Death Makes No Distinction by Lucienne Boyce

Author:Lucienne Boyce [Boyce, Lucienne]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781781328842
Publisher: SilverWood Books
Published: 2019-09-06T11:56:53+00:00

Chapter Twenty

Drury Lane Theatre rang with the sound of hammering, creaking ropes and crashing scenery. Stagehands, costumiers, prompters and writers scurried back and forth, shouting at one another. Women shuffled about the house, clanking pails and beating dust from curtains and cushions. The jangling, whining and squeaking of the musicians tuning their instruments rose up from the orchestra pit. It was a mystery to Dan how any play could appear out of such chaos.

The central figure in all this, drawing the eye by some unaccountable air or charisma, was Richard Brinsley Sheridan, a robust man with a raddled face. He stood in the pit with one of his business managers. He held a newspaper in one hand which he slapped loudly with the other while he railed against its contents to the soothing nods and murmurs of his companion. Soothed, however, he was not.

Drawing nearer, Dan discovered the cause of his grievance.

“Borrowed it? Borrowed it? If I did, it was from none other than myself. Think not, my Love is my song. I wrote it when I was courting the first Mrs Sheridan. Who does this self-styled ‘Lover of Truth’ think he is? And Schick’s translation of The Stranger ‘published by Mr Dilly in the Poultry is by far a more correct translation of Mr Kotzebue’s comedy’ than mine? Was there ever such a blockhead? Such a poor contemptible booby? Such a swaggering puppy?”

Usually Sheridan, who made a point of being polite to the Bow Street men, greeted Dan with an affable nod. Now he rolled up the newspaper and brandished it at him.

“What now? Another of his dreadful scripts? Haven’t I got enough to do without having to wade through a host of Matchless Orindas, Sir Foppesly-Fops and Lady Tumbles? Well, why not? What else am I here for?”

“Mr Sheridan, sir,” Dan said. “I—”

Sheridan gestured at one of the benches. “Leave it there! I’ll neglect my business – stay away from the House of Commons – take no food or drink until I’ve conned it. The honour is all mine.”

Sheridan’s companion cleared his throat. “I do not think, Mr Sheridan, that Officer Foster is here to deliver a script.”

“Is he not one of Sir William Addington’s men?”

“I am, sir,” Dan said. “I’m here about a case I’m investigating.”

“You haven’t brought me another of Sir William’s plays?”

“No, sir.”

“You’re sure? You aren’t hiding it in that greatcoat of yours?”

“Indeed, no, sir. I didn’t know that Sir William was in the habit of sending you plays.”

“Then you must be one of Bow Street’s least observant officers.”

“An officer doesn’t like to pry, sir.”

Sheridan laughed. “Oh, don’t you, Officer Nosey? Well, well, Mr Foster, forgive my temper. These play-writing magistrates are the very devil. Though I’ll say one thing for Sir William: he doesn’t give up. It must be twenty years since Garrick rejected his scribbling. Now it’s my turn. If there’s one thing worse than thwarted ambition, it’s renewed thwarted ambition. What should have put the dramatical maggot in Sir William’s head again is beyond me.

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