‘I hope the real authoress will not mind us taking her name in vain?’ Dora gathered her notebook and pencil, preparing to go out.
‘She sounds an eminently sensible lady and will not mind as it is in a good cause.’
Dora certainly hoped Miss Austen was right.
The only one of the big theatres open at present was Covent Garden, so Dora decided to start there to make a connection with the opera crowd. Many performers would be taking the summer to tour, but if they were in luck, there would be some rehearsing for the beginning of the season or for private concerts. After asking the porter what rehearsals (if any) were taking place, she led Miss Austen to the stage door on Hart Street and knocked.
A grizzled old man answered– the day shift. He was practically bent double with arthritis. They put beefier menon the door during performances to deter the admirers of the leading actors, but there was an unwritten rule in the theatre that retired stagehands should be accommodated with work where possible.
‘Good day, sir,’ said Dora offering her hand and a shilling. ‘My name is Miss Fitz-Pennington?—’
Before she could go any further, the man opened the door and grinned. ‘Miss Dora Fitz-Pennington!’ He still pocketed the shilling.
‘You’ve heard of me?’ Dora doubted very much the positive notices she had received for her Viola and Polly Peachum in the provinces had reached London.
‘Oh, yes! You’re the one who took on Susan, Ren and Hugo. They think they are being so discreet, snooping around on the tail of ne’er-do-wells, but they’ve been spotted– oh, yes, spotted!’
Naturally, employing people from the Shakespeare’s Head Tavern a few doors away would not be missed by the theatrical crowd who went there to exchange news and grab a drink before and after the performance. Watching the agency’s employees going about their new work had likely developed into a new spectator sport.
‘They have proved to be splendid hires.’
‘And that business in the Egyptian Hall!’ The doorman tapped the side of his nose. ‘We’ve all kept our tongues from wagging, but it’s appreciated, miss, very much appreciated.’ With the help of the theatre folk, Dora had walked into the hall with a booby-trapped cart to foil the plot laid by a French spy and to save Kir. What the doorman was appreciating she wasn’t sure. Saving the boy, stopping the French gaining a piece of Elgin’s Greek marbles, or perhaps delaying the opening of a rival entertainment establishment– all were possible.
‘Fascinating,’ murmured Miss Austen, gazing at Dora with renewed interest.
‘We thank you for your discretion. May we come in? We’d like to observe a rehearsal,’ said Dora, attempting to get back on the trail of their purpose for being here.
‘But of course. Please go in.’ The doorman did not so much as spare a second glance for her companion. ‘The ones in today are in the Green Room, fourth door along that corridor.’
Dora felt an odd pang of homesickness as she made her way past the dressing rooms with that odour of the theatre that was partly grease paint, partly powder, and a distinct hint of sweat. Nowhere she had ever performed matched the splendours of Covent Garden, of course; this was the pinnacle to which all others aspired. It was exciting to get backstage here, even if it wasn’t with a mind to performing.
‘I do love the theatre,’ sighed Miss Austen, looking about her with lively attention.
Jolted out of her reverie, Dora glanced at her companion. ‘You attend?’
‘Whenever I can– though I’ve never been behind the scenes. This is wonderful– faded grandeur, exactly as one would expect.’ She patted the fringe of a frayed velvet curtain over an alcove with fond delight, like an aunt admiring the ringlets of a favoured niece.
‘I thought you lived in the countryside?’
‘Even country mice are allowed to visit their family in town from time to time.’
Thinking how quickly Miss Austen had come up with the story to explain her presence, Dora grew suspicious that she was in the company of an aspiring actress. The woman didn’t have the stage presence to make a go of that, being neither beautiful nor memorably characterful– perfectly pleasant didn’t get youcast. ‘Did you ever want to go on stage?’ She hoped she wouldn’t have to be the one to let the lady down if that were her dream.
‘Only in private theatricals. My father ran a school when we were growing up and we would often entertain ourselves with putting on a play– even so, they did tend to get out of hand as we youngsters took them to heart. It was easy to fancy yourself in love with a young man spouting fine words written for him by someone else, do you not find?’
‘It is a hazard of the profession, to mistake the illusionary character for the reality.’ At least Miss Austen talked about it in the past tense. Dora wouldn’t have to tell her that the stage wasn’t for her.
‘Yes, I can well imagine that.’
Dora could now hear the chatter from behind the door of the Green Room and the trickle of notes from a piano. The original actors’ waiting room in the sister theatre of Drury Lane had green-painted walls, but the name had now stuck as the communal space backstage in all British theatres, even little ones up north, no matter the colour of their decorations. She knew better than to knock and went in with all the confidence her five years treading the boards had given her. Two men and a lady stood around a piano with a seated accompanist, sheet music in hand. They turned on hearing the interruption and the female pianist’s introduction tinkled away into nothing.
‘May we help you?’ asked the nearest man, a gentleman with a beak of a nose and flushed cheeks, likely in his fifties. He had a stature worthy of an alderman overly fond of mayoral banquets.
The lady arched one expressive brow– she was the epitome of an Italian beauty with her dark hair and eyes, the sort of heroine Lord Byron liked to immortalise in his love poetry. ‘No autographs– we are working.’ Her accent was distinctly Italian too, which told Dora who she was. She had seen prints of the woman from her younger days, though she was still a fine-looking personage in her early thirties. Occasionally Dora’s work brought her into contact with her heroines and here was one of them.
‘Madame Catalani, sirs, please forgive our interruption to your rehearsal. My name is Dora Fitz-Pennington and this is Miss Austen.’
The second gentleman, another well-padded singer with greying locks and smiling eyes, snapped his fingers. ‘By Jove, the actress who has turned her hand to investigation– oh, yes, we’ve all been following your exploits with interest.’
