Don Gutteridge - Desperate Acts

“I will do my best, then” he said. “What doyou want me to read?”

“Act four, scene one: the place where Bottomwakes up with the ass’s head on him and finds himself in the armsof the beautiful Titania.”

Crenshaw blinked. The image of donkey’s earsvied with the happier one of an amorous Titania in the guise ofLady Madeleine, whose svelte figure and lustrous tresses he hadfurtively glimpsed in her pew at St. James.

“ Ass’s head?” he gulped.

“Of course. Bottom is, after all, fundament ally an ass,” Sir Peregrine said with anill-concealed smirk of satisfaction at this brief excursion intowit. “This passage is prose. Just read it straight ahead, beginningat ‘Mounsieur Cobweb, good mounsieur.’”

Crenshaw gritted his teeth and began. Whetherhe was nervous, humiliated or inept – or all three – it had animmediate effect on his delivery. It started out at quick march andfever pitch, and gained momentum from that point. It rode roughshodover commas and periods, devoured vowels, and deconstructedconsonants.

“Well, now,” Sir Peregrine said into thestony silence, broken only by the rasping of Bottom’s breath, “thatwas not a bad beginning. We’ll work on it as we proceed. Perhapsyou might try rehearsing with your good lady.”

The reference to Crenshaw’s wife seemed torevive him a little, enough to let him eke out a nod ofacknowledgement and unslump his shoulders.

“So you wish me to read for Demetrius?”Brodie said in an effort to divert attention from the deflatedfactory-owner.

“I do, young Langford, I do.”

Brodie proceeded to read his assigned part.Dramatic readings and satiric skits had been part of hisprivate-school experience in New York, and so he felt quitecomfortable throughout, despite the watery blue gaze of the lordlydirector upon him.

While Brodie’s vowels and cadence werenowhere near the diphthong-drawl of many New Yorkers, theynevertheless produced in Sir Peregrine’s multi-planed visage asequence of startling winces that disrupted his chins, jowls anddimples. To the others at the table, such infelicities were a minordistraction from the sheer force of the presentation itself. Herewas a voice – in addition to youthful good looks – that coulddeliver the volatile shifts of mood and pace required of the younglover in the play. When Brodie finished, his audience applauded,and the wincing director adroitly arranged a congratulatorysmile.

“But we still need someone to play Puck,”Dutton said when the applause was over.

Sir Peregrine feigned a look of abashment. Hemay even have blushed, except that his permanently pink complexionmade it impossible to tell. “It is a role I have always coveted,”he said, peering up from under his puffed eyelids, “but have neverhad the opportunity to play – as the more masterful roles ofProspero and Oberon have taken precedence. But Puck I shall be,fellow thespians, and a Puck that shall dazzle and daunt.”

The image of the flabby and bejowled baronet,clad in elfin garb, gambolling and pirouetting about the stage andnimbly orchestrating the tangled mishaps of the various loverscould not be conjured by anyone at the table – however hard theymight try. But the die had been cast – by their director, theirchairman and the owner of a manorial residence that just happenedto have a mini-theatre installed.

“So, we have only to hear the ladies read?”Dutton said after a polite pause.

“Exactly, my dear Dutton. A palpablehit!”

And that, Sir Peregrine went on to informthem, would, if at all possible, take place tomorrow evening. Heproposed to have the full cast come to Oakwood Manor for supper atsix o’clock, to be followed by a read-through of the script – inrole. Everyone was to study his assigned part – Crenshaw couldinform Clementine of her role as Hermia and they might evenrehearse en suite – and all were to come prepared for anevening of pleasure and purpose.

This generous offer was received well, andturned out to have been perfectly timed, for Sir Peregrine had justthanked them for their cooperation when Gillian Budge appeared athis elbow with a tray of glasses and a decanter of sherry. Theywould now toast their achievement with a “goblet of Amontillado”before departing, a suggestion met with hearty murmurs ofapproval.

However, at this moment, Brodie thought tocheck his pocket-watch for the time, and discovering it was almostnine-thirty, he made his excuses and headed for the cloakroom. Inthe excitement of the audition he had almost forgotten the bit ofunpleasantness he had planned for the would-be blackmailer.

***

Brodie grabbed his coat, hat and walking-stick, andtook the stairs two at a time. The back door opened out onto anarrow strip between the public house and the adjacent building.Brodie swung to the right and found himself in the broader alleybehind the tavern, one that stretched northward thirty yards untilit met the east-west service lane. A gibbous moon hung in thesouth-eastern sky, lighting some sections of the alley brightly andcasting sharply edged shadows elsewhere. Brodie found the ashcanmentioned in the extortion note without difficulty. Carefully hepeered around in all directions, but could see or hear nothinguntoward. Even the raucous chatter of the taproom did not carryback this far. Laying down his walking-stick for a moment, heplaced the parcel he had brought along under the lid of the can ontop of the clinkers, and replaced the lid. The parcel, tied withstring, was stuffed with plain paper.

Then he moved quickly, as a frightened ornervous fellow might, back into the narrow gap between thebuildings and walked noisily out onto Front Street, where hewheeled and strode eastward. At Peter Street he turned north andkept walking. Finding a convenient shadow to cover his next move,he squeezed between the walls of two brick shops and made his wayback towards the head of the alley behind The Sailor’s Arms. Whenhe reached it, he remained hidden in the ell of a chimney, fromwhich vantage-point he could observe the rear of the tavern and theashcan.

It seemed an hour but was probably only tenminutes before he spotted movement – a dark figure materializingout of a shadowy lair not ten yards away from him. It movedstealthily towards the ashcan, glancing about frequently. When itreached the can, it opened the lid and lifted out the parcel. Atthis precise moment Brodie made his own move. Knowing that theblackmailer would be occupied for a few seconds in examining thecontents of the parcel, Brodie loped soundlessly towards him (itwas now apparent that the figure was a black-suited man). A splitsecond before Brodie reached him, the fellow heard his footstep,and whirled around to face him.

The man looked vaguely familiar. He wasstartled, but not frightened.

“Who the hell are you!” Brodieshouted. “Spreading lies about my fiancée!” He grabbed the fellowby the coat-lapels, and began to shake him. “You thievingblackmailer! You bastard! Did you think I’d give money to the likesof you!” Brodie was taken aback by the strength and vehemence ofthis sudden, unplanned outburst.

The blackmailer was not a large man, andBrodie had no difficulty in lifting him off the ground and rattlinghis bones. He made no sound except a kind of wheezing as he wasbeing shaken. But the moonlight caught his bold black eyes fully,and they registered shock and a smouldering animal fury.

“You’re coming with me to the police,” Brodiesaid.

“You want them to know all about the babygirl in Montreal, do you?” the fellow hissed, making no effort tofree himself from Brodie’s grip. “About the hooer you’recourtin’?”

Brodie was stunned by both the venom and theincredible calm in the fellow’s voice. “God damn you!” he heardhimself scream, and then before he could think further, he saw hisright arm drop away and his hand forming a fist.