Ruddy Gore (3 page)

An old man entered, so convincing an old man that Phryne could practically hear his joints creak-ing. He revealed that Robin was actually Sir Ruthven Murgatroyd and announced that his foster brother Richard Dauntless was even now approaching.

‘The old man’s Leslie Franklin – and here comes Dick Dauntless, played by Gwilym Evans – well, well.’

The sailor, escorted by a chorus of adoring 17

bridesmaids, entered stage left and the play was transformed.

Gwilym Evans was not tall, but stocky and strong. He swaggered rakishly across the front, the ribbon on his Jack Tar’s hat fluttering behind him.

His every movement was vigorous, robust and sure; and Phryne could just catch the wicked grin which he awarded Robin. He was so attractive that he almost stopped the show, yet he was not conventionally beautiful. He had immense game-cock assurance.

‘Well, well,’ murmured Phryne, but Bunji, though not immune to his charm, was frowning.

‘Looks like a bounder to me,’ she commented.

‘Absolutely, my dear Bunji, but a very attractive bounder. Bounders usually are; that’s why they are successful,’ said Phryne as the sailor came down to address the bridesmaids on the subject of mar-itime glory.

‘I shipped, d’ye see, in a revenue sloop,’ he began, in a voice full, rich and strong, with precise diction which made every scandalous anti-French word audible.

‘He won’t do no good for his brother,’

observed Bunji, quite caught up in the plot. ‘It’s not safe to ask him to make love to the girl instead of Robin!’

So it proved. When Dick Dauntless caught sight of Rose Maybud, he fell in love – the audience saw him do it. He stepped back half a pace and stared at the girl, his burning eyes absorbing her every detail, from her beribboned shoes to her lace cap, 18

at such ambient temperature that Phryne half expected her to burst into flame.

Pleading Robin’s case was wiped from Dick’s mind like chalk off a slate, and Rose Maybud’s objections vanished likewise. Robin re-entered and managed to change her mind again – until she left the stage with Robin. Dick Dauntless stood alone.

He took off his hat, his whole body expressing desperate hurt; although all he did was to look inside the hat, turn, and walk away, one hand to his face as though he was weeping.

Mad Margaret leapt on stage, alternately screeching and whispering, clad mostly in weeds, her hair tangled around her. ‘Violet Wiltshire,’

said Phryne. ‘An imitation Ophelia.’

‘Not a good imitation,’ said Bunji. ‘Far too sensible.’

‘He gave me an Italian glance,’ mourned Mad Margaret, ‘Thus,’ and she bent on Rose a perfect imitation of Dick Dauntless’s gaze. The burlesque was instantly recognised and got a laugh. ‘And made me his,’ continued Mad Margaret, suddenly convincing, and Phryne remembered that Gwilym Evans was followed by scandal wherever he went.

She would have hazarded good money on the object of Gwilym’s latest
affaire de coeur
.

No crime –

’Tis only

That I’m

Love-lonely!

That’s all!

19

sang Mad Margaret, and Phryne detected what critics called ‘truth’ in her voice.

A group of bucks and blades entered and began to impress the village maidens. Phryne reflected that this was probably roistering – she had always wondered what that meant.

They were followed by a saturnine person. ‘Sir Despard Murgatroyd,’ murmured Phryne, ‘Selwyn Alexander – the patter singer.’

He was the perfect melodrama villain. Moustaches, black hat, dark make-up, a glitter of eyes under the brim and a most professional sneer. He looked personable and a little dangerous as he explained that he was balancing his bad deeds with good ones. Richard Dauntless the sailor, approaching, made an interesting contrast. Beside the sailor’s vigour Sir Despard appeared a weary rake; his lustre was dimmed. Dick Dauntless’s plan was adopted and the wedding gavotte came to an abrupt end.

‘I am that bad baronet,’ Robin confessed, and Richard removed Rose Maybud’s hand from his.

She turned away from the new baronet and smiled on the sailor, and even Bunji was impressed by the intensity of her regard.

‘I say,’ she whispered, ‘there’s something between those two.’

Phryne nodded and opened the box of Hillier’s chocolates. Bunji prodded them, looking for soft centres.

The bridesmaids went into their chorus as Sir Despard – now reformed – claimed Mad 20

Margaret – now sane – and everyone was dancing and singing except poor Robin Oakapple, now Sir Ruthven Murgatroyd, who put both hands to his head, reeled, staggered, and fell senseless to the stage.

‘That was a very convincing fall,’ said Bunji, rejecting a truffle and finding a mandarin cream.

‘Very convincing,’ said Phryne, staring at the fallen actor. Was it her imagination, or was he actually convulsing? The soggy thump with which he had hit the boards had been heard even over the concluding choruses. The bridesmaids danced forward and hid him from the audience in a froth of frilly white skirts.

The curtain came down, the house lights came up, and there was the rustle of patrons finding bags and shifting in their seats.

‘Well, Bunji, how do you like it?’

‘It’s jolly good,’ said Bunji, finding a strawberry cream. ‘Jolly funny, too. I didn’t know that opera was allowed to be funny.’

‘It wasn’t, until Gilbert got hold of it.’

‘But that girl, Phryne, that Rose Maybud – what a silly girl! So far she’s changed her mind three times.’

‘Yes, I don’t think that Gilbert really admired sweet English maidenhood all that much. All of his delicate little maidens are as tough as nails and as fickle as weathercocks – though I admit that Rose Maybud is an extreme example of the species.’

21

‘And that sailor – he’s a dashing fellow,’ commented Bunji. ‘I wonder what he’s really like?’

Phryne captured the last coconut cream, her favourite, a split second ahead of Bunji’s probing forefinger.

‘Actors aren’t half as interesting as you’d think –

they either expend all their emotions on the stage and are as cold as frogs off it or they have egos the size of a small planet and no topic of conversation

that

doesn’t

begin

with

‘‘When

I

played . . . ’’ Tedious, really. Though the manager, Bernard Tarrant, used to be an actor, and he’s an old sweetie-pie so it doesn’t always follow.’

‘Tarrant? The brother of Charles?’

‘Yes, do you know him?’

‘He flies with Bill. Reasonable pilot.’ This was high praise for Bunji. Phryne was about to agree to Captain Larkin’s suggestion of slipping out for a quiet tot when someone came stumbling over outraged patrons’ feet and tugging at her sleeve.

‘Miss Fisher, please, Miss Fisher, can you come with me?’ begged a white-faced young man in full evening dress. ‘Sir Bernard wants to see you.

There’s been an accident.’

22

CHAPTER TWO

ADAM: Richard Dauntless and Pretty Rose Maybud are here to ask your consent to their marriage.

Poison their beer.

Ruddigore
, Gilbert and Sullivan PHRYNE GAVE Bunji the chocolates and said, ‘Back in a tick, old thing.’ She followed the young man down the stairs and round several corners into a dark corridor. It smelt of dust and old oilcloth and paint was peeling off the walls.

Phryne was conducted into an office which contained, reading from right to left, a hysterical older lady, a young woman in evening dress supplying same with smelling salts and handkerchiefs, and Sir Bernard Tarrant and his trademark cigar.

It was rather crowded.

‘Phryne my dear, sorry to drag you out of the house, but something’s happened.’

‘Sir Ruthven?’

23

‘Yes. Dammit, that was the best fall he has ever taken – as soon as I saw him fold in that perfect boneless manner, right on cue, I knew something was wrong.’

‘Well, what is wrong?’

‘He’s been poisoned,’ said Bernard reluctantly.

‘At least, either that or he gave himself a big dose of something.’

‘Does that seem likely?’

‘Er . . . ’ Bernard looked at the women, ‘probably not.’

‘No!’ wailed the old woman, raising a countenance purple with tears. ‘Not my Walter! Walter would never leave me! He’d never do such a thing!’

Bernard Tarrant was an old friend of Phryne’s.

He was tall, stout and always immaculate, from his smooth white hair to the bright red rose in the buttonhole to the toes of his polished patent-leather shoes. Now Bernard, who had always been larger than life, looked smaller than life and Phryne realised that the situation was serious.

‘Look, why don’t we all sit down. You can dis-pense some of the good whisky and tell me all about it.’

‘So you’ll help me,’ said Bernard eagerly.

‘Don’t know. It depends on what you want me to do. If it is to perform in your chorus the answer is ‘‘no’’. I’ve done enough performing lately. Come now, Bernard dear, this is not like you. You’re the manager.’

‘Yes, so I am.’ Bernard stood up to his full 24

height, smoothed his blameless waistcoat front, and found the decanter. ‘It’s been an unlucky run,’

he commented. ‘Mrs Copland, have a glass of this, it will make you feel better. Oh, I’m sorry, I haven’t introduced you – Miss Elizabeth Copland, Walter’s sister, and his mother Mrs James Copland. This is the Honourable Phryne Fisher, an old friend of mine and a most enterprising young woman. I’m hoping that she might be able to help me.’

‘I’ve heard of you,’ said Elizabeth. ‘You investigate things.’

‘Yes. How is your brother?’

‘The doctor’s with him now. He says . . . ’ She choked, took a sip of neat spirit and choked again,

‘He doesn’t know what it was, but he thinks . . . ’

She began to cry.

Phryne left the two women to comfort one another and said crisply, ‘Bernard, you will now tell me what is going on.’

Bernard glanced admiringly at the silver figure perched on his scarred desk. On another woman that outfit would have looked overdone – but on the admirable Miss Fisher it was stunning, a touch outre´, and altogether picturesque. So assured. So soigneé.

And, he observed, beginning to look so impatient. He pulled himself together.

‘He collapsed on stage. Luckily I fished a G and S-loving doctor out of the audience. Copland must have taken something – the doctor thinks he might . . . er . . . ’ At this both ladies wailed.

25

‘Come for a walk, Phryne dear,’ said Bernard, looking harried. Phryne tucked one hand under his elbow and he led her out into the passage and said rapidly, ‘I need your help. This is only the latest thing that has gone awry. Let me take you to supper, Phryne darling, and I’ll tell you all about it.’

‘If there has been an attempted murder, Bernard, you have to call the police.’

‘But, Phryne, the scandal.’

‘You really must,’ she insisted, and Bernard realised that he really had.

‘Oh, very well,’ he said pettishly, ‘but the scandal will be immense. You see, it’s not just poor Walter. There’s been a lot of . . . well, I’ll tell you about it later. Robert Craven can go on as Sir Ruthven, he’s a good lad enough, but not up to Walter’s skill. Nothing like as good an actor, and G and S requires good acting. I . . . yes?’

A panting boy slid to a halt before the manager.

‘Mr Craven’s asking if he should go on.’

‘Tell him yes and to break a leg. See if they can get the costume off . . . ’ He noticed Phryne’s raised eyebrow. ‘Well, no, I suppose not, there’s a change anyway for the second act, go and ask Mrs Pomeroy if she can cobble up a baronet’s garb, and get a move on, Herbert.’

The functionary ran away along the peeling corridor. Phryne released Sir Bernard’s arm. He smelt agreeably of port and cigars and expensive pomade.

‘I’m going back to my seat.’ she said. ‘I’ll come to your office after the show. But I still think you 26

should call it off and send for the cops. They won’t like it if you just clear the stage and try not to think about a murder, Bernard.’

Bernard drew himself up to his full six foot height and snorted theatrically, regaining his old performer’s assurance as he spoke, his voice gaining bass notes and increasing in volume until it rang like a trumpet. He brandished his cigar like a crusader’s banner.

‘Miss Fisher, you know the old saying,’ he said pompously. ‘I’m not going to interrupt the Hinkler gala, the high point of the theatrical calendar – I got the hero of the hour over some mighty stiff bidding from the Prinny, you know – just because someone has tried to kill my Sir Ruthven. Consider our glorious history and the traditions of the Craft. We went on with
The Mikado
in New Zealand when there was an earthquake. We carried on with
Hamlet
through the Zeppelin raids in London and when the stage hands went on strike we did not miss one performance of
Pirates
even though we had to work the lights ourselves and Mollie Webb burned her hands on a follow spot. We soldiered on with
The Merry Widow
after old Charles had a heart attack in the wings and when that soprano whatever-her-name-was set her hair on fire by standing too near a candle.

The show must go on!’ he declaimed.

Phryne kissed him resignedly and threaded the labyrinth back to her seat, contemplating actors, and deciding that the stage really was another world.

27

The Hero of the Hour was dragged onto the stage at the end of interval to the cheers of the populace. He smiled weakly.

‘Poor Bert,’ commented Bunji, discarding the empty chocolate box and applauding with enough vigour to split her gloves. ‘This’ll take more courage than low flying in fog through them Malay mountains. I hope they aren’t going to force the modest old blighter to talk.’

‘They certainly are going to demand a speech.

Hard cheese if you don’t like being a hero. His mother looks pleased, though,’ returned Phryne.

The small bundle that was Bert Hinkler’s mother was radiating pride and delight.

‘Who wouldn’t, with a son like that?’ observed Captain Larkin. ‘Yes, he’s going to talk. Silence for the hero.’