“I think his productions are the most stunning on the West End. Isn’t he Madge’s dream producer?” Agatha asks.
“He’s very talented, but apparently he instills fear in his actors and actresses. And quite possibly his writers. Why don’t you let me do the introductions? Smooth the way and all that?”
“He’s a good egg, that Jim,” I say to Agatha as Jim leads us to Mr. Dean.
Agatha smiles. “He is. And his namesake son is cut from the same cloth. I wish he wasn’t away this weekend. I’d love to introduce you.”
The bottle blonde drifts away as Jim approaches. “Mr. Dean, I’d like to introduce you to my sister-in-law Mrs. Mallowan and her friend Miss Sayers, who are visiting us from London. Mr. Dean isa producer of West End shows, and Miss Sayers is a writer of mysteries.”
Not surprising, I think, that he’s highlighting me rather than Agatha, whom he calls by her married name only. Even though she might be a bit better known, she’d loathe the attention and questions. And Madge would be furious that the limelight was drawn from her to Agatha onher night.
Mr. Dean clears his throat. “I am a director as well.”
Jim hastens to address this oversight, then excuses himself.
“I’m a fan of your Lord Peter Wimsey,” he says with a large gulp of his drink and a wipe of his brow. Is the room warm? Mr. Dean’s cheeks are flushed. Perhaps the bottle blonde had roused his senses.
I thank him for his kind words, and we chat about my Wimsey books for several long minutes. Agatha is standing by, silently allowing me to handle this exchange while she studies this man.
“What show are you currently working on?” I ask, knowing that a man of his self-regard would enjoy talking about himself. Perhaps if he drones on for a bit, I’ll place him.
“I tend to spin a lot of plates at once. For example, I have several of Noël Coward’s plays in various stages of development, both in New York and London. I am also the joint managing director of the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, which takes much of my time.”
That’s it,I think. That’s how I know his name. When I was researching the theater where May sawCavalcade—Theatre Royal, Drury Lane—I saw his name listed as joint managing director.
I glance at Agatha. She has made the connection as well.
But Mr. Dean isn’t finished singing his own praise. He continues, “And I’ve just become chairman of Associated Talking Pictures.”
“My goodness, how do you do it? You wear so many hats,” I say, and he nods proudly. I continue, “Am I right in thinking that you currently have a Noël Coward show on the Drury Lane stage?Cavalcade?”
“We do indeed.” Mr. Dean is pleased with the recognition. “It’s a marvelous musical. The story follows a well-to-do British familyduring three crucial decades of modern life. Terrific score, shot through with popular songs from each era.”
“Sounds brilliant, Mr. Dean,” I say. Glancing at Agatha, I add, “We will have to go see it.”
“I could arrange tickets for you quite easily,” he offers.
“We wouldn’t want to be an imposition,” I insist, although I’m delighted. The Queens had discussed visiting the theater, but I never dreamed we’d do so at the behest of the joint managing director. All that access might come in handy.
“Nonsense—it would be my pleasure. Perhaps you could leave a signed copy of a Wimsey novel for me,” he suggests.
“I’d be delighted. Are you typically backstage at the theater? I could drop it off personally after we see the play.” I hope I sound casual.
“Not usually. My co–managing director and I divide time at the theater. I spend my hours there during the day, when I can easily pop over to the film studios as well. Sir Alfred has a habit of spending his evenings at Drury Lane,” he explains.
“Sir Alfred?”
“Apologies. Sir Alfred Chapman is my co–managing director.”
A voice, dripping with displeasure, drifts over Mr. Dean’s shoulders into our conversation. “Whom do we have here?”
Elegant in a column of beaded navy silk, Madge inserts herself into our little circle. I suppose it’s her prerogative; Abney Hall is her home, and this is her party.
For the first time since we were introduced to Mr. Dean, Agatha speaks. “Madge, this is Mr. Basil Dean, head of the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, as well as Associated Talking Pictures. Not to mention a director and producer, particularly of plays by Noël Coward. Mr. Dean, this is my sister, Mrs. James Watts, your hostess. And a writer of plays herself.”
“A pleasure,” Mr. Dean says, kissing Madge’s outstretched hand.
“I’ve been wanting to meet you, Mr. Dean. Your reputation precedes you.” Madge turns to Agatha and me. “Don’t let us keep you.”
