Free Death and the Chaste Apprentice by Robert Barnard Page A

doesn’t speak Russian. I could see it in his face.”
    â€œNo, I don’t think so. Anyway, he’s over there.”
    And as Peter launched into an account of what had been said on the phone, he looked toward the back row of seats where Des had ensconced himself, exercising in the absence of Gunter Gottlieb his right as a member of the committee to go anywhere and see anything. He was gazing ahead of him, almost dreamily, with a smile of pure, luxuriating pleasure playing on his lips.

Chapter 6
The High Street
    P ERFORMANCES of The Chaste Apprentice of Bowe began at seven o’clock. Everything at the Ketterick Festival began early, for many members of the audience were not staying in Ketterick but came from other suburbs and were nervous about traveling on bus or underground late at night. So at six the great gates of the Saracen’s Head were closed, and the small door cut into the right-hand one was opened for the collection of tickets. Everyone, even those seated on the balconies, went through this gate, and the ticket collector stationed himself there from six onward. All the bars were closed to members of the general public until after the performance was over—enough to do to serve the players and the audience. Frank, the hotel’s commissionaire, stood by the main entrance to the hotel, to the right of the gates, to stop anyone who might try to get into the play without paying by slipping through Reception and then through the Shakespeare Bar.
    Once through the little door in the great gates, the audience, chattering and laughing and sure they were infor a rather special experience, separated up, some going to one or other of the bars, some to sit in their seats and read their programmes, some merely to sit and soak up the atmosphere of the great courtyard. Those who had seats on the balconies had directions on how to get to them on the backs of their tickets—directions which mostly added to their confusion, so indescribable were the complexities of the Saracen’s Head.
    Behind the stage, in one half of the enormous kitchen, and screened off from the rest, the actors changed. The women had the private dining room next to it, but coming and going between the two was frequent and unrestricted. Costume was important in the Ketterick plays, for splendor and variety of dress provided the feast for the eye that compensated for an otherwise bare stage. No producer—not even Jason Thark—had yet suggested a modern-dress production at Ketterick, and anyone who did would have been firmly rebuffed. The stage demanded ruffs and bodices, buskins and codpieces.
    Fish was being served in the dining room that night. The smell penetrated into the dressing rooms and provoked feeble witticisms like “Odds fish!” A limited meal was provided for the few residents not involved in the play and the richer members of the audience. Late-night snacks would also be served after the performance: lasagne, fish pie, or risotto. Most people, though, contented themselves with drinks.
    They were pleasantly busy in the Shakespeare Bar. This meant that Win Capper was run off her feet. Hair drawn back, unhealthily sallow, she somehow looked like a woman who had been run off her feet since girlhood.
    â€œDes,” she called, unusually daring, when she saw her husband going around the bar doing his Harry Bailly act among the early arrivals for the performance, “do you think you could come behind the bar and help out for a bit?”
    Brad Mallory, sitting at the bar, thought this must be an unprecedented request. He had never seen Des giving a hand at anything around the hotel except Reception. Certainly Des received the request gracelessly, casting his eye up to heaven and taking his time in getting behind the bar.
    â€œDes,” said his wife, working on an order for three different beers, “you’re going to have to come and help at Interval. I’m not going to be able to