Death at the Wychbourne Follies Page 2

  Nell was glad that tea was the housekeeper’s province, not hers. Mr Peters had made the announcement sound like the trump of doom, which Nell devoutly hoped it wasn’t.

  ‘Is Mr Heydock here then?’ Kitty asked eagerly. ‘I’d love to see him.’ The highlight of the autumn had been her visit to Drury Lane theatre to see Rose Marie, the romantic operetta set in the Canadian Rockies.

  ‘I saw a picture of Lady Kencroft in the Illustrated London News. Lady Sophy showed it to me,’ said one of the kitchen maids. ‘She was with Rudolph Valentino. He’s making another film about the Sheikh.’ Valentino, for all his good looks, wasn’t Nell’s cup of tea, but he seemed to be the idol of every woman she met.

  ‘I doubt if she’s bringing Rudolph to Wychbourne,’ Nell said crisply. ‘You’ll have to make do with Neville Heydock.’ At least he was fun. He’d appeared in many comedies and musical plays as he had a remarkable singing voice. He could knock spots off most leading men even though he was no youngster. She’d seen him at a play at the Albion in London’s Strand and couldn’t wait to see him here at Wychbourne. ‘He’ll be performing in the Follies here on Saturday.’

  ‘Perhaps he’ll sing “Rose Marie, I Love You”,’ Kitty said eagerly.

  ‘Saturday’s my evening off.’ Mrs Squires made a rare contribution to the conversation. ‘I thought I’d go with my friend Ethel.’ Unlike many of the Wychbourne servants who lived in the east wing, as Nell did herself, Mrs Squires’ home was in the village.

  ‘There’s a late supper to be served after the performance,’ Mrs Fielding commented darkly. ‘That means you won’t be going, Kitty,’ she added with noticeable satisfaction. Because they were members of Nell’s staff as chef, Kitty and Michel did not come under her jurisdiction, a permanent source of frustration to the housekeeper.

  ‘Some of us might be able to go to the performance,’ Nell put in.

  ‘Not those of us who know their duty, Miss Drury.’

  Nell did not take the bait. She was a high-ranking chef – and Lady Ansley had asked her to go to the performance. For some reason that Nell had not yet grasped, her ladyship was worried about what might happen – and that worried Nell. She loved Wychbourne and felt part of it, which meant doing what she could to help in times of trouble. And those came from time to time. That was hardly surprising as there had been Ansleys at Wychbourne since before the Norman Conquest; the original farmhouse had long since become this splendid red-brick mansion with two eighteenth-century wings added to all the earlier centuries’ handiwork.

  Nell concentrated on the task in hand: dinner preparations. The sea bass with champagne sauce, which had been a favourite recipe of the famous Carême, chef to the Prince Regent, required attention. The pheasant – now with Madeira sauce – was under control, as were the apples and syllabubs. Syllabubs were the famous Dr Johnson’s favourite, she remembered, and a wonderful standby. Order began to reassert itself. Kitchens were like recipes, she thought. You didn’t have to follow every detail, but you did have to know what you were doing.

  She was dimly aware that in the background the conversation about the Follies on Saturday was still in progress, but then her attention was seized by Muriel, one of the scullery maids, who was bringing in the fish kettle and steamer. She had stopped for a brief chat with the kitchen maids, and Nell could hear what it was about.

  ‘Lady Sophy said her ladyship and all her old friends are going to dress up like Pierrots and do a dance,’ Muriel was saying.

  Nell groaned to herself. Lady Sophy was apt to chatter rather too much about the family plans – it all came of her political beliefs that family and servants should all be one big happy family. So they were, but that didn’t mean that every member of it wanted every other member to know what was going on or that some members couldn’t employ others to carry out their wishes. Moreover, whatever Lady Ansley’s fears were, they weren’t going to be helped by discussion here.

  Nell knew very well that it had been Lord Richard’s idea to hold the performance in the Coach and Horses and that Lady Ansley was scared stiff about how her guests would take the news. Even though most of them were active on the stage they might well have opinions on whether appearing in the Follies was advisable, now that the venue had been changed to the Coach and Horses. The guests would still be expecting their impromptu revels to be held in the Wychbourne Court ballroom with a jolly audience of themselves and a few friends, but for the more austere among them it might be quite another for the family to be selling tickets in a public house. Lord Richard, Lady Helen and Lady Sophy had acted with the best of intentions, but sometimes those paved the road to disaster.

  Here were the people she had known and loved, Gertrude thought, looking round the dinner table somewhat reassured. There were other guests here too, of course. Clarice was looking after Mr Trotter, who appeared somewhat overwhelmed, judging by the anxious way he was looking from one to the other of the assembled company. Rex Beringer as usual had eyes only for Helen who, together with Richard and Sophy, was on her best behaviour. Gertrude had feared that they would plunge all too quickly into discussions about the Follies, but instead – apparently with genuine interest – they were questioning her Gaiety guests about their memories of Edwardian times.

  There were seven guests from her Gaiety days. Some she had not seen since her own days on stage; others she had met ten years ago at George Edwardes’ funeral – the Guv’nor as he was known. He had been the long-term manager of the Gaiety and Daly’s theatres; his name would be forever linked with the Gaiety Girls with whom he had brought music, comedy and drama together.

  Once upon a time she had poured her heart out to darling Katie with her bouncing brown curls and generous heart; the dramatic and impulsive Lynette had cheered her darkest hours; Constance with her serious dark eyes had been the distributor of wisdom; and Alice had been the one to take missions on board, daring to defy even the Guv’nor on occasion.

  They had all fallen for Neville Heydock, with his handsome looks, impeccable stylishness and magnificent tenor voice. Kind too, she remembered. No wonder Lynette had been head over heels in love with him. Gertrude had seen his expression however when he set eyes on her here; Lynette had merely thought it amusing, to Gertrude’s relief. Hubert, Constance’s husband, looked as noble and sombre in appearance as his majestic renderings of tragic and dramatic prose and poetry demanded. And yet she remembered him as a rather sullen young recruit in the chorus who couldn’t say boo to a goose and was lucky to be given any solo lines at all.

  And then Gertrude’s eye fell on Tobias, her erstwhile rock, with gratitude. There he was, just as chubby and cheerful as ever, the well-remembered pacifier. He had taken on the task of entertaining Constance, who was even laughing, unlike her usual calm and quiet self. Tobias had always taken character parts, famous for his old uncle in Waltzing in Summer, the peasant in The Count of Rosenbourg and the jovial baker in The Flower Shop Girl.

  They all looked much the same, albeit a little greyer, a little plumper, a little more serious. Both tea and the reception in the Great Hall before dinner had gone well. Katie, here with her husband, Charles, the diplomat Lord Kencroft, had been the sparkling, bubbly self that Gertrude remembered so well. Neville seemed to be chatting happily enough to Lynette; Constance’s self-opinionated husband, Hubert, was even talking to his arch enemy, Alice Maxwell, who like Tobias had never married. Alice had always been so serious, so dedicated to her career, and like Hubert had moved from musical comedy to drama.

  Gertrude relaxed. What had she been worrying about? Their time together at the Gaiety hadn’t been all roses of course. There had been dark spots, but that was all in the past. Once the gentlemen had taken their port and joined the ladies in the drawing room, all she had to do was to mention casually where the Follies would take place. Yes, all had gone well so far, as Nell’s cuisine was having its usual effect; the pheasants with the interesting sauce had been outstanding.

  Then Gertrude heard the unwelcome word
that she had counted on introducing at a later stage.

  ‘Follies,’ Lynette remarked. ‘Such a clever idea, Gertrude.’

  Gertrude did her best to smile with pleasure. ‘It was Richard’s idea. He and his sisters are all eager to follow in my footsteps – so they pretend – and have a gaiety theatre of our own this weekend. Do you remember—?’

  ‘What exactly is expected of us?’ Hubert broke in, perhaps not hearing or perhaps not caring what Gertrude was saying. He was gazing at his syllabub as though it were a bitter enemy, she thought, trying to control her rising panic.

  She saw poor Constance freeze. How could she have married him? She so sweet and he so arrogant. Gertrude did her best. ‘Richard has planned most of the revue, I believe, with sketches and songs, and he and my daughters have concocted a most humorous skit on a pantomime. He is hoping that you’re willing to take part in the Follies, with your special talents, and of course he would be most honoured if you could render one of your masterly performances, Hubert.’

  ‘A speech?’ Hubert queried, as though he had never been asked for such a favour before. ‘“To Be or Not to Be”, perhaps?’

  ‘Splendid,’ said Gertrude faintly, wondering how many Wychbourne villagers would appreciate the finer points of Hamlet’s soliloquy.

  Alice Maxwell stiffened at her rival being thus singled out, and quickly entered the discussion. ‘I plan to present Yasmin’s speech from Flecker’s Hassan, followed by my famous rendering from Medea.’

  ‘Excellent!’ Gertrude tried to sound overwhelmed with gratitude, as though ancient Greek poetic drama about vengeful women who slaughtered their own children was exactly what she had hoped for.

  Tobias must have picked up her dismay and promptly became the peacemaker she remembered so well. ‘I’ll do whatever you want, Gertrude. You know that. Always obey the director, eh? After all, we’re all friends.’

  ‘Darling, hardly friends,’ Lynette murmured. ‘But a pantomime and Follies sound just right for the Coach and Horses audience. They’ll love it.’

  Gertrude caught her breath in horror. Not now. Oh, please, not now.

  ‘What Coach and Horses audience? I understood it was just one performance here in the ballroom,’ Hubert barked.

  ‘Good gracious. Haven’t you explained, Gertrude dear?’ Lynette said innocently. ‘We’re to perform in the village pub, Hubert. Won’t that be spiffing, my dears?’

  There was a silence. ‘A public house?’ Hubert looked stunned.

  Gertrude trembled. What now. Speak out? Gerald was usually on hand to help, but in this he was powerless. But help came. Not from Gerald, not from Tobias, but from – extraordinarily – Peters.

  ‘Coffee, your ladyship,’ he announced blandly, ‘is served in the drawing room.’

  Gertrude clutched at this unexpected release. She had given no such signal to him as yet, but oh how grateful she was. She rose to her feet. ‘Ladies, shall we adjourn?’

  Nell, tucked out of the sight in the serving room, relaxed a little as the ladies left for the adjoining drawing room at the rear of Wychbourne Court. Mr Peters had been reluctant to break standard convention which required him to wait until her ladyship had given him the signal, but Nell had managed to convince him that now was the moment. By the time the gentlemen reached the drawing room after their port, Mr Jarrett would with any luck have forgotten his concern over the Follies’ venue. She watched as the ladies swept out in their evening dresses with their long trains. Lady Helen’s elegant blue chiffon dress was of course daringly short in front, though at the back it conventionally approached the floor. Lady Clarice seemed reluctant to leave Mr Trotter behind, but Mr Rocke seemed to be looking after him. Lady Sophy – typically – managed to pass by the serving room door and whip it open.

  ‘Well done, Nell,’ she whispered demurely, then swept on in her sister’s wake. As she was much shorter than Lady Helen and sturdier in build, Lady Sophy was well accustomed to ceding the limelight to her sister and it troubled her not a whit. Nell longed to follow them as a fly on the drawing room wall, as there might be trouble brewing. Lady Ansley had looked very upset at the dinner table and there might be something Nell could do. Could she serve coffee herself instead of leaving it to the still-room maid? Why not? She was suitably dressed in her black chiffon afternoon dress and for a mere fly on the wall that would pass. By hearing what went on, she might be able to tell whether her ladyship’s fears were justified.

  The coffee was helping, Gertrude thought gratefully, as the gentlemen at last came through the door from the dining room. The ladies had long returned from brief retirements upstairs and the port would surely have worked its magic with the gentlemen. Even Mr Trotter had a smile on his face, and Gerald didn’t look in the least worried. Mr Trotter had entered flanked by Tobias on one side and Gerald on the other, who had clearly spotted his lack of ease. Her husband’s consideration in such matters always moved her.

  ‘With such temptation awaiting us here,’ Tobias declared, ‘I’m glad I forewent my second glass of port. By George, that 1912 is splendid, Gerald.’

  ‘You certainly admired plenty of it, Toby,’ Neville said lightly.

  ‘It’s about time there was another such stunning vintage,’ Gerald remarked and Gertrude relaxed. Gerald could be relied on to dispel any threatening clouds.

  She relaxed too soon. ‘This public house suggestion, Gertrude,’ Hubert began.

  She found new strength. ‘An inn,’ she said firmly. ‘It has an excellent hall used for inquests and council meetings.’

  ‘Nevertheless, the revue you have in mind is open for all comers, I presume?’

  ‘The ticket revenue will go to war charities,’ Gerald said pleasantly.

  In vain. ‘I prefer to support them in different ways,’ Hubert said stiffly. ‘I am not at all well. My art draws all my strength. It demands a proper stage and an audience appreciative of my work. I do not perform in public houses.’

  ‘Shakespeare did,’ Alice retorted.

  ‘So he did,’ Tobias beamed, coming to Gertrude’s rescue. ‘I fancy playing Sir Toby Belch on Saturday, Come, Hubert, it’s an honour to perform at Wychbourne.’

  Gertrude’s hopes sank again as Hubert swept on as though Tobias had never spoken. ‘I gather from Constance,’ he continued loftily, ‘that there is a plan for us to dress as Pierrots. I cannot permit that. I maintain high standards and am not willing to prance around in a clown’s costume nor to permit my wife to don the frilly white frocks that I understand fulfil the same purpose for ladies.’

  ‘But Hubert—’ Constance began imploringly.

  ‘Enough.’ His hand was lifted.

  ‘You always were a pompous bore, Hubert,’ Neville said amicably. ‘A clown yourself, in a way.’

  ‘Consider your words more carefully, Mr Heydock,’ Hubert flared up. ‘We are speaking before ladies, or I would reply more forcefully to your comments.’

  A momentary dead silence was followed by an uproar as everybody tried to speak – and then shout – together. The noise grew and Gertrude could take no more. Anything, anything to end this nightmare. Even the sight of Nell in the doorway brought no comfort. There was nothing she could do, or anyone come to that.

  The subject had to be changed immediately. This had been meant as a pleasant reunion, Gertrude mourned. They had been such happy days, hadn’t they? Change the subject, change the subject. Now. One memory came back to her, an unhappy one. It had lain buried for thirty years, but what harm could there be now in raising it?

  Even as she thought that, she heard her own voice saying desperately what she had never dared to ask before.

  ‘What did happen to Mary Ann?’

  TWO

  Tobias saved her in the strained silence that followed. Startled faces, even scared, as Gertrude saw them turn to Tobias.

  ‘Alas, Gertrude, we never knew the full story behind that,’ he said sombrely. ‘Of course, you did not know Mary Ann yourself, because she had left us before you
replaced her in The Flower Shop Girl. Life in the theatre moves so fast that we leave much behind and never realize it. Such a pleasure that you have created this splendid opportunity for us to meet once more. Tell me, Gertrude, will you be singing “Song of My Heart” in Saturday’s Follies? And are we to have the pleasure of your playing Princess Beauty in Lord Richard’s pantomime?’

  ‘I cede that palm to Helen, but thank you, Tobias.’ It was heartfelt. Gertrude’s eyes were filling with tears of relief and the attention moved away from her as Tobias steered the subject away from the taboo subject of Mary Ann Darling. True, no one had actually declared it taboo, but that was always the impression Gertrude had received when, as an eager young actress, she had first appeared at the Gaiety in 1893. Seeing Mary Ann’s photograph among the postcards displayed in the Great Hall must have lodged her in her mind.

  Now she disciplined herself to show no outward signs of emotion – not even when she looked in vain to Gerald for his usual nod of support. He wasn’t even looking at her or at Constance with whom he was sitting. It almost seemed as though he too were part of a story from which she was excluded. No, surely that was too fanciful. After all, neither Mr Trotter nor her children seemed to be sensing that the subject of Mary Ann was marshy ground on which to tread. That terrible moment had passed – or had it?

  She realized that Katie was glancing at her in anxiety. ‘You must sing “Song of My Heart” on Saturday, Gertrude,’ her friend said warmly. ‘Isn’t that a wonderful idea, everybody?’

  The prompt chorus of agreement was all it took to convince Gertrude that there was indeed a story of which she was ignorant and with which so many here were well acquainted.

  Not all, though. Gertrude’s heart sank. Of all times, Mr Trotter chose this moment to speak.

  ‘Who was the Mary Ann you mentioned?’ he asked eagerly.