Chalice of Darkness, page 5
‘I’ll try to find out more about that monastery, although it’s doubtful if it exists now, and it’s the kind of search that could take years – or where you could open an old ledger tomorrow and find exactly what you want.
‘I’m thinking the curtain can rise to show Richard alone in a shadowy cloister – we can get Bill the Chip to create some stone-looking arches, I expect. I think there might be a few flats left from when we did that Schiller play about Mary, Queen of Scots. I’m sure we kept the flats, although the piece didn’t do very well, as I recall.’
‘It played to an audience of thirty on the first night, and we took it off after a week,’ said Jack, adjusting Joseph Glennon’s spectacles.
‘Richard will tiptoe across the stage, constantly glancing over his shoulder – although not, I should say, in the manner of French farce – and with a sack slung on his back. From the shadows he’ll lift something from an alcove – something that the audience won’t be able to see, because we want the chalice to make a really grand appearance later. So Richard will secrete it in a bag, before exiting the stage. And there we have the first set of “wrongful hands”, and Richard’s first downward steps into his fate. Because soon after that royal visit, he was deposed and thrown into prison in the bowels of Pontefract Castle. The throne was taken by Henry Bolingbroke – Henry IV.’
‘And,’ said Jack, turning the page, ‘what do you bet Byron’s going to suggest the next scene is Richard in the dungeon, bewailing his fate.’
‘I think,’ Byron wrote on the next page, ‘that we ought then to have a dungeon scene, with Richard languishing in chains and a stone cell, mourning the loss of his throne, and ascribing it to his having filched a sacred communion chalice from a monastery – and how, because of it, he believes his line is now cursed.’
‘Told you,’ said Mr Jack. ‘Still, to open a play showing a King of England committing the theft of a sacred object, then having him announcing that he’s cursed, and that the curse might be passed on to his descendants – that should make the audience sit up and take notice. What do you think?’
‘I think audiences will love it,’ said Gus. He listened to the next scene, then said, ‘I like those gaolers and turnkeys Mr Byron has put in there – comic relief, is it called? All that swigging of ale and quarrelling. Although that part where one accuses the other of filching his wife, and of – how did he put it?’
‘Swiving her up against the wall of the latrines, and saying it was a pity he was scarcely better equipped than if he had a three-inch cattle prod in his breeches,’ said Jack, grinning.
‘Might that have to be censored a bit?’ asked Gus, doubtfully.
‘If we don’t want the Lord Chancellor to come down on us like a ton of bricks it’ll certainly have to be censored. We’ll probably have to cut it out for the matinee anyway.’
Gus thought they would most likely have to cut the lines out for all performances, because he was not at all sure if it was respectful to the monarchy – past or present – to show a King of England held prisoner by drunken men talking about swiving.
‘The turnkeys should exit singing a drunken, bawdy song,’ Byron had written. ‘My imagination doesn’t stretch to actually writing that, but I daresay Uncle Rudraige could come up with something.’
‘If Rudraige can’t, nobody can,’ said Jack.
He put down the pages, leaned back against the padded seat, then looked at the turnip-faced watch, which he had borrowed from Rudraige and which they had thought was nicely in character for the scholarly Mr Glennon.
‘It’s half past twelve. Let’s see what the Great Northern Railway can offer in the way of lunch. There’s still two hours before we change trains.’
The Northern Railway’s lunch was very good indeed. ‘And very substantial,’ said Mr Jack – and Gus enjoyed it, although when later they changed trains to a smaller and bouncier local one and the track twisted and turned like a corkscrew, he rather regretted the large helping of treacle pudding.
As the train went along Jack’s mind was on their destination – Vallow Hall. Would the chalice really be there? And would the mysterious Maude be there, as well?
They were travelling through open countryside with trees and woodlands and bits of low wall, dotted here and there with lonely looking farmhouses. It was not yet dark, but there was a thickening of the light. Jack glanced at Gus who was sitting in the other corner of the carriage, and thought he was a bit pale. But it had been a long journey, and this train in particular was enough to shake anyone up. He reached into a pocket for the small hip flask he generally carried with him, and passed it over.
‘If you’re feeling a bit stirred up by the train, a tot of brandy should settle things.’
‘One way or the other,’ replied Gus, drinking a small measure of the brandy gratefully.
Joseph Glennon’s turnip watch showed it to be close to three o’clock. It had been mad to make this journey in the bleak month of November – it would be dark by the time they reached Vallow. Ambrose, planning the journey, had found a local pub that offered ‘comfortable accommodation for travellers’. It was called the Mercian Arms and Joseph Glennon and his manservant were booked in for three nights. Jack was just thinking that they would at least get there in time for dinner when the train rounded a sharp curve in the track, and he was confronted with a view across fields. On the far horizon was a rearing outline, standing on top of a high ridge of land, clear and stark against the sky—
‘Ticket, sir?’
The guard’s voice startled him, but he produced his ticket, and saw the guard looking out of the window. The house was receding in the distance, but it was still in view. Jack said, ‘That’s a strange-looking old place.’
‘That’s Bastle House,’ said the guard, clipping the ticket, and clearly pleased to be able to impart local information to a visitor to this part of the world. ‘Bit of a landmark, it is. Gloomy old place. Been empty for many a long year. One of the old border fortifications, so they tell. Ugly as sin, though.’
‘It is ugly,’ said Jack, absently, still staring out of the window at the crouching outline. A faint apprehension brushed his mind, but then the train chugged around the rest of the curve, and Bastle House vanished from view.
It was a matter of mild curiosity to the regular patrons of the Mercian Arms that an academic gentleman from London was staying in Vallow for a few days. Looking for a country house to buy, so Ned Nithercott said, and Ned would know if anyone would, for he’d driven the gentleman and his manservant from Vallow Halt. The Halt was not one of your big grand railway stations such as you heard about, with cabs and omnibuses and very likely carriages all waiting for travellers, but Ned, who acted as postie for the area, on account of his wife keeping the local post office, always trundled the dogcart along to the Halt when a train – any train – was expected. Folk who had travelled any distance on one of those jolting contraptions were entitled to be transported to their destination, along with any luggage they might have with them.
The gentleman – whose name turned out to be Mr Joseph Glennon – had been interested in the area, asking Ned about this house or that one as they passed them on the way, and whether any of them might be available for purchase. The manservant or whatever he was had not said anything at all; in fact he’d slumped against the side of the cart, one hand on his stomach, his handkerchief clapped to his mouth. Ned had been quite worried for the fate of his cart, although it was not surprising if the poor man had had his innards scrambled up all the way from London in a railway train. Ned had had to direct him to the outside privy at the side of the Mercian Arms the moment the cart pulled up. Later, Mrs Gurning, the landlady, had taken up a bowl of what she called good strengthening broth, this being a sovereign remedy for the digestion, although Ned said personally he would not touch a mouthful, it being stewed with more onions than any broth had a right to contain.
It was noticed, by the regulars in the public bar, that while Mr Glennon was quietly taking his evening meal in the coffee room, Mrs Gurning took the opportunity to go upstairs to the manservant’s room, to see if he was needing anything else. It would have been uncharitable to remark that her cheeks were slightly flushed when she came back downstairs to the bar, but it was well known that the Widow Gurning was never backward when it came to ministering to the needs of a single gentleman.
The following morning Jack and Gus were presented with breakfast plates heaped with food, which included something Mrs Gurning explained was black pudding – a fine northern delicacy, sure to set them both up a treat.
‘And a letter’s come for you, Mr Glennon. Brought along by Ned Nithercott first thing. Early delivery of letters we get. Will there be anything else, sir?’
‘I think this is a very elegant sufficiency, thank you,’ said Jack, as Gus surveyed his plate with dismay, and Mrs Gurning bustled happily away to inform the kitchens that you could always tell Quality when they came to stay.
‘Uncle Rudraige’s writing,’ said Jack, slitting open the envelope with the butter knife. ‘Pass the marmalade, Gus, and I’ll read it out between mouthfuls of crunching toast.’
My dear Jack,
I thought you might appreciate a note on your first morning.
There’s no need to worry about things while you’re away, because I’ll be keeping a firm hand on the reins.
‘Heaven preserve us,’ said Jack, reaching for a second slice of toast.
Byron and I had a discussion about our proposed piece in The Punchbowl after the matinee yesterday, and it sounds as if there will need to be a fair number of settings showing the chalice’s story down the centuries, so I’ve had a word with Bill the Chip about that. (As you know, your father always had a very high opinion of his skills as carpenter.) I told Bill we would finally have to construct a revolve on the Amaranth’s stage. You’ll know the principle of a revolve, of course – it’s more or less a massive turntable that sits on top of the main stage, with runners or wheels under it. You can set up two or even three scenes beforehand, and when they’re needed, the revolve is simply pulled around until the next scene is facing the auditorium. It does away with that frantic scramble to change scenes during intervals, and it will avoid some of the near-disasters we’ve had over the years. You’re too young to remember the night when an entire painted flat representing Elsinore crashed down on to somebody’s foot, and a series of violent oaths rent the entire theatre while Hamlet was soliloquizing in front of the drop curtain. I remember it vividly, because it so happened I was the one playing Hamlet that night (I was a touch slimmer in those days). I lost the entire thread of the speech as a result, and the front row of the stalls jeered, although I always suspected the Gilfillans of being behind that.
However, Bill the Chip is dubious about a revolve. He says Irving never had one at the Lyceum and said what was good enough for Irving is good enough for the Fitzglens. But faint heart never won fair revolve, Jack, and I shall talk Bill round. And it’s high time we stirred up the theatre world a bit. Those Gilfillans have been romping around London as if they’re the reincarnation of David Garrick and Shakespeare’s entire Globe company rolled into one, and they need putting in their place. Somebody told me they actually put House Full boards outside their theatre for an entire week. Of course their auditorium is quite small, so it’d become full very quickly indeed. A few of them were in The Punchbowl last night – celebrating the final night of their run of Othello, seemingly. Miss Viola Gilfillan was with them. She had quite good notices for her Desdemona – Daphnis says the Evening Standard praised it to the skies, and referred to Viola’s ‘meaningful pauses’.
‘Meaningful pauses rubbish,’ said Jack, at once. ‘Punch said they were outright dries – she had to take three prompts. Did I tell you that, Gus?’
‘I don’t think you did,’ said Gus, who would not for worlds have said Mr Jack had told him twice.
‘Daphnis cut out an article from the Standard about Viola,’ Mr Rudraige went on. ‘She thought you might like to see it, so I’m sending it with this letter.’
When Jack unfolded the cutting it showed a very good head-and-shoulders photograph of Viola Gilfillan in Desdemona’s costume. The heading was ‘Miss Viola Gilfillan after her wonderfully successful performance in the Gilfillan production of Shakespeare’s great tragedy’.
Gus said, a bit hesitantly, that it was a good likeness.
‘It’s touched up, of course,’ said Mr Jack, staring at it. ‘And the article mentions her copper-coloured hair – that’ll be touched up as well, I expect. And she’d insist on the light being exactly right and as flattering as possible.’
But he went on looking at the photograph, and Gus had poured himself a second cup of coffee before he finally read the article out.
‘It says, “Miss Gilfillan modestly accepted all the congratulations showered on her for her splendid performance. Asked by the Standard’s reporter whether London audiences would ever have the pleasure of seeing her play Juliet, Miss Gilfillan treated him to her famous slightly crooked smile, and said she would have to be sure of having her perfect Romeo.
‘“There is an actor I have in my mind for that,” she admitted. “His colouring would be complimentary to mine – a fair-haired Romeo to a Titian-haired Juliet. But it is not likely that the actor in question would ever agree to appear on the Gilfillan stage.” Pressed for more, she quoted the famous line from Romeo and Juliet about the ‘Two families, alike in dignity … From ancient grudge break to new mutiny …’ and would not be drawn further. The Standard leaves its readers to draw their own conclusions.”’
‘What utter nonsense,’ said Mr Jack, scowling and looking more like a villain from a melodrama intent on murder, than a mild academic engaged in a blameless search for a country house. ‘She said that deliberately to annoy me. You do realize that?’
‘Yes,’ said Gus, not daring to meet his master’s eyes.
‘Rudraige thinks so, too,’ said Mr Jack, picking up the letter again to read what Mr Rudraige had written. ‘Listen.’
Obviously Viola aimed that at you, but I have to say that her comment about a fair-haired Romeo is quite true – it would undoubtedly make for a striking look. Especially with those dark eyes of yours, Jack – you inherited those from your father, of course. But we all know you would never agree to be Viola Gilfillan’s Romeo, and even if you did, you would act her off the stage on the first night, dear boy. Still, you know, this isn’t the first time those Gilfillans have attempted to lure one of our family on to their stage. That old villain, Furnival Gilfillan, once took your Aunt Daphnis out to supper at Rule’s and suggested she appear as his Portia on the Gilfillans’ stage. Daphnis refused – but not until she had enjoyed a very lavish, very expensive supper at Furnival’s expense.
Anyway, Daphnis sends her good wishes for a successful outcome to your filch, Jack, and Cecily says it will be chilly in those northern climes, so be sure to wear warm undergarments. Ambrose is concerned about you eating anything you don’t recognize, since there’s no knowing what unfamiliar local dishes might do to the digestion. He reminded us all that he is a martyr to his digestion, and actually he did have a bout of hiccups halfway through Act Three yesterday, although I managed to cover it up by booming out my own lines and one or two of Ambrose’s as well, so everything was perfectly all right.
Your ever-loving Uncle Rudraige.
Mr Jack replaced the letter and the cutting in the envelope, said it was to be hoped Rudraige did not get carried away and start an Amaranth revolution, then consulted the turnip watch and said they would explore the village. Gus, relieved to have got away from the Gilfillans in general and Miss Viola Gilfillan in particular, agreed.
‘I noticed a solicitor’s office when the cart brought us here from the station last night,’ said Jack, getting up from the table. ‘There was a brass plate saying E. Meazle. I think Joseph Glennon might call on E. Meazle to enquire about houses for sale, don’t you?’
‘Establishing the character,’ nodded Gus. ‘A good idea.’
‘What do I wear for a visit to a solicitor, do you think? Bearing in mind that I’m a hopeful, rather naïve seeker of a country house to purchase?’
‘The greatcoat,’ said Gus, as they went up to the bedrooms. ‘Mr Glennon would be a bit nervous about the cold and careful of his health.’
‘So he would. And the muffler to go with it? Yes, of course. Cecely knitted it for me as a Christmas present, and she’d never forgive me if I didn’t make use of it.’
‘She knitted one for me, as well.’
‘So I heard. And,’ said Jack, with a sly grin, ‘bedsocks to go with it.’
‘Bedsocks are very useful in winter,’ said Gus, defensively. ‘It was very kind of her. You know, I think it looks as if it might rain, so we’ll take the big umbrella as well.’
As well as the muffler and the umbrella, Mr Jack took the silver-topped walking cane, which Mr Rudraige had lifted from a Gilfillan gentleman who had been occupying the Amaranth’s stage box during Miss Daphnis’s portrayal of Lady Macbeth some years previously. The Gilfillan in question had apparently spent the entire play ogling the stage, then had observed, very loudly in the crush bar afterwards, that Daphnis Fitzglen’s declaiming of the famous “Give me the knife” line had sounded more like a cook preparing to chop vegetables for stew than a villainous heroine seducing her lord into a murder most foul.
The story was that Rudraige had felt such an insult should not go unpunished, and had considered that liberating the cane had been a fair way to redress the balance.
