Free Secret Lament by Roz Southey Page A

Mrs Keregan grumbled all afternoon, Mr Keregan fretted over box
office receipts with so bad a performance. Proctor gazed adoringly at Julia and kept asking why Mazzanti didn’t tell Ned to move further away from the girl. Athalia came off the stage in a
rage because Mazzanti had told her not to ‘flaunt herself’ so much; we all knew that Athalia’s red-headed vitality threw pale Julia completely into the shade.
    “I’ll strangle that girl myself,” Athalia hissed. “Will someone tell her the whole point of singing is to be heard!”
    I drank too much. And the heat ate at us all.
    After two hours or so, not long after Ord had departed, I went outside for a piss and came back in to find my acquaintance from the street standing at the door staring calculatingly at the
stage. I didn’t for one moment believe his name was Domenico Corelli but I certainly believed he was Italian, or possibly of Italian ancestry; his sallow skin and black hair gave the game
away even if he was tall enough and bulky enough for two men – all the previous Italians I’d met had been slight.
    He gave me an amused look as I came up behind him. “I can’t hear a word she’s saying.”
    “No one can.”
    “The other fellow’s good.”
    “Ned?”
    “Should be in London.”
    “He plays there sometimes.”
    Silence. As if he knew I was wondering why he was there, Corelli said, “I came to see the father.”
    “Mazzanti? Do you have business with him?”
    He shook his head. He was still dressed in his heavy coat, even in the stifling theatre, and still did not appear to be sweating. “I am intrigued. He was the fellow shot at, wasn’t
he? I was there when he was attacked in London.”
    “In Drury Lane? You didn’t see the attacker?”
    He laughed. “Half the world was there! The theatres had just turned out and the street was crowded. The villain lost himself in the crowds. And everyone was fussing over the victim, or
running for cover.”
    I watched Mazzanti gesturing Ned and Mr Keregan further back on the stage. “I can understand why someone might take offence at him.”
    “A man of no talent making a living from those that do,” Corelli said. I thought I heard a trace of bitterness in his voice.
    “Julia has no talent.”
    “Her mother does. She has a magnificent voice – do you think Handel would have accepted anything less?”
    “I’m surprised she hasn’t sung more for him.”
    Corelli laughed, showing white teeth. “Mazzanti got too greedy and the great man wouldn’t take it. Handel’s a great composer but a greater businessman – Mazzanti’s
demands would have bankrupted him!”
    So Mazzanti had been the architect of his own downfall. That did not surprise me. “One of these attacks is going to be successful sooner or later.”
    Corelli shrugged his coat from his shoulders. “Never,” he said confidently, then smiled at my surprise. “The worst of men always live charmed lives. I hear they were burgled
last night.”
    He wanted to know all about it; he wanted to know very much, brushing off my casual dismissal and pressing me further. “It’s no use asking,” I said. “I don’t
know.” I eyed him curiously. There was something that didn’t quite smell right about him, even apart from his ludicrous name. He was good-humoured and pleasant enough but his interest
was too great for it to be casual.
    His gaze slipped from Mazzanti to Julia and back again. It was the father that interested him most, I thought, and wondered why. One possible explanation came to mind. Mazzanti would certainly
have creditors who might be getting impatient for their money; it would not have surprised me if Corelli had been sent by one of them. He would naturally be interested if anyone was threatening
Mazzanti and might kill him before his debts were paid.
    For the first time, he wafted a hand across his face as if to cool himself. “You look like a busy man,” he said.
    I did not dignify that with a reply.
    “I