Ruddy Gore (Phryne Fisher Mysteries) by Kerry Greenwood

Author:Kerry Greenwood [Greenwood, Kerry]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Sourcebooks
Published: 2011-09-29T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nine

We’ve a first class assortment of magic

And for raising a posthumous shade

With effects that are comic or tragic

There’s no cheaper house in the trade.

The Sorcerer, Gilbert and Sullivan

Phryne settled back in her chair next to Bernard Tarrant in the front row of the stalls.

Eleven in the morning is not the ideal time to be in a theatre, she thought. It was cold, smelt stale, and the lights were sodium lamps which cast a bluish glare. This had the effect of making the tired faces of the company look deathlike, exaggerating every wrinkle and bleaching the pink out of even Miss Esperance’s complexion.

‘The Pirates of Penzance, Act 2,’ said Sir Bernard. ‘We seem unable to get away from Cornish fishing villages.’

A group of Cornish daughters were bidding a collection of lacklustre policemen to go and die in combat. They seemed unimpressed with the chorus, who told them that every maiden would water their graves with tears.

‘No, no, no!’ shouted Bernard, leaping to his feet. ‘Terrible! Go back to the beginning, ‘‘Dry the glistening tear’’, and ladies, for God’s sake try and keep in tune. Police, you’re supposed to be marching, not dancing! I want to hear the thud of boots. Mr Evans, try bringing Miss Esperance to the front, on ‘‘I will try, dear Mabel’’. I can’t hear a word out of her. Miss Esperance, are you well?’

Leila clutched at Gwilym Evans’ hands and nodded forlornly.

‘Then let’s get on!’ Sir Bernard resumed his seat, nodding to the orchestra leader. The musicians seemed nonabundant and Phryne wondered if this was just an effect of needing fewer players for rehearsal or whether a number of them simply had not turned up.

She noticed that the violinist was wearing a greatcoat, and that first trumpet was sniffing. The chorus managed to come in almost in unison, and Mabel talked to her father about being an orphan. The cast appeared to know their lines, Phryne observed, wondering if the general vagueness of actors was produced by stuffing their heads full of someone else’s words as a profession.

‘Then Frederic,’ announced Selwyn Alexander, ‘Let your escort lion hearted be summoned to receive a general’s blessing, ere they depart on their dread adventure…Sorry—ere they depart upon their dread adventure.’

Sir Bernard stirred but did not protest and a line of men came marching onstage. They were dressed in a collection of cast-offs. One was wearing a muffler and two were sucking cough drops and altogether they were the least likely collection of policemen that Phryne had ever seen. In the middle of the line was a young man whom Phryne did not recognise as Leslie Franklin until he began to sing.

‘When the foreman bares his steel,’ he sang robustly and the chorus echoed, ‘Tarantara! Tarantara!’ with no enthusiasm and very little volume. ‘We uncomfortable feel,’ continued Mr Franklin, wondering if there was anyone on stage with him and only partially reassured by the next ‘Tarantara!’ which had a little more force. ‘And we find the wisest thing,’ he went

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