Don Gutteridge - Desperate Acts

“Then that’s settled,” the lady said. “SirP., you will seek out a suitable Bottom, I presume?”

Sir P. did not look pleased at this prospect,but managed a flushed smile and said, “Perhaps I could approachOgden Frank and ask whether one of his troupe would deign to joinus – someone experienced in the comedic art.”

“But that would risk our getting someone too- too common, would it not?” Dutton said, glancing at Lady Mad, whoas Titania would have to bear the brunt of any such commonness. Sheacknowledged his concern with a dip of her tiny chin and a prettyblink of the bold, brown eyes. He was compelled to look down, andhis look stayed there, somewhere in the region of herdécolletage.

“But that sort of person might prove to beeminently suitable for the role of Bottom the weaver,” Sir P. saidsmoothly. “And my lady is a supreme actress: I’ve seen her makemore than one silk purse out of an ass’s ears.”

He invited the guests to share in thiswitticism, and they obliged. Lady Mad was not amused.

***

The actors reassembled in the ‘theatre’ at thetemporary table set up by the Shuttleworth servants – after afifteen-minute break in which the men repaired to the adjoiningden-smoker and the ladies to the adjoining powder-room. ClemmyCrenshaw’s corsets had gone awry during her visit to thewater-closet, and Lady Mad’s maid had to be sent for to assist inthe ensuing readjustment. Lady Mad herself brought the distraughtvictim back into the theatre and graciously seated her.

“A woman’s difficulty,” she smiled at thegentlemen. “All taken care of.”

None of the gentlemen wishing further detailsabout the matter, Sir P. called his actors to order. To his leftsat Lizzie Wade, who had materialized without warning or noticefrom the sealed half of the manor. Sir P. introduced her andreminded the group that she would be playing Helena. She certainlylooked the part of a teenaged inamorata: a sixteen-year-old nymphof a girl with silken tresses of a strawberry hue and a burgeoningfigure nowhere near its final bloom. Lizzie dropped her blue eyesat the mention of her name.

The first read-through of The DreamSequence (as Sir P. now designated their production) was not anunalloyed success. The opening scene, where Oberon and Titania maketheir entrance and exchange barbs, went well enough. HoraceFullarton as Oberon delivered his lines not only with due attentionto the verse and dramatic flow but with much spirited feeling. AndLady Mad as the proud and beautiful Titania returned his words inkind:

Oberon : Ill met by moonlight, proudTitania.

Titania : What, jealous, Oberon? [tofairies] Skip hence,

I have forsworn his bed and company.

Oberon : Tarry, rash woman, am I notthy lord?

When Titania sweeps off with her train, Oberon andPuck take stage-centre. And here matters began to unravel. Sir P.delivered his lines as Puck in a voice threatening either todisintegrate or soar beyond falsetto. As a natural tenor, such anattempt by the baronet to sound youthful and puckish was hardlynecessary.

“Perhaps a little more from the diaphragm andless from the glottis,” Lady Mad suggested when one of Puck’sphrases had side-slipped into a squeak.

Sir P. smiled daggers at her, but dropped hisvoice an octave – with better results. Still, when he declaimed“I’ll put a girdle round about the earth / In forty minutes,” nomodulation of the voice could seduce an audience into believingthat the plump-cheeked, thick-waisted gentleman with spindle-legscould achieve such a feat in forty days. No-one was impoliteenough to say so, however.

Crenshaw as Demetrius then got his chance asthe dashing lover being importuned by the nubile Helena. He made aself-conscious effort to begin each speech slowly, but could notstop the gradual acceleration of his pace, which left him panting and bug-eyed, and the meaning to fend for itself.Lizzie, it turned out, was an accomplished reader and reciter ofverse. And despite the overheated distractions of Demetrius, shemanaged a touching performance as the Athenian maiden in hopelesspursuit of a youth who claims to be in love with her friend Hermia.Her sole difficulty was a tendency to stammer whenever she becamenervous (a state induced only when her Uncle Peregrine attempted tooffer her needless directorial advice, which was, alas, quiteoften).

From speed-reading and stammering, therehearsal went downhill. Andrew Dutton continued his forensic,foghorn rendering of Lysander as he sets out to woo the skittishHermia. Clemmy Crenshaw, who had been growing more anxious witheach passing pentameter, was compelled to call upon her long-ago,finishing-school experience as a source of inspiration, andproceeded to pronounce the Bard’s iambic verse in a singsongfashion so exaggerated it might have served as accompaniment to ajig.

The mechanics’ parts had been excised, exceptfor Bottom the weaver, and Sir P., having offered to stand in forthe latter, went at the role with gusto – in a commoner’s accent noCockney would have recognized as English. Thus it was that theinitial read-through staggered to a grim halt some fifty minuteslater. By this time Sir. P. looked as if he had beenmartyred at the Battle of Moraviantown, but he continued to smileand proclaim that satisfactory progress was being made. Towards theend, however, he kept glancing at the hall door, where Chivers wasexpected to appear with a tea-trolley and refreshments.

“We’ll have a break, ladies and gentlemen,and then try one more read-through before we bring the curtain downon our evening,” he said to the troupe as soon as his ear detectedthe familiar footfall of his butler.

The hall door did indeed open, but Chiverswas not there gliding behind his trolley. Instead he stood blockingthe doorway, a look of consternation on his face.

“What is it, Chivers?”

“There’s a vagabond at the door, sir, dressedup in a peeler’s uniform, asking to be let in.”

“Then, show him the road,” Sir P. saidsharply, standing up.

Chivers never got a chance to reply, for hewas abruptly pushed aside, and the aforesaid vagabond barged intothe theatre, blinking in the glare of its chandeliers.

“What is the meaning of this outrage?” Sir.P. thundered.

All eyes were now upon the intruder, none ofthem welcoming.

“I am a policeman, sir. And I’m hereon official police business,” Cobb shouted across the room.

Sir Peregrine converted his scowl into a thinsmile. “Then, you’d better come in, constable,” he said.

Cobb found himself comfortably seated in the denadjacent to the platform the Shakespeareans were calling a stage.In here the chairs were leather and the fire cosy. On the sideboarda crystal decanter of sherry winked back at the scented, bluecandles. Following Marc’s advice, Cobb planned to interview thefour club members who might provide him with useful evidence,emphasizing that they were considered to be potential witnesses - not suspects. Further, he was advised to indicate that theirtestimony could be vital in determining the fate of a fellow clubmember, Brodie Langford. That one of them might be the actualmurderer, and lie through his teeth, was to be kept in mind, butthat was all. “If we spook them, we’ll get nothing,” Marc hadwarned.

Cobb himself had decided on the order inwhich he would see the “witnesses.” After informing Sir Peregrinein the presence of the whole troupe that Brodie Langford was inimminent danger of being charged with murder, Cobb indicated thepurpose of his visit, and announced that he would start hisquestioning with the baronet, then move on to Dutton, Fullarton andCrenshaw. The proposed second read-through of The DreamSequence was indefinitely postponed, and as Cobb and SirPeregrine had made their way towards the den, the others drifted,muttering unpleasantries, towards the dining-room and the remainsof supper. Cobb had thought it best to interview the baronet firstbecause he wished to have Gillian Budge’s account of the members’departures either confirmed or disputed. And since the chairmanusually left the meeting last, he should be able to recall exactlywhen the others had departed.