Sick of Shadows - M. C. Beaton [43]
“Let’s go to Swan and Edgar for tea. We can look at it there and quiz the ladies’ hats.”
The department store of Swan and Edgar at Piccadilly Circus was famous for its teas. They also had an orchestra to entertain the customers.
“Now,” said Daisy, “let’s see if he’s in here.”
Rose leaned back in her chair and listened to the sugary strains of the orchestra playing “Poor Wandering One” from The Pirates of Penzance. Did Harry ever think of her? she wondered.
“There’s something here,” said Daisy. “It doesn’t say Roger Dallow, but it says there’s someone called Sam Duval and he’s billed at the Fulham Palace Music Hall as The Singing Blacksmith.”
“I wish we could go this evening but we are invited to the Pocingtons for dinner.”
“You could have a headache.”
Rose smiled. “So I could. My parents are so pleased with my engagement that they will not mind me having one night off. The minute they leave, we can take a hansom to Fulham Palace.”
Daisy was excited. If they found out anything, surely Rose would want to tell Harry and Kerridge.
When they climbed into the hansom that evening, Daisy twisted around and peered out of the back window.
“What’s the matter?” asked Rose.
“Funny,” said Daisy, turning back. “I thought I saw two men standing under the trees opposite the house.”
“That is odd. Some time ago I looked down into the square and saw Cyril Banks and Lord Berrow standing there.”
“I wish you were still engaged to the captain,” fretted Daisy. “He would have come round and lain in wait for them and demanded to know what they were doing.”
“I’m sure Sir Peter will do the same thing should I ask him.”
“He’s not frightening enough,” said Daisy. “The captain is.”
“Oh, do stop talking about Captain Cathcart. That part of my life is finished.”
“So you say,” muttered Daisy sulkily.
They had to pay for a box at the Fulham Palace Music Hall as all the seats had already been booked.
There was to be a guest appearance of George Chevalier, famous for his song “My Old Dutch.”
Rose fidgeted restlessly while Daisy heaved a sentimental sigh as Chevalier sang:
“We’ve been together now for forty years,
An’ it don’t seem a day too much;
There ain’t a lady livin’ in the land
As I’d swop for my dear old Dutch.”
Then came the comedians, the jugglers, and a conjurer, all followed by a massive corseted lady who sang, “I Dreamt that I Dwelt in Marble Halls.” The first half was over.
Rose saw various members of the audience staring up at the box and lowered her veil. But to Daisy, who had been on the halls herself, it was all fascinating.
The second half opened with a man with his performing dogs. Rose stifled a yawn. And then Sam Duval came on. He was an exceptionally good-looking man with dark curly hair and a strong figure. He was dressed in a blacksmith’s costume and standing by a “forge” and looking at an empty birdcage on a table in front of the footlights. He sang in a clear tenor voice:
“She’s only a bird
In a gilded cage,
A beautiful sight to see,
You may think she’s happy
And free from care,
She’s not
Tho’ she seems to be.
‘Tis sad when you think
Of her wasted life,
For youth cannot mate with age,
And her beauty was sold
For an old man’s gold,
She’s a bird in a gilded cage.”
There was a throb in his voice while he sang. There was a brief silence when he finished and then there was a roar of applause. Daisy clapped until her hands were sore. Then she nudged Rose. “Come on. I’m sure that’s him. Let’s get round to the stage door.”
Frost glittered on the pavement outside the theatre, shining under the stuttering gaslights, as they made their way round to the side of the building.
Rose presented her card to the stage-door keeper. “Follow me,” he said, and winked at her. Oh dear, thought Rose. He thinks I’m the female equivalent of a stage-door Johnny.
They followed the stage-door keeper up narrow stairs and along a passage. “That’s him,” he said, jerking