Desperate Acts (21 page)

The first thing he noticed, to his relief,
was that he himself was not out of place as an actor. The rehearsal
itself was bumpy and inconsistent – to put the best light on it,
which the director endeavoured to do. As Lysander, Dutton read
woodenly, as if he were reciting an affidavit, but he might
possibly loosen up as time went on. At least with his slim build
and handsome features, he could, with a wig or a decent dye-job, be
made to resemble a love-struck, newly bearded youth. As Oberon the
fairy-king, Fullarton had a voice deep and commanding enough to
give credence to the role, but on this occasion he flubbed a number
of lines, made matters worse by apologizing to Sir P. and, it
appeared, to Lady Mad as well.

“There is no need to apologize, my dear
Fullarton,” Sir P. said, and Fullarton would invariably reply,
“Sorry.”

Cyrus Crenshaw’s vowels were no less amazing
than Cobb’s, and he rambled through Demetrius’s heated
protestations of love for Hermia as if they had been penned in a
foreign tongue, while Hermia, played by Clemmy Crenshaw, responded
in a grating whine that increasingly skidded and slewed in concert
with her emotions (principally, fear). Cobb noted that Crenshaw
would alternately glare at her for her mistakes (exacerbated by his
indecipherable cues) or offer her the tight smile of a
long-suffering spouse. Whenever she dared unglue her gaze from the
page, she directed it not at Demetrius (who was supposedly pursuing
her through the forest) but at Lady Mad, who was seated beside him
and attired more like Salomé than the fairy-queen.

Andrew Dutton, Cobb recalled, had been quick
to seize the chair on the other side of Lady Mad when the cast had
followed the director out of the dining-room at seven-forty-five.
And more than once, Lady Mad had rewarded his diligence by leaning
over and pointing out a cue on the page before him with a dainty,
manicured finger. Whenever Cobb spotted this manoeuvre he glanced
at Sir P. – at the head of the table – and was surprised to see
that, even though he could not help but notice his wife’s
flirtations, Sir P. chose not to react to them in any visible
manner. Odd, Cobb mused, but then he had always presumed that lords
and their ladies were not really expected to
like
each
other.

Lady Mad, who like Cobb knew her lines by
heart, performed with practised ease, an advantage that allowed her
time and space to let her gaze wander wherever it wished. Several
times it met Cobb’s head-on and held steady, as if she were
appraising him with some skepticism while signalling a general
approval of what she was seeing. He would have to be careful around
her. The only male, besides her husband, whom she did not include
in her coquetry was Fullarton. Despite the distractions, Cobb was
able to bring enough life to the character of Bottom the weaver to
draw several reluctant chuckles from the others and one or two
envious glances from the gentlemen opposite him.

Young Lizzie Wade, the niece, read the part
of Helena with zest and feeling, except when her uncle intervened
and caused her to stammer. Her piteous exchanges with Demetrius,
who spurns her pursuit for more than an act, drew the attention of
everyone at the table, but failed to inspire coherent speech from
Crenshaw. However, he did succeed in feasting his eyes upon the
young beauty whenever he could take them off the perils of the
page. Meantime, Sir P. seemed to be enjoying the role of Puck, who
like a seasoned director orchestrates the mayhem of the play by
disseminating his magic dust and flitting about trying to undo his
laughter-inducing errors. He read his lines with a slightly
elevated voice and a quick pace suited to the imp in Puck’s
character, but it was the flitting and nimbling that must
eventually accompany the words that gave one pause. No amount of
makeup or costuming would be able to transform a five-foot-five,
one-hundred-and-seventy-pound gentleman of fifty-some years into
Shakespeare’s sprightly master-of-misrule.

In the ten-minute break between sessions,
Cobb observed closely the groupings the cast formed once freed from
the script and the rehearsal table. Lady Mad sat where she was.
Lizzie brought her a cup of coffee from the dining-room and they
sat together, chatting amiably. Sir P. took his director’s tome
into the den and shut the door. In the dining-room, Dutton sat
almost at the far end of the table while the Crenshaws settled in
next to the pastry-tray. Fullarton stood for a moment, uncertain,
then sat down near them. Cobb lingered near the doorway, pretending
to study his script.

“I guess you read the whole sordid story of
what happened to Langford in the
Examiner
today?” Crenshaw
said to Fullarton.

“I did. But I still don’t believe Brodie
capable of that sort of violence,” Fullarton said.

“It is hard to believe, Horace. But then, I
didn’t know the lad like you did.”

“They won’t find him guilty, will they?”
Clemmy said, her eye on a second tart.

“I’m sure they won’t,” Fullarton said, but he
didn’t sound too confident. “I heard he’s secured the services of
Baldwin and Sullivan.”

“Good firm, even if they are Reformers.” This
was Dutton from the far end of the table.

“The young man’s done the town a good deed,”
Crenshaw said, “if he’s rid us of a blackmailer. Can’t think of
anythin’ lower than that sort of scoundrel.”

“Skulkin’ about in alleys an’ pickin’
envelopes outta trash bins,” Clemmy said with disgust. “Good
riddance, I say. They oughta give the boy a medal.”

At this point the director called the troupe
back into session.

The second run-through was marginally
superior to the first one, though it was hard to tell because for
every correction there was a corresponding and fresh mistake.
Nevertheless, Sir P. declared himself so satisfied that on Thursday
they would begin the rehearsal with a final reading and then move
immediately to the stage for some basic blocking. Everyone was
urged to memorize as many of his lines as could be managed.

Cobb was given a lift in Dutton’s carriage as
far as Sherbourne and King. As he walked past Briar Cottage, he saw
a light in the front window. But he didn’t go in. He had nothing of
substance to report. Not yet.

***

The read-through on Thursday evening produced much
mangled verse but no information useful to Cobb. Clemmy Crenshaw
was not only unimproved in her performance of Hermia (though it
could certainly be classified as comedy), she drew further
attention to herself by arriving in a taffeta, purple-hued
ball-gown wound so tightly and shimmering so vividly as to
emphasize each one of the uncoordinated bulges underneath. Gone
were the ringlettes, replaced by an upswept swirl and a bun at the
rear, imprisoned by a solitary, courageous, pearl-tipped hatpin.
When she attempted a smile, you could hear her face-paint
crack.

Sir P., who had rubbed his chins raw with his
plump fingers during the reading, pronounced his charges ready to
repair to the stage, where they would be introduced to the rigours
of movement and blocking. However, while they were indulging in
refreshments in the interval, measurements would be taken for their
costumes. Two ladies from
Smallman’s
shop, he informed them,
were at present in the other section of the house sizing up the
four little Wades for their fairy outfits. Of those here in the
main troupe, Lysander and Demetrius would wear standard doublets
and the young Helena a simple white shift – costumes easily fitted
out from the Shuttleworth theatre-trunk. As Hermia was of a
somewhat more “mature” figure (and here Clemmy beamed and
crackled), she would require a freshly designed frock that would
accentuate the best aspects of said figure and contribute
materially to having the audience accept her as an ingénue. Mrs.
Halpenny from
Smallman’s
would provide that special piece of
property, along with the ass’s head for Bottom, who would perform
in coveralls and a jerkin. Costumes for the king and queen of the
fairies would be supplied from the inexhaustible trunk, and Puck,
last but not least, would surprise the cast with a creation out of
his own hand. At this point, the door to the ladies’ withdrawing
room opened and in came Rose Halpenny and Beth Edwards, a basket of
clothes and tailoring instruments between them.

***

Now and again, ever since Ogden Frank had opened the
Regency Theatre at the rear of his hotel on Colborne Street in
1837, Beth’s dressmaking business had catered to the professional
touring companies who visited from Montreal, New York and Buffalo –
mending, refitting and occasionally designing and making entire
costumes. Rose Halpenny, in charge of that half of Beth’s
enterprise, was a master seamstress with a flare for design. Beth,
who was good with people, putting them instantly at ease, usually
accompanied Rose on missions such as this one. During the bustle
and genial confusion that followed their arrival and the display of
potential costumes they had selected from the Shuttleworth
repository, Cobb was able to sidle up to Beth and speak to her
without drawing undue attention.

“How’s little Maggie?”

“Not so little. She’s sittin’ up by herself
an’ takin’ notice of the world.”

“I heard Etta Hogg was sick.”

“Her fever broke. She’s recoverin’
nicely.”

“Ready to go back to work, is she?” It had
occurred to Cobb that he might ask Etta to keep her eyes and ears
open around Tobias and Gillian Budge. It seemed the only way they
were likely to get at any deadly secrets that that pair might be
harbouring.

“I’m afraid not. Budge dismissed her.”

“What!”

“Sent a message to her house. She’s been
replaced. The girl’s devastated.”

“No reason?”

“Too sickly.”

At this point Crenshaw came barging up to
Beth, looking aggrieved. “None of the doublets’ll fit me properly!
I’ll look like somebody’s gardener!”

“Now – Mr. Crenshaw, is it? – don’t you fret.
Gettin’ them to fit is our worry, not yours. Has Mrs. Halpenny got
all yer measurements?”

“Would you mind double-checking them?”

Beth smiled and led him aside.

Cobb allowed his head to be measured for the
donkey’s mask, then drifted into the dining-room, where he could
sit near the doorway and observe the goings-on in the theatre. The
first thing of note was a curious incident: while Rose was
measuring Horace Fullarton’s in-seam, he lost his balance. Lady
Mad, fetching in an elegant cream frock, happened to be passing
and, in a reflex action, reached out and steadied him. At the touch
of her fingers on his shoulder, Fullarton flinched and turned away
abruptly, neglecting to thank her. As he walked towards the
dining-room, Cobb noticed that the banker had a slight limp.
Meanwhile, Lady Mad gave Rose a bemused smile, shrugged her pretty
shoulders, and moved away. Something was going on there, Cobb
thought.

The second thing he noticed was the way in
which Andrew Dutton had positioned himself so that he could watch –
furtively, he assumed – young Lizzie being “fitted” for her costume
by Rose Halpenny. The man’s eyes never left Rose’s hands as they
pressed and smoothed the silky frock against the curves of Lizzie’s
figure. If Lizzie noticed, she didn’t let on.

Twenty minutes later, Beth and Rose left. Sir
P. clapped his hands and pointed to the stage. Alone in the
dining-room, Cobb got up and headed in that direction. Lady Mad was
standing at the door to the ladies’ withdrawing-room, calling in to
alert Clemmy of Sir P.’s command. Then she turned away, and moved
towards the others already on the platform, leaving the door ajar.
In passing, Cobb caught a glimpse of Clemmy trying to lift herself
off a sofa while stuffing some small object into the fold of her
bosom. Something was definitely going on there as well, Cobb
concluded. The Crenshaws were not a happy couple. The lord and
lady, too, were a strange pair. And both Dutton and Fullarton would
have to be watched carefully.

Things were looking up.

***

Director Shuttleworth suggested that each member of
the cast remain on stage even when they were not involved, as he
wished them to observe each scene as it unfolded in order that they
get a sense of the drama as a whole. After tonight, though,
individual scenes would be rehearsed independently before the
“whole” was dramatically reassembled in two weeks or so. Unfolding,
as it turned out, was not an apt description of what took place
over the next hour. As Oberon and Titania, whose exchange initiated
the playlet’s action, remained relatively stationary, Sir P. had
merely to indicate where in their scripts they might turn away from
or towards each other, and where Titania was to exit. Puck appeared
next and directed himself admirably, as he set the love-charm plot
in motion. His “nimble” departure, however, did draw a snicker from
Clemmy, who turned it into a cough just before being elbowed by her
husband. From there, matters went downhill quickly and erratically.
The star-crossed lovers, who pursue and are pursued in a zany and
delightful way in Shakespeare’s original, added a series of
unscripted pratfalls, collisions and entanglements. Even without
the burden of speaking, Demetrius and Hermia could not remember
where they were to meet, stop, or retreat. Dutton as Lysander and
Lizzie Wade as Helena were letter perfect after one try, but their
precision seemed only to befuddle the Crenshaws. Shuttleworth was
driven to dashing about with a piece of chalk in hand, scrawling
X’s and scratching arrows on the boards.

Finally, Cobb’s moment came. The audience
having been informed in their programs just how Bottom the weaver
has come to be in this forest, Sir P. announced with much ceremony,
he is to be seen first wandering about in the dark until confronted
by Puck, who waves his wand and places an ass’s head on the hapless
mechanic. Bottom then sits down and falls asleep beside Titania,
who upon awakening is to fall lustily in love with him. By the
second run-through, this pantomime sequence was going quite
smoothly.