Chapter Forty-Nine

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

T he acclaim for Nikolai’s play was universal. The London papers reprinted Jason de Witte’s fulsome appraisal, and curious theatre critics and lovers from the capital made the pilgrimage to attend. A transfer to the West End was mooted, and Jack’s and Mr Poole’s days were filled with finding suitable seats for a flurry of interested VIPs, and negotiating with the employers of their disparate company to take the show to London in the spring of the following year.

Grace found her husband’s preoccupation with Nikolai’s play gave her more freedom than she had been anticipating. She had begun writing something, and though she was quite sure it was not good yet, Nikolai was teaching her not to expect it to be when she first set pen to paper. That helped. And working with him was difficult, but left her eager to write more – it was not as if they wrote together, or he marked her work like a schoolteacher, but he was terribly good at asking the right questions, about what was good and what wasn’t.

After a chilly May, the weather was beginning to improve, and Grace announced the talent contest to the world in general. The Empire Records Search for a Star would take place on the evening of 28th July, and those who wished to perform were invited to present themselves at the theatre on the afternoon of Sunday 17th or 24th. She placed advertisements in the Highbridge Gazette , and gave an interview to Wilbur underlining their preference for new talent. She emphasised that the inspiration for the project was both the success of Seven Trials and the legacy of Ruby Rowntree.

The event would include special performances from Nikolai and Lillian with Mabel Mills, Stella performing the theme tune of Riviera Nights and a duet with Lancelot Drake, and Harold Drabble would also perform. Josie Clarence would sing her ballad from Cairo Nights , and Josie, Stella, Lancelot and Harold would act as judges. They would give their opinions of each of the potential stars, then the winner would be chosen by the acclamation of the crowd.

With the pieces arranged to her liking, Grace got on with her writing, and Hewitt and the staff at Lassiter Court made sure that roast chicken was on hand when necessary.

Agnes leant forward across Lillian’s desk at The Empire. She had discovered if she wished to see Lillian alone, this was by far the best place to do that.

‘The Prince of Wales has begun to find Sir Gideon a little too much. He will not now be accompanying them on any part of the tour. One of his mother’s ladies-in-waiting wrote today to let me know, and I thought I’d come and tell you at once.’

Lillian felt a surge of relief. ‘Thank you, Agnes, you’re a good friend.’

‘I’m not sure about that, but I’m making an effort to be a better one in my old age. I can’t imagine, dear girl, what it is like.’ She paused, weighing her words. ‘What are you going to tell Jack?’

Lillian studied the blotter on her desk for a moment before she replied. ‘If Sir Gideon was certain to come, I would tell him my suspicions now. But in the circumstances, I should rather wait until after Grace’s baby is born. He should be looking after her at the moment.’

‘If it is Sir Gideon who attacked you in ’96,’ Agnes said carefully, ‘I cannot suppose Dixon Wells arriving here is a coincidence.’

Lillian straightened the half-written letter in front of her. ‘I’m sure you’re right, Agnes, but perhaps Sir Gideon was not the man. I must see him at some point to be sure, but I admit, I’m glad not to be forced to do so in the midst of Grace’s talent show and a royal visit. Is the programme decided?’

Agnes nodded. ‘David, Stefan and their people will stay in Joe’s mansion. He is so swollen with delight at the idea, I fear for his waistcoats. On the Wednesday, they’ll look at a couple of factories, including the Empire Records production shed, and Joe will give a dinner for the local dignitaries at his place. I think it might be best not to invite Nikolai to the house, at least officially. There’ll be better moments.’ Lillian nodded. Whatever Nikolai and the Crown Prince wished to say to each other, it would be better to do so privately, rather than under the eye of Highbridge’s elite. ‘Then the following day is marked as “resting” on the calendar, with the Search for a Star Pageant in the evening.’ She smiled. ‘When are you going to tell Grace she is putting on a show for royalty, both international and domestic?’

‘She already suspects, I think. We’ve told her the “special guests” are not theatrical stars, so won’t be taking part in the judging, but she knows the royal tour is in the area and that Nikolai is fond of the Crown Prince. She’s a clever young woman.’

‘The diversion into Highbridge will be announced after Crown Prince Stefan arrives in England. You had better ask Mr Poole to put aside a couple of dozen extra tickets for all the dignitaries who’ll be desperate to show their faces.’

Agnes got to her feet and flicked the ribboned edges of her cape so the folds fell properly across her ample bosom, and Lillian came out from behind her desk to open the door for her.

‘Of course. I shall put him on alert. He’s an intelligent man himself, of course.’ She began to open the door. ‘But a committed royalist, so he’ll keep his conclusions to himself until the palace makes the announcement. Oh, Dixon!’

She felt and repressed the familiar shudder which sometimes seized her when she met her house guest unexpectedly. He was standing in the hall with Miss Chisholm.

‘Lillian,’ he said seriously, ‘Do you have any cold cream? I’ve run out, and Miss Chisholm doesn’t keep any in the office. Harry’s looking vexed, and I don’t wish him to turn his attention to the electrics.’

‘Good Lord, no, we don’t want that,’ Lillian agreed, recovering herself rapidly. ‘No, Dixon, I don’t keep cold cream in the office. Do you think Harry will wait until you can visit Bertram’s?’

Dixon brightened and glanced at his watch. ‘Yes, that should take me seventeen minutes.’ Then he turned on his heel.

‘What a very odd man,’ Agnes said as he disappeared down the corridor.

‘He is a little,’ Lillian sighed, ‘but ferociously clever. Miss Chisholm, are you looking for me?’

The secretary nodded. ‘Mr Treadwell is out, Mrs Kuznetsov, and the producer of Whoops, Away We Go is hoping you might step into rehearsals. Temperatures—’

She was interrupted by the door to the rehearsal room banging open and the young star of the show launching into the corridor, as if propelled. ‘I can’t possibly work under these conditions,’ she announced, then ran off down the corridor, weeping.

‘. . . are running rather high,’ Miss Chisholm concluded.

The director followed the star, looked up and down the corridor, then threw his papers in the air and, with a groan, strode off in the other direction.

‘So I see,’ Lillian said. ‘Ring down from my telephone, Miss Chisholm, and tell Danny to ask Miss Halliday to wait for me.’ Then she turned to Agnes. ‘Try-outs before the West End run, and the directors do tend to give rather contradictory notes at this point. Will you excuse me?’

‘Of course,’ Agnes said. ‘I shall go and spend a little money in your shop. Joe wants the latest jazz tunes, and I understand Mr Porter’s new Brahms Quintet is available. They’re really very competent players, I had no idea when they just played the modern fluff.’

And the women went their separate ways.

The room above the bookshop on Charing Cross Road was uncomfortably warm, but protocol dictated they should not open the windows, and though the paper blinds did something to keep the worst of the sun off, the air felt thick, like liquid dust.

‘It cannot be borne,’ Taargin said. ‘Despite our best efforts, the Crown Prince will visit Highbridge, and will see Nikolai perform his version of “The Sunrise Song”, in full view of the press.’

‘It is an insult to Andrei,’ Ilya whispered. ‘The Crown Prince means to hand our country to the reds.’

’A disaster for our country, ‘Christian said, his voice catching, ‘My family shall be murdered in their beds.’

‘And mine,’ Taargin agreed.

‘Vladimir, I want to serve a king, not an old man who is failing in health or a boy who is the plaything of the communists,’ Christian continued in an earnest whisper. ‘Prince Andrei must take the throne, sir. While Stefan is here in England.’

‘Andrei attends the king every day, does he not?’ Ilya said, his voice as soft as silk running over silk. ‘It would only be speeding on the inevitable. Suppose some terrible event overtook the Crown Prince during his visit? There are revolutionaries running amok here – radicals of the type urged on by Nikolai and his ilk. If perhaps an explosion were to, God forbid, kill the Crown Prince, the grief might kill the king. We could turn, in our grief, to Andrei.’

Perhaps it was time , Taargin thought, and a bold stroke by a man like him could remake the world. History taught such things were possible, and at times, necessary. He was ready to meet the hour.

‘Prince Andrei will be in Paris next week. I shall speak to him there.’

‘We need order, clarity of purpose,’ Ilya said. ‘A man of will. If terrible choices must be made to ensure that future, what must be done, must be done. No more, and no less. I am confident that Prince Andrei will understand, and shoulder his heavy responsibility if we do our part.’

‘I agree,’ Taargin replied.

‘Give us our orders, sir,’ Christian said, but Taargin shook his head.

‘Christian, keep me abreast of anything happening at the palace. Ilya, can you find the names of people with the skills required?’

‘I shall go through the files at Scotland Yard.’

‘Our friend in the north will take care of the rest. Contact has been made with a personage in Highbridge who can supply what is needed. With luck, everything will be in place before this foolish diversion to Highbridge is even announced.’ He stood up, his back straight. He felt heady, like a man who has reached a high peak and sees the world laid out before him. ‘Good day, gentlemen.’

There was nothing particularly exciting about working in the Metropole, but Sally’s attempts to get a job in one of the shops had come to nothing. She told herself to be grateful and tried not to fret over the state of her hands, or let her tiredness show.

Clive still came to the Bricklayers Arms every Friday and Saturday night, was happy with his share of the takings, and was beginning to show some flair, working something of his own into the tunes that often surprised her. It was not like playing with Ruby, but it was a great deal better than playing with George. So she sang, paid for a new patent cure which might help Dougie, and tried not to think about Tom. He’d not been in since the night after Ruby died, and she tried to tell herself that was what she wanted.

Sharps still came every Friday night and left right after her second hour – apart from one night, just before the Search for a Star Pageant was announced. Halfway through the second hour, a man dressed in a narrow waistcoat and flat cap like Sharps’ own came in, leant over the table and spoke to him. Sharps left with him at once, without even looking over his shoulder at her.

Sharps was not a sentimental man. Nor a dreamer. He went to see Sally Blow sing because she had something about her which reminded him of his sister, a woman he hadn’t seen in twenty years, but still thought of occasionally. Those two hours he spent listening to Sally every week didn’t make him a kinder or a better man, but they stirred some memory of being loved in the last leathery embers of his soul, and he had come to value the sensation.

As soon as he was out of the Bricklayers Arms, though, he was free of it. The man who had fetched him out of the bar was a trusted lieutenant. He’d started off as a lad, lifting watches and wallets, till he outgrew that trade. He was brutal when he needed to be, but smart with it. It was a combination both Sharps and Ray Kelly valued.

They turned down the road behind the pub, and Sharps leant against the wall, one boot sole against the brick, under the fuzz of a street lamp, pulled out his knife and cleaned his nails. It helped him think.

‘Tell me again, Pockets,’ he said. ‘Chapter and verse.’

‘So our man in the number three shed, Nicky, who’s been helping the occasional rifle to a better home—’

‘I know him.’

‘Well, he saw that greasy lad who works for Mrs Lassiter liberating something else from the stockpile. For a shipment meant to be going to Aldershot.’

Sharps raised an eyebrow. Sharps raising his eyebrow like that was often the last thing a man saw before his lights went out for good, but Pockets held steady.

‘Did he now? What exactly did he see taken?’

Pockets handed him a folded scrap of paper. Sharps glanced at it, then put it into the pocket of his waistcoat. ‘Good. And what did he do then?’

‘Kept an eye on everything going in and out of the factories, and got some eyes on the greasy lad, too. Milner – that’s what he’s called.’

‘And?’

‘And then he got word to me, and I’ve come to see you. So far, those items have not left Highbridge.’

Sharps considered the pavement where the light smudged back into shadow and darkness again, folded his knife and put it back in his pocket.

‘See everyone knows we’re grateful for their good work,’ Sharps growled. ‘And get eyes out. Everywhere. And keep a close watch on strangers in the city. Watch the trains. Anything feels askew, I want to know. You hear me?’

‘I hear you.’

‘Something smells off. I’m going to consult Mr Kelly.’

Then he stalked off into the night, his mind buzzing with dark thoughts like flies round rotting meat.