5 Check-Out Time (16 page)

Another light thump had her worried even more. She’d better get back to the hotel, before she dropped the blinking thing right there on the sands.

Anxiously she scanned the water’s edge for Stanley. Her heart skipped a beat when she couldn’t see him. Where the bloody hell had he gone? It wasn’t as if she could miss him. He was three times the size of anyone else.

Panic spread over her fast. He couldn’t have drowned. Surely not. Someone would have seen him or heard him.

She tried to calm herself. She couldn’t be having the baby yet, it was too bleeding early. And Stanley had to be around somewhere. He had to be.

Shading her eyes with her hand, she started walking toward the water. A young boy almost ran into her, and she grabbed his arm.

“Watch where you’re bloody going,” she said crossly.

“Sorry, miss.” He would have darted off, but she held on to him. “Have you seen a fat boy wading in the water along here?”

The child shook his head. “I haven’t been here very long.”

“Strewth.” She let go of the boy and watched him race along the sands. What was she going to do? She couldn’t go
back without him. Mrs. Chubb would cut her bleeding head off.

Without much hope she began moving between the bodies lining the water’s edge. Putting her hands up to her mouth, she yelled at the top of her lungs, “Stanley! Stanley!”

Several minutes later she was out of breath, even hotter than before, and almost at the breaking point. Her throat ached with yelling, and everyone was looking at her as if she was bleeding daft.

She retraced her steps, still shouting as loud as she could. “Stanley!”

“I’m here, stupid.”

She almost jumped out of her skin as the voice spoke right at her feet. Looking down, she saw a mound of sand, and Stanley’s head sticking out one end of it.

As she stared at him, he opened his mouth and exploded with raucous laughter.

She waited, fists dug into her hips, until he had to stop laughing to get his breath. “I’ve been watching you for hours,” he said finally, gasping for breath. “You walked right past me lots of times.”

“Get up.”

He eyed her warily, apparently alerted by her tone. “I can’t,” he said, moving his head from side to side. “I’m trapped in here. That’s why I couldn’t get up before.”

“I said get bleeding well up before I kick you to kingdom come.”

“You can’t do that. You’re not allowed to kick me.”

“And who’s going to know?”

“I’ll tell Mrs. Chubb if you do.”

“All right, then. I’ll … stuff your mouth full of sand so you can’t talk to no one. How would you like that, Master Stanley-bleeding-Malton?”

Stanley’s face assumed a haughty look. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, no?” Gertie squatted down and grabbed a handful of
sand. “I’m going to count to five. If you’re not on your bloody feet by then, you’ll have sand for your supper tonight.”

She got to four before Stanley sat up, spraying sand everywhere. “All right, spoilsport,” he muttered. “I’m coming. I’m coming. But I’m going to tell everyone how rotten you are to me. Even Mrs. Sinclair.”

Gertie waited until he was on his feet, then she bent over him and thrust her face close to his. “I wish you’d bleeding drowned, you rotten little bugger. It would serve you bloody well right. Feeding the fish at the bottom of the sea. That’s where you belong.”

She grabbed his arm and began dragging him across the sand. “Come on, I’ve got better things to do than to stand here arguing with you. But I tell you, Stanley, one of these fine days I’m going to really lose my temper with you. Then you had bloody well better watch out.”

For once Stanley didn’t give her a back answer. Which was just as well. She could feel the baby kicking inside her again, and she couldn’t wait to get back to the hotel and tell Mrs. Chubb about it.

CHAPTER
16

Although Wellercombe was a little less than seventeen miles from Badgers End, it took Cecily and Baxter the best part of an hour to arrive at the Hippodrome. Here the motorcars invaded the streets in far greater numbers than in the villages.

It made navigation in a horse-drawn trap a hazardous experience, not only from the aspect of maneuvering past the bulky machines, but also the sudden bangs and pops that erupted from them could startle a frisky mare into rearing onto its back legs—or worse, racing down the street in terrified flight, dragging its helpless victims with it.

Baxter sat in tense silence once they reached the outskirts of the town. Cecily had complete faith in Samuel’s capabilities and was more inclined to be fatalistic about the situation.

Deciding that Baxter needed something to keep his mind from imagining any number of dire mishaps, she kept up a stream of chatter, talking about anything that came into her head.

“You know,” she said as they moved in a series of stops and starts down the High Street, “I have been reading about all these kinemas opening up. It would seem as if the moving pictures industry is growing very fast. It has certainly come a long way since it was first seen in the fairgrounds. Have you ever seen one?”

Baxter looked at her as if she’d lost her mind.

“They really are quite fascinating. A little bit hard on the eyes at times, since they do jump around a lot, but it really is amazing to watch actors acting out a drama without the audience actually having to be there in person. Just think of the number of people they can reach, and they only have to do the play once.”

Baxter grunted.

“Some believe the pictures will take over the theater eventually,” Cecily continued. “I hear that now the passion for roller skating has abated, all these skating rinks are standing empty. Some astute entrepreneurs are buying up these places and turning them into kinemas. Actually they used to be called kinemas. I believe now they call them cinemas. For twopence one can view an hour’s film, and for another penny, they’ll serve you tea and biscuits.”

The trap jerked to an unexpected halt, and the bay whinnied. Baxter made a muffled exclamation, but Cecily blithely ignored him. “I do hope that won’t mean the death of the theater. Somehow I can’t imagine that those flickering images on a screen can possibly compare to a live performance. Can you, Baxter?”

He mumbled an answer she didn’t understand.

“I read about a film called
The Great Train Robbery.
And apparently filmmakers are issuing new programs as fast as they can turn them out. They even have a pianist in the
cinemas to give the story more atmosphere. Though I must say I would prefer a full orchestra, wouldn’t you?”

Baxter looked as if he would like to turn the trap around and return to Badgers End. “Madam—” he began, but she interrupted him with a raised hand.

“Look, Baxter, there’s the Hippodrome. It certainly is a magnificent building, wouldn’t you say?”

The trap slowed to a halt a short distance from the theater, as people streamed along the pavement toward the doors. “I think this is as close as I can get, mum,” Samuel called out over the roar of motorcars.

“I’m afraid we will have to walk, madam,” Baxter said, his tone suggesting that they were about to walk into the valley of death.

“So we shall,” Cecily said brightly and allowed him to assist her out of the trap. “Please return for us in two hours,” she told Samuel. He touched his hat with his whip and moved off.

Once inside, the theater looked even more impressive, with its brass railings lining the balconies and the thick crimson carpeting underfoot. Crystal chandeliers hung from a ceiling covered in plaster nymphs, who appeared to be playing all manner of musical instruments.

Cecily found it all fascinating, but the moment the orchestra struck the first chords of the overture, the decor was forgotten. Amidst loud cheers, an occasional boo, and lots of good-humored advice from the upper circle, affectionately known as the gods, six young women tapped their way energetically across the stage and performed various gyrations that made Cecily feel dizzy to watch them.

Act followed upon act, from a comedian whose jokes made Baxter visibly squirm, to a third-rate soprano who fought desperately for the top notes, and closing with a quite spectacular magician whose talent for making things disappear made up for his stoic and sometimes unintelligible patter.

By the time the show came to a boisterous finale amid
thunderous applause and much cheering from the balconies, Cecily felt quite exhausted.

“We have to make our way backstage,” she told Baxter as they prepared to leave their seats.

Baxter, obviously horrified at this latest suggestion, opened his mouth to protest, but she forestalled him.

“I don’t have time to argue, Baxter. Either come with me or wait for me in the lobby.”

Snapping his mouth shut with an expression that boded trouble for her later, he rose from his seat and followed her up the aisle.

It took much less effort than she had anticipated to reach the backstage area. She merely told the doorman that she owned the Pennyfoot Hotel and was looking for entertainers, while Baxter stood looking aghast at her.

She was ushered into a narrow passageway fraught with ropes and pulleys, ladders of all kinds, and huge screens with painted backdrops on them.

“Madam,” Baxter said behind her, “I must strenuously object to us being here in this environment.”

“Baxter, I have to be here if I want to speak with the performers.”

“
Speak
with them, madam?”

She stopped and turned to face him. His expression mirrored his alarm, and she almost felt sorry for him. “I’m sorry, but I have to question these people if I’m to find out what I want to know.”

“Surely there is a less distressing method of procuring information?”

Cecily smiled. “Please try to relax, Baxter. I will be as quick as possible.”

She caught sight of one of the dancers climbing down a circular stairway. “Ah, there is someone now,” she said and hurried over to the young woman before Baxter could protest further.

The girl’s face was streaked with dust and perspiration, which left tiny rivulets in the heavy greasepaint. Bright blue
circles surrounded her eyes, which were fringed with long, thick black spikes for eyelashes. Her skirt barely skimmed her ankles, and her arms were bare from the shoulders.

Cecily could almost feel Baxter’s look of disapproval. Trying to ignore his stone-faced presence, she greeted the girl and complimented her on her fine performance.

“I happen to be acquainted with an entertainer myself,” Cecily said casually after the girl had thanked her. “He used to be in the Music Hall, I believe. His name is Arthur Barrett. Have you heard of him, by any chance?”

Blond curls bounced all over her forehead as the dancer shook her head. “Never heard of him, ducks. But then, if he was in Music Hall, I probably wouldn’t know him. Variety is what is in now. Bit different than the old Music Hall. Got a bit more meat to it, if you know what I mean.”

She gave Cecily a hearty nudge in the ribs with her elbow. “Lot more saucy. The crowds like that. Lot better than that hoity-toity crowd in the West End. You can have a laugh with these audiences. Bit of all right, this lot. They know a good joke when they hear one.”

The dancer looked over at Baxter, whose face looked as if it was about to crack. After running her gaze over him from head to foot, she said, “Enjoy the show, did ya, luv? Want me autograph, then?”

Baxter made a noise deep in his throat as if he were drowning. The dancer let out a deep, coarse belly laugh, then spun around to wind her way through the passages and disappeared.

Cecily risked a glance at her manager. His face was scarlet, and he studiously avoided her gaze as he said, “I trust we can leave now, madam?”

She felt sorry for him, but she was not about to give up that easily. “I won’t be much longer,” she assured him and prepared to venture further into the strange world of backstage theater.

From somewhere off to her left she heard voices and followed the sound, stepping over more ropes and around
boxes crammed with strange-looking objects. Finally rounding a corner, she saw a group of people laughing at a man who appeared to be the center of attention.

Recognizing one of the comedians, Cecily prudently waited until he’d finished his joke before coming forward. Baxter had been embarrassed enough.

The huge stage lights reflected on the man’s bald head, and his smile appeared to stretch all the way across his face. “Ay, up, lass, what can I do for you?” he asked in a thick north-country accent.

The group fell silent as Cecily asked her question. “Does anyone here know of a performer by the name of Arthur Barrett? He was on the stage in the Music Hall for a while, I do believe.”

The comedian shook his head. “Sorry, luv, never heard of him. They come and go fast in this business, you know. Maybe you should ask one of the old-timers. Like Harry Mattson. He might know.”

“Or Dennis,” someone else piped up.

Cecily turned to the young man who had spoken. “Dennis?”

“He’s Denmarric, the magician.”

The young man was one of the acrobats, and Cecily was sure she had never seen anyone so skinny in her entire life. “Do you know where I’ll find him?” she asked.

The young man jerked his head backward. “He’s in his dressing room. Second door on the right. Can’t miss it, he’s got a star on the door.”

“Harry should be wandering around somewhere, too,” the bald man added. “He has the room next door. He might be able to help.”

Thanking them, Cecily followed the direction she’d been given, with Baxter following in silence behind. No doubt he was saving all his additional objections for later, she thought. But she couldn’t worry about that now.

Finding the magician’s door, she rapped on it. It was opened abruptly by a heavyset man in a faded silk dressing
gown. Without his turban and robe the magician looked a lot less impressive. He had removed most of his makeup, but traces of yellow and brown greasepaint still clung to his mustache and eyebrows.

Cecily was surprised to see the deeply etched lines on his face. He had looked much younger from the stalls. His gray hair sprang defiantly from his head in all directions, and his dark eyes darted back and forth between her and Baxter like twin mosquitos on Deep Willow Pond.

“Please excuse me for disturbing you,” Cecily said, feeling a little unsettled by the man’s quivering impatience, “but I would like to ask you a few questions, if I may?”

“Certainly. Certainly. Why didn’t you say so?” His voice boomed out as though he were still trying to be heard in the back of the stalls.

He opened the door wider. “Come in, come in.” Giving Baxter a scathing look, he demanded, “Is this your cameraman? Tell him to get his equipment. Hurry, hurry! I haven’t got all night.”

Confused, Cecily stepped into the tiny room. The magician’s stage clothes had been thrown over the top of a screen in the corner, while his turban sat on the table in front of a large mirror. Gas lamps burned all around the frame, sending odd shadows across Cecily’s face as she glanced at her reflection.

She turned to face the magician, who was still inspecting Baxter as if he were a particularly nasty insect.

“I wanted to ask you if you had heard of a performer by the name of Arthur Barrett,” she said, finally getting his attention.

He swung his head around and scowled at her. “No, I haven’t. Should I?”

Cecily was beginning to feel most uncomfortable. The man’s attitude left a lot to be desired. “He is an acquaintance of mine, that’s all. I was interested in talking to anyone who might have known him when he was performing in the Music Hall.”

“Good Lord, woman, is that all you wanted?” Denmarric bellowed. “You’re not a writer? You’re not here for an interview?”

Cecily shook her head in mute apology.

“Then why in the hell are you wasting my time?” He waved an arm furiously at the door. “Get out of here before I turn you both into sniveling little frogs. Out, out, I say!”

Baxter stepped forward, his eyes burning with outrage. Before he could speak, Cecily said hastily, “I’m sorry, sir, I did not mean to mislead you. Am I to assume that you have not heard of Arthur Barrett?”

“I not only haven’t heard of him,” the magician roared, “I don’t give a fig about him. Now get out and leave me alone.”

Cecily moved fast, straight at the door, forcing Baxter to step back before she collided with him. “Phew,” she said, pretending to mop her brow as the door slammed behind her. “What a nasty-tempered man.”

“I did warn you, madam,” Baxter said, his face arranged in an
I-told-you-so
expression.

“So you did, Baxter,” Cecily said cheerfully. “I am most grateful that you were here with me.”

A look of relief crossed his face. “May we leave now?”

“Not yet.” She moved over to the next door. “Just allow me to question one more person, then I promise I will leave.”

She tapped on the door quickly before Baxter had time to dissuade her. A moment later the door opened and a sad-faced man looked down at her. “Yes?”

“Mr. Mattson?”

“That’s my name.”

“I enjoyed your performance very much tonight,” Cecily said, trying to remember exactly which act he’d performed.

“Oh, thank you.” He looked a little brighter. “Did you come for an autograph? If so, you have to have Bessie’s and Poppy’s, too.”

“I do?” Cecily looked at Baxter for help.

Her manager shrugged and lifted his gaze to the rafters as if to tell her she was on her own.

“You want to see them?” Harry Mattson opened the door wider, and Cecily peered in. In a large basket lined with pink silk, two poodles looked solemnly back at her, one black, one white.

Now she remembered. The performing dogs. They had pranced back and forth on their hind legs wearing dresses and carrying parasols. “Oh, how sweet,” she said, wondering how happy a dog could be in such an environment.

“They won’t bite you,” Mattson said, looking as if he were about to cry. “They never bite.”