Chapter Forty

CHAPTER FORTY

‘W e were hoping to have a word with Miss Stanmore.’

It was Friday evening and a circus-based revue was receiving a warm reception from the crowd, though the animals that appeared on stage had been giving Jack a few headaches. He claimed half of them were in league with the rat. In the stage door area, Danny and Milly were working on a jigsaw of Paris by night. They hadn’t noticed the middle-aged couple approaching till they were at the lobby desk. Ollie, it seemed, had judged them worthy of passing unmolested.

‘Miss Stanmore isn’t a-appearing at The Empire now,’ Danny said. ‘But I believe she is in town for the wedding of Lady Lassiter and Nikolai tomorrow. Perhaps I c-can arrange for a message.’

The couple exchanged unhappy glances. The wife had her handbag held in front of her like a shield and her fingers were shifting nervously on the short strap. The man, in a red knitted tie, looked like he’d normally be a jovial sort of chap, but his round face was somewhat crumpled.

‘Oh, we just assumed. We read this morning she sang a song here and just assumed. Oh, we are fools, Jess.’

Milly put down her knitting. ‘Not fools at all. It was a natural thing to think. Just that song was in the lobby, in memory of a friend of ours who recently passed, not part of a show.’

The lady didn’t reply, but cast a panicked look at her husband.

‘Did you serve, son?’

Danny nodded.

‘Our son did, too. We lost him at Ypres.’

‘And now we’ve lost our Ruthie, too!’ the woman exclaimed, the words coming out in a rush. She turned away and fumbled in her handbag for a handkerchief. Her husband rested his hand on her arm, but kept his eyes on Danny.

‘Our name is Cook, but our daughter was Tasha Kingsland. Ruth Kingsland, up this end of the world.’ Milly covered her mouth with her hand. ‘Now we know the newspapers print a lot of rubbish – we don’t want Miss Stanmore to think we’re here to make accusations.’ Mrs Cook, still wiping her eyes, shook her head violently. ‘But we want to know a little about our Ruthie’s life before she passed, and we thought maybe if Miss Stanmore did know her, even a little bit, and her being in this part of the world . . .’

The door to the backstage area opened and Grace came down the short flight of stairs to the lobby.

‘Danny, can you keep an eye out for the printer’s boy? He’s bringing me another stack of samples for the shop advertisements, and I know he sometimes comes this way to pet Ollie.’ The terrier clambered out of his basket to sniff Grace’s ankles and wagged his tail. She bent down and scratched his ears. ‘Yes, you have more fans than anyone on the stage, don’t you, boy?’

Then she noticed the couple.

‘Oh, good evening!’

‘Mrs T-Treadwell, this is Mr and Mrs Cook.’

‘Tasha Kingsland’s parents,’ Milly added softly. ‘They were hoping to see Miss Stanmore.’

Grace immediately shook their hands. ‘Oh, how . . . She’s not here, I’m afraid. I’m sure Danny’s told you that.’

‘He has,’ Mr Cook said. ‘But as I said to the young gentleman, we aren’t here to cause a fuss. Just want to hear about Ruthie from someone who knew her, like.’

Grace hesitated.

‘Are you l-local?’ Danny asked.

Mrs Cook shook her head. ‘That is, we live in Hope Valley, Sheffield way. Jimmy works the trains. My sister lives in Highbridge. We wanted so much to . . . I can’t imagine what her life was like. The police came up to see us and said all sorts of nasty things. Do you have children, Mrs Treadwell?’

‘I do not.’

‘Then you can’t imagine. I haven’t been able to sleep a full night since she died, all these weeks, just wondering. And people are always asking. With our lad, we never knew how he died either, but there were so many of us going through the same thing. We could lean on each other a bit. But with our Ruthie . . .’ She tailed off. ‘So we thought we’d call by, just on the off-chance, but we don’t wish to disturb.’

‘Would you like a cup of tea, Mrs Cook?’ Milly said, climbing off her stool. ‘I was just about to make Danny and me a cup.’

‘That would be very kind of you, dear.’

‘Tasha Kingsland was Ruthie up this end of the world, Mrs Treadwell,’ Milly added to Grace quietly.

‘I know we’re only ordinary folk, and Miss Stanmore’s a star,’ Mr Cook said, staring at his shoes, ‘but I thought in the circumstances . . .’

Grace shook herself. ‘No, please don’t think that Stella would think she’s too grand to talk to you. I know she’s been terribly upset about Tasha’s death – sorry, Ruthie’s. But she might not want to shock you or upset you further.’

‘Can’t be worse than what we’re thinking,’ he said.

‘Please do stay and have tea. Milly, perhaps you could give Mr and Mrs Cook a tour of the theatre during the interval. I know your daughter wanted very much to be part of this world. Perhaps it might help to see a little of it?’

‘Thank you,’ Mrs Cook whispered.

‘Please, think nothing of it. Are you staying here overnight?’

‘No, heading back on the nine o’clock train, then there’s a bus and you don’t have to wait too long if you time it right.’

Grace pulled her notebook out of her pocket and handed it to them.

‘I can’t promise anything, but could you leave me your address?’

The day of Nikolai and Lillian’s wedding dawned bright and clear, with only enough breeze to stir the blossoms as they drove into town.

Tom and Jack acted as witnesses to the simple register office ceremony, with Grace, Stella, Agnes and Joe accompanying them and supplying the first congratulations. When the wedding party emerged, pausing on the short flight of steps from the high Victorian doors to the pavement, quite a crowd had gathered to greet them – a mix of theatre folk and the curious citizens who had maintained a friendly and proprietorial attitude to Lillian.

Jack felt Grace take his hand as the photographer ushered them together for the official pictures, and the staff of The Empire threw handfuls of rice and ribald remarks at them.

‘Keep smiling, Jack.’

He gritted his teeth. ‘Yes, dear.’ Then he nodded to his right. ‘Look at that.’

Danny was in attendance, wearing his uniform and with Ollie at his side, but standing close by him, with her arm through his, was the wardrobe assistant, Milly.

‘Do you think there’s something there?’

Grace smiled. ‘I’m sure of it. I went to have tea with him the other day, and Milly was working at her sewing in the lobby. And look at Ollie.’

Jack peered a little. The terrier was wearing a white satin bow tie attached to his collar, and looked positively smart. Jack could swear that the dog’s eyebrows had been trimmed.

‘Too fancy to chase rats now.’

‘Too clever to try and deal with a theatre rat. He’s still excellent at spotting interlopers at the stage door, though.’

Jack sighed and, rather than just plaster a smile on his face, made a valiant attempt to actually be happy for Lillian. He counted his blessings while the cheers and snaps of camera shutters continued. He was married to the best woman in the world, he had a job he loved – a fact he was rediscovering since the advent of Bridget Chisholm – and the launch of Empire Records had given his life a new focus and interest. He was surrounded by people he cared for . . . and Nikolai.

Something caught his eye. At some distance, on the other side of the square, a quartet of men, marked out by their military bearing, appeared to be watching them.

‘Jack?’ Lillian had turned and was looking up at him from the lower step she occupied with Nikolai. ‘Shall we head back to the house?’

She looked lovely. She was wearing a lavender ensemble, which looked fashionable without appearing girlish, and her hat – a sort of spring bonnet affair – was trimmed with fresh lilacs. She looked like the personification of a hopeful spring. Jack felt a pang. Why shouldn’t she enjoy a little romance?

‘Yes, of course.’

He put his fingers to his mouth, and produced a piercing whistle which made his wife and mother duck and cover their ears.

‘To Lassiter Court, my friends, for sausage rolls and champagne! All welcome!’

‘Much better!’ Grace said, and kissed him firmly on the cheek. The military-looking gentlemen were forgotten.

It had been a bold plan to have the reception in the gardens of Lassiter Court during an English spring, but Nikolai claimed he was descended from a weather god, and was always blessed with sunshine when he needed it. Jack was inclined to be sceptical, but Grace pointed out that there were awnings out for shade or shelter, and the French doors were flung open all along the terrace so they could retreat if the weather turned against them. It didn’t.

The borders around the immaculate lawn were thick with daffodils and bluebells, star-gazers and hibiscus. The hedges were scattered with hawthorn blossom, and the silver birches marking the edge of the pleasure gardens at the rear of the house were shivering with a haze of fresh green growth. Roses and sprigs of baby’s breath had been wrapped around the guy-ropes supporting the awnings, and the scattered tables were dressed in white linen. The buffet table itself groaned with silver serving dishes that steamed slightly in the spring air, and the wedding cake – four tiers of it, thick with sugar icing – had a table all to itself.

The car carrying Lillian and Nikolai took the scenic route, so by the time they arrived, the guests were lining the drive and crowding round the front of the house to cheer the newly-weds’ arrival. Silver trays crowded with champagne flutes were carried out by phalanxes of serving men – Jack thought he recognised some of them from the Metropole – and on the other side of the house, the string players of The Empire’s band were earning a few extra shillings working through their repertoire on the terrace. Nothing but an occasional breeze ruffled the crowd, and the garden filled with the sound of friendly conversation, laughter, and the smell of hot pastry and cold champagne.

After a pleasant hour or so, Jack saw signs of activity round the steps to the terrace and the string quartet put up their bows. Lillian ascended from the lawn, assisted by her new husband. Standing at the top of the steps, with the doors to the house open behind her, she raised her voice and asked for quiet.

Jack emptied his glass and held it out to a passing waiter, who carried a linen-wrapped bottle icy with condensation. It was refilled to the brim.

‘My dear friends, I am so happy to welcome you all here today. I once thought my theatre days were over, but I was proved wrong when Jack joined us. I was just as sure that my days of romance were over, too, but I have, as you see, been proved wrong again.’

The crowd laughed, and Jack noticed people glancing at him. The looks seemed friendly enough.

‘I am a very lucky woman, discovering in a few short years a son I had thought lost forever, who turned out to be a natural theatrical impresario, and proved his good sense by marrying Grace. I then met and fell in love with a man whose genius is almost equal to theirs . . .’ Nikolai made a face, a sort of pantomime of displeasure, and Lillian laughed. ‘Well, there are two of them, darling!’

Nikolai shrugged extravagantly, and a ripple of amusement passed through the guests.

‘I am delighted to announce on this, my wedding day,’ Lillian lifted her glass. ‘That you will all get the opportunity to experience first-hand the talent of the man I have married this morning. I learnt last week from dear Miss Chisholm, that thanks to a little trouble in the Company of the Chartered Players, the New Empire has a gap in the programming in six weeks’ time. Jack, forgive me for not discussing this with you, but I’ve consulted with Agnes, and we decided, my dear Nikolai, this is the very best wedding present I could offer you.’ She turned to him. ‘Nikolai, for a fortnight, the theatre is yours.’

Lillian knew how to deliver an applause line, and everyone else raised glasses and cheered and clapped while Nikolai mimed surprise, gratitude and pleasure like a hero in a fairground puppet show.

Jack was aware of keeping his smile plastered to his face, while his emotions collapsed behind it – the way the front wall of a house stays in place while a sink hole consumes the rest. He was aware of a distinct buzzing in his ears. People were still clapping.

Grace, who must have crossed the lawn with some haste, but with complete discretion, appeared miraculously, inevitably, at his side.

‘What did she say? Grace, am I dreaming, or did Lillian just announce that she’s handing over my theatre to Nikolai for two weeks?’

Grace laughed, beamed, and patted his arm as if he had said something charming.

‘Yes, yes she did. What could go wrong!’

‘I suppose,’ Jack’s face was getting sore, his muscles were having to work so hard to keep the grin in place, ‘that now is not the time to remind Lillian, with passion and conviction, that replacing Susie’s Gadabout Gals with Nikolai “the Red” Kuznetsov is going to make us a laughing stock at best?’

She smiled and nodded. ‘Well, he is also one of our best-selling artistes thanks to “The Sunrise Song” . We’ve sold the whole of the first run and we’ve barely been open a week. And you just made up that name yourself. But now is most certainly not the time to take it up with Lillian. You’ll have to wait until they get back from their motor trip to the Lakes.’

Jack polished off his champagne in a single gulp. He didn’t even taste it. The waiter, however, seemed to have developed a telepathic understanding of his needs almost on a level with his wife’s. It was almost instantaneously refilled. ‘Could I write a passionate and firmly worded note and pop it in the car?’

‘Absolutely not.’

It was somewhere in the gap between the glass being filled, and being empty again – within a minute or so – that the military-looking men made their entrance. The four of them were wearing suits, but they had a look of shared purpose which made them an unmistakable unit. Lillian and Nikolai were still on or very near the steps, receiving handshakes and backslaps.

‘Is this more entertainment?’ Grace asked. ‘Jack, this isn’t anything to do with you, is it?’

Jack shook his head. Nikolai and Lillian had spotted them now as they crunched along the gravel path towards the couple. Nikolai took a step forward to stand between them and his wife.

‘Stay here, Grace,’ Jack said, setting down his glass and walking slowly across the lawn towards them. There was a general shuffling in the crowd. Danny was moving forward, too, as were Mr Poole, Tom, Dixon Wells and Joe Allerdyce. The rest retreated a little.

The oldest of the men came to a halt directly in front of Nikolai and held up his hand. The men behind him stepped out into a wide stance, their hands clasped behind their backs.

Nikolai said something to him, and the man said something back. Jack couldn’t understand the words, but he guessed neither the question nor the response were particularly friendly.

The leader switched to English.

‘By order of His Majesty, King Kiril III of Marakovia, I, Vladimir Taargin, ambassador to his country, am here to deliver notice to the His Excellency, Grand Duke Nikolai Goranovich Kuznetsov of Marakovia. Sir, as a member of the royal family of our nation, you are required absolutely to seek the permission of the king before entering into any marriage. You have not done so. As a member of the royal family, you are required to marry a woman of equal status to yourself. You have not done so. I demand, on behalf of your cousin the king, that you annul this travesty of a union immediately.’

Nikolai stared at him, then carefully set down his own champagne glass on the edge of the terrace. The silence was such that they all heard, quite distinctly, the clink of glass on stone. Then he looked Vladimir Taargin in the eye. He seemed, as Jack watched him, to grow, putting his shoulders back, his amiable smile vanishing. Another glamour, he thought – an ancient magic possessed by actors, musicians and nobility. They could, at will, exert a sort of gravity, a charisma, which radiated out from them in pulses, like shock waves.

‘Or what?’ Nikolai replied.

Taargin seemed unfazed. ‘Your exile will become permanent. Your friends, such as you have, will shun you. You will be stripped of all your titles, land and possessions, and any hope you harbour of reclaiming your standing in your country will be lost forever.’

‘And I was afraid it was actually something bad,’ Nikolai drawled. ‘Now leave, Taargin. My wife and I have some celebrating to do.’

Jack was within arm’s reach of them now.

‘Here, here!’ Stella called out from the middle of the crowd, cupping her hands around her mouth, and several people around her applauded.

Taargin looked round, just long enough for his sneer to register with the guests, then returned his gaze to Nikolai and spoke more quietly.

‘You have a future at home once you have grown out of your idiotic political beliefs. It’s in your blood to rule. But not if you do this.’

‘I am fifty-three years old, Taargin,’ Nikolai replied. ‘I have grown into my beliefs, not out of them. And I would rather take up residence in a ditch, than in a palace controlled by fascists like you and His Majesty’s brother.’

Taargin screwed up his mouth. ‘Perhaps your mother was not the model of behaviour she pretended to be. Only the son of a whore would give up his place in the family to marry an actress who made her living on her back.’

The man next to him laughed.

Jack threw the first punch. He took two steps forward and struck a straight jab to the man’s jaw, knocking him back into the arms of the men behind him.

The three men behind Taargin broke ranks, making a grab at Nikolai and Jack. Nikolai parried a blow aimed at his head and caught its thrower with an uppercut. Jack elbowed the first one in the kidneys. The man, who had a terrifying look in his eye, took a step back, then tried to launch himself forward again. He found he could not. Joe Allerdyce had taken a firm grip on the collar and hem of his jacket and, with a twist of his considerable bulk, he spun the man and sent him sprawling across the grass.

Taargin launched himself towards Jack, landing him a vicious blow to the side of his head that sent him stumbling backwards. Half the crowd retreated still further, shrieking or making appalled tutting noises, according to their proclivities, while the others launched into the melee with a will. Jack, staggering slightly, found himself steadied by Tom, and so was in time to observe his wife throw a scotch egg at one of the Marakovians with the speed and force of a fast bowler. Ollie was growling and tugging on the trouser leg of another, then let out a yelp as his quarry counterattacked with a sharp kick.

‘Bastard!’ Danny exclaimed, lifting his walking stick and jabbing it hard into the offender’s stomach.

Taargin was approaching Lillian, his arms at his side and his fists balled. She had taken a step up the terrace and was staring down at him with utter contempt. Nikolai turned from his first victim and slapped the ambassador across the face.

‘Good show!’ Jack shouted instinctively.

Taargin roared, turned and charged Nikolai, grabbing him round the shoulders, and they crashed backwards. The crowd scattered away from them, Nikolai tripped over the guy-rope, and they went down together, straight into the wedding cake. Taargin had his hands round Nikolai’s throat, ignoring the storm of sugar and crumb raining down on both of them. Nikolai struggled to dislodge him, then Fenton Hewitt stepped forward and delivered Taargin a stunning blow with a silver tea tray.

Grace’s work with the scotch egg seemed to have inspired the guests. The other men were now being bombarded with food. Taargin staggered to his feet and made a lunge at the butler. Jack intervened, stepping forward to shove the man off course. He spun round, regaining his balance quickly, and jabbed at Jack’s flank. Jack deflected the blow, blocking with his right forearm, but the punch had the force of a steam engine. Jack punched upwards and made connection with his opponent’s iron jaw, but the man hardly flinched and his eyes, as he turned them on Jack, flashed with a murderous fire.

Jack didn’t even see the blow coming, just felt its thunderous impact on the side of his head. The world spun and staggered as he fought to stay upright. The shrill alarm of a police whistle cut through the air and his swimming senses. He had a vague impression of the Marakovians cowed by vol-au-vents, icing smeared over best jackets and coats, Ollie’s indignant barking, and a policeman holding firmly on to Tom’s arm, before discovering another policeman had hold of him and he was being propelled out of his home and into the back of a police van.