‘I’ll suggest she speaks directly to you about your perception of her appearance, bearing in mind her reservations about the décolletage.’ Harry didn’t mind liaising between the director and her cast, but it had reached the point where he was acting as an interpreter.
He left Helena and Olivia arguing about the wardrobe and made his way backstage. The scenery for the opening tableau had arrived, and he squeezed between freshly painted scrims depicting sheaves embroidered with hand-sewn cornflowers, courtesy of the ladies of the Bank, Holborn and Aldwych underground stations, who had wanted something to do in the evenings.
Above his head hung a great globe painted a rich cyanic blue and topped with a set of opened steel compasses, a symbol of cartography and freemasonry denoting the mapping of the earthly world. The globe had been manufactured for a Glyndebourne production of The Magic Flute, then junked after the production was cancelled on account of the site’s proximity to the exposed Sussex coastline.
The shepherds and shepherdesses of the chorus had returned to the flies. The principal players were familiarizing themselves with the finer details of their roles, having taken musical direction at rehearsal rooms in Covent Garden. At this stage of the production, when the librettist was belatedly putting the finishing touches to his new translation of Offenbach’s work, it seemed that nothing would ever come together, but this was how it always was. The production would not coalesce into a performance until the dress rehearsal on Friday.
‘Corinne, I don’t have you in my diary until late this evening,’ said Harry. ‘You’re not due on for another two hours.’
‘I’m recording a talking book for the blind over in Greek Street,’ explained the diminutive comedienne who had been cast in the role of Mercury, a tenor role usually played by a male. ‘The producer’s called a break while they sort out their wiring or something, so I thought I’d come and see how everyone was coping with La Capistrania’s mysterious disappearance. I’m dying for a snout, love. You haven’t got one on you, I suppose?’
‘You know you’re not supposed to smoke back here,’ said Harry.
‘Don’t give me that. I’ve seen you creeping out the back for an oily rag. Go on, chuck us a Du Maurier. Has anyone dared to mention Tanya today?’
‘God, no. You can cut the atmosphere with a knife. I’ve only got a Woodbine, but you can have it. Helena’s still waiting to see if her replacement is up for tonight’s run-through.’
‘There’ll probably be an air raid and we’ll all spend the evening under the stage trying to play whist by the light of a forty-watt bulb again. I suppose you know they’re saying she’s been murdered?’ Corinne airily brandished Harry’s proffered cigarette. ‘Working as a spy for her father and assassinated by fifth columnists, apparently.’
‘I’ve heard rumours,’ admitted Madeline Penn, the skinny, nervous ASM. ‘Stan’s been putting the fear of God up everyone as they sign in, but there’s been no real news. She’s walked out of jobs before, hasn’t she?’
‘He reckons she was carried out of this one in the dead of night,’ offered Charles Senechal, a chubby Anglo-French baritone who, like their Eurydice, was on loan from Lyon. ‘Slaughtered by a lover. Body parts missing.’
‘Well, if that’s the case, somebody made a jolly good job of cleaning up the blood,’ said Corinne.
‘If I had a franc for every story I heard circulating around a theatre I’d be rich by now.’ Charles had been assigned the role of Jupiter. It was a part he had performed so many times before that his performance was in danger of becoming petrified, but audiences loved him.
‘Apparently she was having a torrid affair with someone right here in the theatre,’ whispered Madeline.
‘I haven’t heard about that.’ Harry looked shocked. ‘I’m sure I would have seen her with someone.’
‘The trouble with you, Harry, is you never notice flirting between the sexes,’ snapped Corinne. ‘She was being rogered by someone in our esteemed cast. I should know, because I caught them at it. Walked into her dressing room thinking she’d gone for the night and there she was with her heels in the sink and her bloomers hanging from the light. She didn’t even make the effort of trying to look embarrassed.’
‘Who was it?’
‘That would be tittle-tattle, Harry, and I know you don’t approve. Besides, I was fascinated by the sight of his hairy bottom poking out of his shirt-tails.’
‘You should tell the detectives.’