Chapter One

CHAPTER ONE

NOVEMBER 1926

L illian Lassiter took her hand from the steering wheel, and gently shook the shoulder of the dark-haired gentleman sleeping in the passenger seat. He awoke with a start, rubbed his eyes and yawned before peering out of the windscreen.

‘Lillian, my dear,’ he said in a tone of mild surprise, ‘this countryside is very beautiful. People in London told me everything north of Hampshire was black with coal dust.’

Lillian smiled. Nikolai’s accent, with its round Slavic vowels and throaty consonants, made everything he said sound like poetry. Even ‘coal’ sounded like a rare gem. It was one of the first things she had noticed about him when they met at a party held by mutual friends in London. Then, as he turned the spotlight of his attention on her, she had noticed his looks, his intelligence and his charm. The next day he had sent her armfuls of pink roses, and taken her for supper with his avant-garde theatre friends. To her surprise, Lillian discovered she was, at the age of forty-six, being swept off her feet.

‘Which is strange when London is itself such a dirty busy place,’ he continued. ‘I myself am glad to see some hills again.’

‘Isn’t it?’ Lillian replied as her heart lifted with native pride. She had lived in Paris for some years, her star shining bright enough to dazzle even in the city of light, but Highbridge, where she was raised and had earned her first pennies sweeping factory floors, would always be her home. She’d said that to her companion, His Excellency, Grand Duke Nikolai Goranovich Kuznetsov the moment she’d felt herself beginning to fall in love with him, and when she had suggested he come with her to Highbridge for an extended stay, he had accepted with obvious delight.

She had chosen a route from Nottingham which took them across the Peak District, trusting her bull-nosed Oxford Tourer to handle the gradients without complaint, so Nikolai could see this very view. The sun had just risen, and the high pasture either side of them sparkled with frost. Ahead of them the road dipped, and the landscape opened out. Mist clung to the lower flanks of the valley, but the early gold of the winter sun picked out the hamlet of Pottersfield, with its ancient church, and the drystone walls dividing the fields.

‘Is Marakovia as pretty as this?’ she asked, changing gear and slowing slightly. It was the weather when sheep seemed to find the middle of the road the most tempting place to sit.

‘Marakovia is bigger,’ he replied thoughtfully. ‘For a small country, we have a very big landscape. It is as if God was a little drunk when he made our crags and valleys. It is a country fit only for eagles and poets.’ He put his hand on hers and squeezed it. Then he sat forward, like a hunting dog catching a scent, narrowing his eyes. ‘But this is also very beautiful. Now, I must concentrate, because very soon we shall see Highbridge, I think, and it is very important to me to see your home town.’

She laughed. ‘It’ll take us an hour or two yet, Nikolai, we can’t drive at more than thirty miles an hour on these roads. But I did so want you to see this view.’

He relaxed back into his seat and drummed his hands on his knees. ‘And you knew that the view would be best at this hour. Ah, no wonder your friend Evie in London wanted your advice on her new production. She is a clever woman.’

‘I admit it. You’re not angry at me for making you leave the hotel so early this morning?’

This time, he lifted her hand from the gearstick to his lips. ‘Not at all, Lillian. I admire your artistry.’

Lillian felt herself blush. How strange. She had expected to live out the rest of her life as a respectable wealthy widow; then she had met Nikolai, and everything had changed. Her heart now fluttered like a young girl’s.

Nikolai squeezed her fingers and relinquished them, acknowledging – it seemed, with reluctance – that she needed both hands to drive.

‘Tell me more about Highbridge, milaya maya .’

‘It is an industrial city and sits in the river valley,’ Lillian began. ‘There is an old quarter round the stone bridge with some rather charming sixteenth-century cottages, but the new centre is further up the hill. That’s where the town hall and the library and the theatre and the grander shops and restaurants are. My house is out of town, towards the north.’

‘It is a very grand house, I think?’

‘Quite grand. My husband was a very successful man, but his daughter-in-law, Constance, manages Lassiter Enterprises now.’

‘On behalf of her son? Edmund? The one who you think is a schartenmellich , and was hurt in the fire?’

‘I’ve no idea what that means, but it sounds about right.’ She was pleased he had remembered the details. ‘Constance is a schartenmellich , too, but she’s managed the entire business very well since Edmund became incapacitated. Much better than he did. Thank goodness I have no interest in the business now. Agnes, the sister of my husband’s first wife, and I own the theatre, and I have a few stocks and shares, but none in Lassiter Enterprises.’

Nikolai was frowning fiercely. ‘There is another boy? Another Lassiter boy?’

‘Yes – Tom, he is Edmund’s younger brother.’

‘ Schartenmellich ?’

She laughed. ‘No, not at all, Tom’s a darling, and he lives at Lassiter Court most of the time. His relationship with his mother is strained.’ Lillian paused. Should she have tried harder to persuade Tom to reconcile with his mother? But then Constance had always treated Tom with undisguised disdain, and she had done her best to blackmail Lillian into selling the theatre. She owed the woman nothing. She shook her head, as if trying to dislodge the thought. ‘Now, when we get to town, Nikolai, would you like to go to the house first, or the theatre? It has been a long journey, after all . . .’

‘Lillian! We must go to the theatre!’ He slapped his knee to underline the point. ‘I will not rest until I have seen the New Empire. It is your heart. I will go nowhere else.’

Lillian laughed. ‘We’ll stop for lunch in Marsden on the way, then be in time for some of the matinee.’

‘And shall I meet your son Jack, at the theatre? So romantic, to have the son you thought lost forever returned to you a war hero.’

‘Jack would say he’s no hero, but finding him again was the great gift of my life. He’ll probably be at the theatre. If he’s not there, you’ll meet him at dinner this evening. You remember he and his wife are living with me at Lassiter Court?’

Lillian slowed the car to a halt to allow a shepherd to urge his flock across the road in front of them. The man carried a crook and wore a long smock of homespun cloth. When he raised his hand in greeting, it was like sharing a moment with the ancient past. When the sheep were gone, and Lillian let the car move forward again, Nikolai continued softly.

‘I will be on my best behaviour, Lillian.’

‘I know you will.’ Lillian felt her throat becoming rather dry. ‘Honestly, I’ve no idea why I am worried.’

‘Yes! Why indeed? All you are doing is arriving at your home with a foreign man on your arm, a man recently exiled from his own country as a revolutionary, saying “Good afternoon, son, this stranger is my friend and will be living with us now.” We all know from the stories, this sort of thing normally goes very, very well.’

Lillian snorted with laughter. ‘I should have done as you said, and written.’

‘But you are an actress and can’t help making a dramatic entrance. Do not worry, my best beloved girl. I have no doubt that once we explain I am penniless, and then later, that we intend to marry, he will be delighted.’ Lillian groaned slightly, while Nikolai looked out of the window, a broad grin on his face. ‘My, what a lot of sheep there are in this country. I believed you all were beefeaters.’

Mr Poole, front of house manager of the New Empire, stood on the pavement outside the theatre, hands on his hips, and looked up.

‘Right, Marcus!’ he called. ‘Switch it on!’

For one precious second, the sign above the theatre flickered on and lit the early morning gloom: the empire. Then something fizzled and finally the E winked out sadly.

Mr Poole sighed. At least he didn’t need to worry about the sign spelling out obscenities. That was a blessing.

‘Oh, switch the bloody thing off again!’

The surviving bulbs dulled and went out. Mr Poole marched into the lobby and handed Marcus his coat and gloves. ‘Thank you, Marcus. I shall call the electrician. Again.’

Marcus, a sharp-faced boy of seventeen and Frederick Poole’s apprentice, backed away with unusual meekness. Whenever the sign was mis-firing – and that seemed like most days – his supervisor was prone to be cranky.

Mr Poole waited to be connected, and tapped his fingers on the polished counter top of the box office. The corner of his scrapbook, filled with cuttings about The Empire, both old and new, was sticking out. He straightened it with a forefinger and looked away.

The notices for the opening show had been marvellous, and Cairo Nights had played to packed houses for its whole run. Then the reversals, as Mr Poole referred to them, had begun. Mrs Grace Treadwell had suffered an illness, and Mr Treadwell had spent time away from the theatre taking care of her. Those with eyes to see knew she had lost a baby and was taking it hard, but no one spoke of it. More of the day-to-day running of the theatre had been left to Jack’s assistant, Darien Burnside. Problems accrued. Then there was the whole farrago with the restaurant.

Like a man who cannot resist pressing on a bruise, Mr Poole opened the scrapbook.

Tutankhamen’s Restaurant to Close

Though epicures in Highbridge greeted the opening of Tutankhamen’s Restaurant, on the ground floor of the New Empire Theatre with delight, its passing will not be mourned. The unfortunate food poisoning incident last year put the first nail in the coffin of a venture which now seems over-ambitious and under-managed. Now it seems that the celebrated French chef, Francois Blanchet, misrepresented his qualifications and experience, and was in fact an army cook from Southend. Rumours hinting at his dubious heritage had been circulating among the Highbridge elite for some weeks after he appeared to lose his distinctive French accent during an argument with one of the waiters. We have the greatest respect for army cooks, and Southend, but the repetitive and lazy menu, poor service, and increasingly shabby cooking suggest Monsieur Blanchet was not a good representative of the profession or the place. Jack Treadwell, the inexperienced manager of the New Empire, seems to be losing his golden touch.

Nasty business, that , Mr Poole thought with a sniff.

‘Yes, Mr Turnbull? My E has gone. Yes . . . Well, obviously there is a loose connection somewhere! But where , Mr Turnbull, that is the question!’

Mr Poole’s eyes drifted to the cuttings opposite, while Mr Turnbull tried to explain himself.

Grace Treadwell’s Play to Close Early.

All Highbridge citizens must share the sting of disappointment felt today by Mrs Treadwell, whose delightful drama ‘The Price of Everything’ was celebrated in her native city during its run at The Playhouse, but failed to find favour with West End critics. Jason de Witte, tastemaker of the London theatre world, referred to her work as ‘the undercooked, adolescent, philosophical musings of a poorly educated provincial young woman, utterly lacking the sophistication necessary for the London stage’. His notice proved a fatal blow, and though the play received a warm welcome from theatregoers, the catastrophic fall off in bookings which followed the publication of de Witte’s notice meant the run had to be cut short. We can only hope that Mrs Treadwell treats his opinion with the disdain it deserves, and returns to her desk assured of the continued support of her unsophisticated and provincial admirers at home.

Empire to Close for Two Weeks.

The world of theatre may be all about glitz and make-believe, but sadly no business establishment is immune to problems with the drains. Complaints have reached us that theatregoers’ enjoyment of The Empire’s lavish entertainments has been hampered recently by some unfortunate odours, and the problems have intensified after this weekend’s heavy rains.

The Empire – Further Concerns?

The announcement of the new season at The Empire has met with a lukewarm response. Mr Treadwell seems to have struggled to bring any really first-class shows to Highbridge this year. Have rumours of the continued problems at The Empire reached the ears of London producers?

There were several pages of cuttings of a similar ilk. Mr Poole closed the book again, shuddering a little. Turnbull, the electrician, was still explaining himself with some vigour.

‘Of course you need to send someone today!’ Mr Poole interrupted. ‘We look like we’re closed again. The Gazette is printing the “assistant wanted” notice— Yes, again . . . and the advertisements for the new prices are on page three this morning! I am expecting a flood of visitors to my booth, and they should be greeted in a fitting manner.’ He paused. ‘Well, there’s no need to take that tone.’ Then he hung up. ‘Marcus! I need tea.’

Someone cleared their throat and he looked up to see not his apprentice, but one of the messengers from the printing office. He had a parcel trolley with an alarming number of cardboard boxes on it.

‘What on earth have you got there?’

‘Cardboard boxes,’ the messenger said, which was true, but not helpful.

Mr Poole exited his booth, tapping across the mosaic floor, and snapped his fingers, so the messenger, with a grin, handed over his clipboard with the paperwork attached.

‘Programme proofs for Ladies of Grasmere – excellent,’ Mr Poole murmured to himself as he read, then his eyes lit up with sudden enthusiasm. ‘And the posters for the pantomime!’

‘What are we having this year?’ the messenger asked.

‘ Dick Whittington ,’ Poole said, tapping the man on his arm. ‘And we have Harold Drabble for the dame.’

The messenger’s grin broadened. ‘Oooh, where’s my tiffin?’ he crooned. ‘Why is that funny, Mr Poole? I’ve never worked it out, but it makes me giggle like a little kid whenever I think of it.’

‘The ineffable mystery of comedy,’ Mr Poole said wisely, opening the top box and pulling out the programme proof; then he frowned. Something else to add to the list of things to raise with Jack Treadwell, if he wasn’t mistaken. The posters, however, looked splendid, and he was signing the paperwork with a vigorous flourish as Marcus tumbled back into the foyer.

‘Mr Poole! Mrs Briggs needs a word, and Mr Treadwell is on the prowl backstage.’

Mr Poole blinked, returned the clipboard to the messenger, then pressed his palms together. ‘Right! Marcus, get this lot into the lobby storeroom. I’ll deal with Mr Treadwell.’