.
“But those aren’t part of the costume Mr. Dupré wanted.”
“He has changed his mind.”
Betty readied herself. The music swelled. The carpenter gave the signal, and Betty was lifted into the air. She pointed her toes and began her descent. As she approached the batten of tiny gas jets that lit the canvas scene, she tipped her right shoulder forward to get a quick glimpse of the Queen in her royal box. Betty then closed her eyes. She folded her hands and thought of herself as an angel.
* * *
Endersby looked up. The cry from the auditorium tore through the air like the howl of a banshee.
The young girl’s wings were afire.
“Stott!” Endersby yelled.
The sergeant leaped to the stage over the steps beside the orchestra pit. The wire kept descending. Flames ran down and sheathed the girl’s slender body like a silken coat of blue and orange. Betty’s face grimaced; her hair blew into a whirl of sparks and white smoke. The wings attached to her back glared a sudden red. Members of the orchestra clambered to their feet. Shouts, yells and hollers cracked the walls of Old Drury. The burning angel kept floating down from the flies, then the fly wires snapped. Harriet buried her face in Endersby’s shoulder. A woman fainted in the next box. The body, jumping with dying flames, rolled onto the stage floor, where Miss Root stood paralyzed in her place, her mouth a frightened O. Mr. William Weston dashed forward and raised his arms to calm the multitude. At the same time a man with a whistle ran in from the side of the stage carrying a bucket of water, and the green curtain closed on the scene.
A moment later, Endersby had made his way through the astonished audience into the backstage area. Panic shouting and weeping filled the air. Shifters in their paper caps scurried about. Fairies and beasts held to each other in convulsions of tears. Young Reggie Crabb—his face contorted in terror—rushed past him carrying a pail of slopping water. Endersby found his sergeants amid the chaos: both Caldwell and Stott had taken their places.
“A great horror and pity, gentlemen,” Endersby said in a hurried voice. “But let them look after that catastrophe,” he added quickly, holding the two men with an intense look in his eyes. Endersby felt his heart pounding. “We have our own chase upon us now. Come and be quick!”