Ruddy Gore (8 page)

She was proud of her small hands – size three, she had to have her gloves specially made, and her boots. Everyone was in love with her. She had mash notes by the crate and her dressing room was always full of flowers – her favourites. You could smell her hyacinths all the way out into the street when they were in season. The flower girls in the 70

Haymarket used to order them in by the basket.’

‘Were you in love with her?’ asked Phryne softly.

‘Oh, yes, of course. So were Sheffield and the chorus boys and half the orchestra. She could charm the soul out of an audience. I could stand on stage with her and watch them melt.’

‘Whom did the lady favour?’ asked Robinson.

‘No one. She wasn’t interested in people, only the effect she could have on them – it amused her.

She carried Sheffield in the part, he was weak, couldn’t dance, and his voice was not really strong enough for the Savoy. But I don’t think she loved him, either – or me, though she favoured us in turn with suppers and sometimes let us stay in her dressing room while she changed. I loved sitting in her armchair and watching her face, her eyes, the perfect curve of her white throat – she was altogether lovely. In a way the part of Rose Maybud was perfect for her. She had force and passion but she really didn’t have a heart. Or so I thought.

Poor Dorothea.’

‘What happened to her?’ insinuated Phryne.

‘She used to say that she was a vicar’s daughter,’

said Sir Bernard, ‘but she wasn’t. She was born Dot Mobbs and her father was a coal heaver. She had to work when she was a child, hard work in a hotel, fetching and carrying and possibly other things as well – things were different for women then. She had a weakness for madeira, though I never saw her drunk, and that early work had hurt her back and her legs. She was often in pain, for 71

which she took laudanum. You know what that is?’

‘Alcoholic tincture of opium,’ said Dr Fielding, drawn outside his own disquiet by this strange story.

‘I wanted to marry her,’ said Sir Bernard sadly,

‘but she wouldn’t have me. She sent me a note, refusing my proposal, telling me not to call for her after the show. I didn’t – I didn’t want to press her – but I should have. I’ve blamed myself ever since.’

‘Why?’ asked Phryne, as Bernard paused and stared into the fire.

‘Why, because she hadn’t refused. That bastard Sheffield had intercepted her note and sent another telling me no. She had agreed to marry me, and she waited for me – sat all night in her dressing room, waiting for me to come and I didn’t. She must have been so joyful, then joy turned to despair when I didn’t come and she thought me faithless. And when they found her in the morning – ’ Sir Bernard groped for a handkerchief.

Tears were running down his face. ‘She was dead, sitting in her chair, her head on her arm, my poor Dorothea. She’d taken enough laudanum to kill three men, then laid her head down in a nest of hyacinths and passed away. Her beautiful black hair was scented with the flowers. I never forgave myself.’

‘What did you do to Sheffield?’ asked Robinson, professionally interested.

‘The call boy found the original note where he 72

had thrown it into the fire; it had fallen behind the grate. I taxed him with the forgery and he admitted it. I beat him half to death with my cane. But it didn’t help. I could have killed him, but it wouldn’t have brought the dear girl back again.

He went downhill after that. He wasn’t very good, Dorothea had carried him; with her gone he couldn’t manage. He went back to the chorus and took to the drink and I don’t know what happened to him. Died in the gutter, I expect, which was too good a fate for him. It’s an old story,’ he added, wiping his eyes, ‘and my Dorothea is thirty years dead. However, consider the happenings in the theatre. The missing gloves – she was always proud of her hands. And the hyacinth perfume, her favourite flower. Leila says the ghost has black eyes and is dressed as Rose Maybud. It looks like Dorothea hasn’t forgiven me.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Robinson instantly. ‘There are no such things as ghosts.’

‘Jack, please.’ Phryne did not like generaliza-tions. ‘Let us consider this dispassionately. Why should she come back now, Bernard? Why not before, if she’s returning to haunt you?’

‘First time I’ve had anything to do with
Ruddigore
since 1898,’ he replied. ‘It isn’t played much, because the sets are so expensive and hard to move. It’s not a show you can easily take on tour – the second act has the ancestors in their frames, it’s got to be a solid construction because the actors have to stand in it. Large cast and musically complex and audiences don’t go out 73

whistling it like they do
Pirates
or
Pinafore
. It hasn’t been played in Australia before and I doubt I’ll ever do it again.’ He buried his face in his white handkerchief, overcome with emotion. Presently he blew his nose and continued, his voice cracking.

‘She died playing Rose Maybud. She’s still playing her. Besides, who knows how time goes on the other side of the veil? It may have been just the blink of an eye to Dorothea while I’ve dragged through thirty years since she left me. What’s more, I bought a few things from the Savoy when I came over. One of them was the Rose Maybud costume. Leila is actually wearing Dorothea’s dress. Not the one she died in, of course, but a dress Dorothea wore.’

‘It’s interesting . . . ’ began Phryne, when Jack Robinson growled, ‘Spooks! It’s not enough to have actors but I must have spooks as well.’ He looked up to heaven as if remonstrating with the Deity and snapped at Mark, ‘What do you think, Doctor? You’re a scientific man.’

‘I don’t know, but it seems very unlikely.’

‘Unlikely does not mean impossible, gentlemen,’

said Phryne. ‘If someone else knows about this then it gives our trickster a script, doesn’t it? Think about it. Excuse me,’ she added, and went to the door, where Mrs Butler was beckoning.

The kitchen was warm and bright, Ember was sleeping on the rag rug in front of the stove and Mr Butler was pouring boiling water into the kitchen teapot.

‘Sorry to interrupt, but you told me that you 74

wanted to look at the fruit, Miss,’ said Mrs Butler.

‘This is what he has.’

A Chinese man stood at the back door, a flat woven basket in his arms. He was dressed in the standard dark suit with shirt but no collar, and he had a shapeless felt hat on his head. She could not see his face.

‘The Chinese have the best fruit, Miss. Always the earliest, and brought right to the door.

’Course, they never carry seconds or yesterday’s or specked fruit, but we don’t use them anyway,’ said Mrs Butler. ‘Which would you like, Miss?’

The basket held a variety of perfect fruit, a handful of peas and beans, a head of cauliflower, a carefully polished carrot and a flawless onion.

The trader broke a pea pod with one hand and slit it with his thumbnail. Peas as firm as pearls gleamed through the shell.

‘Pound of peas,’ said Mrs Butler instantly.

‘Pound of carrots, please.’

‘White peaches,’ Phryne picked one up and sniffed the furry skin. ‘Divine! Get me an oodle or so, Mrs B.’

Mrs Butler gave the order for five pounds of peaches, and Phryne watched as the man trotted out to his cart, weighed out the vegetables and fruit, then came back to tip the basket gently onto the table. Peaches rolled and Phryne caught one.

The Chinese trader took the money and went; Phryne had not heard him speak.

‘The best fruit, Mrs B?’

‘Yes, Miss, but it has to be washed. They use 75

nightsoil on the fields.’ She took the peach out of Phryne’s hand and rinsed it under the tap. It looked depressed.

‘I believe I’ll wait until it fluffs up again, Mrs B.

Have you always bought our fruit from the Chinese traders?’

‘Yes, Miss, except for the heavy stuff, potatoes and onions, they get delivered by the greengrocer,’

Mrs Butler told her a little stiffly, as if her house-keeping might be in question. Phryne smiled.

‘I leave it all in your capable hands, Mrs B, you know that. I’m just curious. Now I’d better get back to my conference. They may have got to fist-icuffs by now.’

A heated argument about the reality or otherwise of ghosts had resulted in Sir Bernard calling Robinson a bone-headed rationalist and Robinson retorting that Sir Bernard was credulous. Dr Fielding seemed bemused. Phryne walked decisively between them.

‘Gentlemen, please. Jack, I’d remind you that Shakespeare believed in ghosts. Bernard, you are not to insult a policeman who is trying to help.

Now, I suggest that you all go home and get some rest, and I’ll see you tonight at the theatre. Five o’clock – that should give us time to talk to everyone again, without keeping the poor darlings up all night. Even actors need their sleep, you know.’

Sir Bernard bowed, and Jack Robinson, recalling that he was full of this lady’s tea and muffins, said, ‘Sorry, Sir Bernard.’

‘Until five o’clock, then,’ said Phryne, and saw 76

them all to the door with a certain relief.

‘Dot,’ she called up the stairs, ‘I’m not going out. Come down to lunch and then I favour spend-ing the afternoon in some research. Find me those books we were given by Madame Stella. I feel a call to the other world coming on.’

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CHAPTER FIVE

MAD MARGARET (to Rose Maybud): And he loves you!

No, no! If I thought that, I would treat you as the auctioneer and the land agent treated the lady-bird –

I would rend you asunder!

Ruddigore
, Gilbert and Sullivan AFTER SKIMMING seven books on the subject, ranging from the grave proceedings of the Society for Psychical Research to some extremely individ-ual tomes penned by those in constant contact with the other world, Phryne came to two conclu-sions about ghosts. One was that they demonstra-bly did appear, sometimes, in a place or for a reason, or at least a lot of otherwise sane people had encountered one. The other was that there was no scientific way to demonstrate their existence, if they had any. These theories being entirely unhelpful she shelved the topic along with the books and drove into the city.

She was met at the stage door by Herbert Cowl.

78

‘What do you want me to do, Miss?’ he whispered.

‘I want you to tell me everything you know about all the people in this theatre.’

‘Might take a while, Miss. I know an awful lot,’

he said dispassionately.

‘Well, then, find out where everyone was last night. Was anyone out of their place? You know where everyone should be. Find out if that’s where they were.’

‘All right. When do I report?’

‘Come to my house when you can. Here’s a quid in advance. Is it a deal?’

The boy nodded, stowed the bank note in his pocket and vanished up the stairs as the doorman came wheezing out of his cage.

Phryne climbed the stairs to Sir Bernard’s office to find it uncharacteristically messy and, for once, empty. He had recently been there, for she could smell his cigar.

She took a chair and began to make notes in the silk-covered book:

1. Who poisoned both Sir Ruthvens? Laudanum in the blue pills?

2. Tricks: missing gloves – Leila’s, found in Mr Alexander’s room.

missing bag, missing hyacinth perfume –

chorus’s bag, Mr Alexander’s room.

notes which brought Dupont and Evans to Leila’s room.

Leila’s destroyed telegram – chorus?

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something in the whisky – Sir B.

3. Did Leila really see the ghost of Dorothea?

Consider Dorothea’s story. Is she really dead?

Ask Sir B. If it is Dorothea, why is she haunting Leila?

All good questions, Phryne thought, and not an answer to her name. She added ‘Who hated Walter Copland? Who hated Robert Craven?’ to the list and contemplated it.

When the manager came in she asked abruptly,

‘Bernard, are you sure that Dorothea is dead?’ Sir Bernard seemed taken aback by the question, but answered readily, ‘Yes, of course I’m sure. She’s buried in Melbourne Cemetery. She was born in Richmond – the family shipped the body home in a coffin packed with hyacinths. You can go and look at it if you like. What a question, Phryne darling.’

‘Just a thought,’ she said. ‘Now, let’s go and grill someone. Who hated Walter Copland, Bernie?’

‘Just about everyone,’ he said gloomily. ‘I didn’t like the fellow myself.’

‘We’ll assume that you didn’t do it. Tell me what he was like.’

‘Well, he was always complaining about something. The theatre was too hot or too cold, too dark or too light, the chorus was out of key or the orchestra out of time. I mean, the chorus is often out of key and the orchestra is usually out of time, especially if you insist on showing off by singing patter songs too fast just to show you can do it.

80

Which he did. He hogged the stage, even though it’s already a meaty part, Robin/Sir Ruthven. He tried to upstage Evans, which is silly – no one can do that. He reminds me of the way my Dorothea could convince every man in an audience that he was the only one – Gwil can do that, to the ladies of course, in his case. Dear me, I am babbling.

Gwil has great talent. Walter also interfered between Selwyn and Miss Esperance – told Sel he was making a fool of himself over a heartless piece, which might be true but is never a good idea. Leave the fools to their folly, I say. Leila took umbrage and Sel nearly called him out. You know, Phryne, sometimes I think of that little farm I’ll have when I retire. Nice and quiet. Out in the country. No music, no quarrels, and no people.

Just Jersey cows. I find cows so restful.’

‘You’d be bored to screaming point in a week,’

commented Phryne truthfully. ‘So who was in love with Mr Copland?’

‘In love with him? You jest.’

‘What, no one? Well, whom did he favour?’

‘No one, as far as I know. Come along, we’ll have a chat with Hans.’

‘Hans?’

‘James Hansen, naturally called Hans. He is . . .

he was Walter’s dresser. Dressers know everything.’

Phryne followed him to the principals’ dressing rooms, which were on a level with the stage.