Free The Kingdom of Bones by Stephen Gallagher Page A

the public house next door. Sayers climbed the stairs, almost hoping not to find Caspar there. If he wasn’t, then Whitlock would either have to cancel the performance or send on a substitute, book in hand. It would be a disaster for the company and the most serious professional lapse imaginable; yet there was something in Sayers that weighed one night’s pain against Caspar’s permanent departure.
    His father had taken on the work of reclaiming him for God, but died with it barely begun. I swore to him that I would continue the work until its end. I pledged my own soul to the task.
    Sayers did not believe one word of it. There had to be some more credible explanation for the hold that Caspar had on the boss. Whatever it was, Sayers would welcome any reason that might cause the “task” to be abandoned.
    Reaching the top of the dressing-room stairs, he hesitated. The door to Caspar’s room was open, and the man was not alone. Sayers could see him reflected in the dressing-room mirror. It was a cheap, old glass and Caspar’s image was like that in a dirty window. He was in costume, but his stiff collar was sprung open. Sayers heard him snap his fingers and say, in an imperious manner, “Stud.”
    “Yes, sir.” It was the voice of Arthur, the callboy. Sayers’ view was momentarily blocked as Arthur moved across with a stud to fasten the collar.
    He heard Caspar say, “Where’s my press book?”
    “Still working on it, sir,” Arthur said. The business with the collar seemed to be a struggle.
    After a few moments Caspar said, “You’re a slow little weasel, aren’t you?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Slow of hand, slow of wits. I think I’ll ask Edmund to dismiss you. Would you like that?”
    “No, sir.”
    “‘No, sir,’” Caspar mimicked. “Get out.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    Arthur came out of the dressing room like a boy with a reprieve from the dentist’s chair, and almost ran into Sayers at the top of the stairs. Sayers must have seemed to appear out of nowhere because Arthur leaped back, startled like a buck at a gunshot.
    “Beginners, please, Arthur,” Sayers said.
    “Yes, Mister Sayers,” the boy said, and looked faintly stricken at the thought of having to turn around and go back into the presence he’d just escaped.
    “Be on with you,” Sayers said. “I’ll give Mister Caspar the call.”
    “There’s no need,” said James Caspar from the dressing-room doorway. Arthur shot off down the stairs. Caspar primped his wing collar, tugged down his white waistcoat, and shot his cuffs. He looked as sharp as a barber’s razor.
    “It seems that your services are hardly required at all, Mister Sayers,” he said, and moved forward. Sayers had to step aside to let him by.
    A dozen rejoinders occurred to him as he followed Caspar down toward the stage, but the moment to use any of them had already passed.
             
    The Prince of Wales had its own pit orchestra, so the company’s musical director foreswore the piano and picked up the baton for their overture and effects.
The Purple Diamond
overture was a bespoke piece for the play and had not a lick of original music in it, being a mishmash of classic themes and familiar tunes. And a very successful mishmash it was; not a note in it that wasn’t tried and tested and free of all copyright fees. It tweaked the mood of every audience. If you like this kind of thing, it seemed to say, then here comes the kind of thing you’ll like.
    For each member of the acting company, it was an unconscious metronome guiding them to their places and preparing their minds for the performance. Hearing it backstage, they drifted to their entrances like theater ghosts. The curtain would rise on the Low Comedian as the butler, who had a belowstairs monologue to set up the story. Then on came Louise, and the lovers’ plot would be got under way. Whitlock would enter then, as the detective in disguise. He usually got a vocal greeting from the audience, but on this run