The Mangle Street Murders by M.R.C. Kasasian

Author:M.R.C. Kasasian [Kasasian, M.R.C.]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, mobi
ISBN: 9781781851876
Publisher: Head of Zeus
Published: 2013-10-31T18:30:00+00:00

32

Broken Wings

The new Gloucester theatre was anything but new. Its most modern feature was the paintwork, which showered brown-red flakes when Sidney Grice rapped three times with the Face of Tragedy knocker.

‘It looks deserted,’ I said, and a panel in the door was opened by a very short man, so plump as to be almost spherical.

‘You are late,’ he said, admitting us through the opening into a large dusty foyer.

‘We are not expected,’ Sidney Grice said, and the round man looked him up and down.

‘So you are not the comedy cow?’

My guardian raised his cane. ‘How dare—’

‘Neither comedy nor cow,’ I said hastily. ‘May we have a word?’

‘So who are you?’

My guardian stepped forward. ‘I am Sidney Grice, the personal detective. Are you the manager of this establishment?’

‘If you have come to arrest me, I am not. Otherwise I might be.’

My guardian opened his satchel and brought out a brown paper bag.

‘I am looking for the owner of this.’ He produced the wig. ‘And I have reason to believe that he played a part in your recent production of Verdi’s dreary melodrama.’

‘Not a part.’ The manager took out a brilliant yellow handkerchief. ‘The part. This hairpiece was worn by Rigoletto himself. He was our greatest success before he ran off and left us in the lurch.’

‘Do you remember his name?’ I asked.

‘How could I forget?’ he replied, wiping his hands on the handkerchief.

‘What was it?’ Sidney Grice snapped.

‘James Hoggart.’

‘Hoggart does not sound very Italian,’ my guardian said.

‘Nor does it,’ the manager agreed, leaning his shoulder against a mock marble pillar but pulling away when it wobbled.

‘So he is not Italian,’ I said.

‘He was no more Italian than I, and I am not Italian,’ the manager said. ‘He did tend to talk like one, though – said it made it come more natural on the stage.’

‘How well do you know him?’ I asked.

‘Enough not to want to know him better.’ The manager picked up a broom. ‘He was a deuced fine Rigoletto – his voice could blow the buttons off your shirt – and he could act the eyebrows off the rest of the cast, but was he ever happy?’ He propped the broom, unused, against an autographed photograph on the wall.

‘I imagine not,’ I said.

‘You have a good and accurate imagination then, miss,’ the manager said. ‘Not is the very word. James Hoggart was not a happy man. His dressing room was too cold and he must have a fire lit. Then the fire is too smoky and we must have the chimney swept. Then he must have lilies brought in fresh every day. Then the pollen makes him sneeze and they must be removed and a bowl of lavender water put on his dressing table. And would he learn his lines like anybody else? Well, would he?’ He threw out his arms.

‘I would guess not,’ I said, and he picked up the broom again and put it down.

‘You are an exceedingly fine guesser, miss. Any tips for the two

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.