A Derek Playfair Mystery
by Sir Desmond Stirling
Chapter 4
‘No no no no’
There was the sound of a script being thrown to the ground, and Knowle St Giles erupted from his little pool of light in the stalls. He stomped to the stage.
‘Northfield, I told you,’ he shouted, ‘this scene has to go. It slows down the action and will give the kids the screaming ab-dabs. Hell, it creeps me out. We can’t have our audience literally wetting itself. Not with two shows a day, we’ll never gets the damn seats dried.’
Northfield marched downstage, his eyes blazing. I was jolly glad I wasn’t their target. The spot automatically fixed itself on him.
‘And I say it stays!’
‘I’m the bloody director!’ roared St Giles. ‘And I say it goes!’
Northfield actually stamped his foot. ‘No!
St Giles looked around. ‘So what do the rest of you think?
Most of the cast looked horrified at being put on the spot. They stared downwards and mumbled noncommittally. Only the two girls – Denise and Duracella – rushed downstage.
‘We think it should stay!’ screeched Denise.
‘It’s integral to the story,’ said Duracella.
Knowle was obviously taken aback by this support, but he stood his ground.
‘And I say it goes,’ he stated firmly. ‘It’s inappropriate and it drags the show to a standstill.’
Northfield lifted his hand and made a strange gesture at St Giles.
The director folded his arms. ‘That’s my final word. Now, we’re running out of time. We’ll take the end of the act as read and we’ll pick up from the top of Act 2.’
He returned to his seat.
Northfield stood still, downstage, still picked out by the spot. The two girls looked at him. He dismissed them with a gesture. They fled offstage where the rest of the cast had already retreated.
Northfield closed his eyes and started muttering something to himself, much as he had done in the bar the night before. Abruptly, he stopped, glared once more at Knowle, and stomped offstage.
I slunk back into my box, both embarrassed and fascinated by that little contretemps. Most theatrical tiffs are rightfully dramatic but then forgotten about moments later. But the fury on Northfield’s face had unnerved me. If he had an agent he’d have been on the phone to him right now. But as he didn’t have one I hadn’t a clue what his next move would be. He was an amateur after all.
I agreed with Knowle St Giles. It was an upsetting scene, far too strong for the little ones. And as I told all my clients, for good or ill, the director’s word is law. Even when they’re shits.
I needed a drink but I didn’t want to attract attention by moving – we’d had quite enough drama, thank you very much – so I settled back in my box and contemplated all that had happened so far. This wasn’t over – not by a long chalk.
The second act proceeded. It started smoothly enough. To my surprise Northfield took part – I’d expected him to withdraw in a sulk, amateur that he was. But he seemed less sure of himself. He struggled with lines and moves, almost as though he’d never properly rehearsed the second act.
We then had Sparkwell’s comedy routine with his vent dummy. She was supposed to be a gypsy crone. It was probably the most hideous vent I’d ever seen; a hook nose, snaggly teeth, and pop eyes, she looked more like an evil witch than a fortune-teller. Still, his vent skills were frightfully good and the banter amused. But obviously this sequence required audience participation so Knowle pretended to be a child who’d been pushed up to the stage to have his palm read.
And this is where things turned unpleasant. Knowle didn’t clamber on the stage, he remained at the front of the stalls.
His contribution to the banter was disinterested, but as most children tend to clam up in that situation it didn’t hurt. But when it came to his fortune being told, a chill shot through the theatre, and I’m convinced the lights darkened.
“Shall I tell ‘ee yer fortune, young master?’ cackled the old crone. ‘Cross me palm with silver then.’
‘He doesn’t have any silver,’ said Sparkwell to his dummy, exasperatedly. ‘He’s a young lad. He might have a Malteser.’
‘Me powers only work when I’ve been paid,’ the fortune teller replied.
‘You’ve got a good Union then,’ said Sparkwell.
I guffawed quietly to myself. Very topical! Unions were currently causing havoc with their ridiculous demand for fair wages and safety. The dads in the audience would appreciate that joke, even if they would have to explain it to their wives.
‘Go on, it’s Christmas,’ said Sparkwell. ‘Give him his fortune.’
‘Very well,’ screeched the old crone. ‘He can owe me.’
And this is where it went jolly weird. The dummy closed its eyes and let out a long moan. When it next spoke the voice was quite different. I was initially impressed by Sparkwell’s versatility, but not by what the dummy said.
It pointed its boney finger down at Knowle st Giles, the eyes lit up a fiery red, and in a man’s voice, familiar but not Sparkwell’s, said…
‘It’s Christmas time, there’s no need to be afraid,
Oh yes there is, for your crimes you must be paid,
Father Christmas won’t be visiting you this year,
Instead you’ll end up with your throat cut, underneath the pier.’
Knowle looked up sharply.
‘Not funny, Sparkwell!’
Sparkwell looked as shocked as I felt. ‘I didn’t say that, Mr St Giles, that wasn’t my voice!’
‘Then whose voice was it if not yours?’ Knowle asked, scathingly.
Sparkwell shook his head. His mouth flapped open, but no words came out, much like his dummy now which lay slumped in his lap, the eyes their usual wooden blue.
The rest of the cast were peering out from the wings to see what the delay was.
‘Come on, we’re running out of time,’ snapped Knowle impatiently. ‘Let’s get this over with, and Sparkwell, don’t push your luck.’
Sparkwell snatched his hand out of the dummy and staggered offstage, looking with fear at his dummy as if he’d never seen it before.
I for one was convinced that Sparkwell was telling the truth and that that hadn’t been his voice. But whose…? I recognised it, I thought, but couldn’t readily identify it.
Knowle clapped his hands and shouted, ‘Onwards!’ The musicians struck up a tune -well, of sorts – and the Dress recommenced. I caught a glimpse of Northfield in the wings. He was smirking.
The rest of the Dress passed uneventfully. It wasn’t very good. The cast were distracted and nervous. They gabbled their lines, rocketing themselves towards the finale as if their lives depended on it. Perhaps they did? Only Northfield seemed composed although his performance was mediocre at best. Even when his villainous Demon King was vanquished he showed no emotion, just a bored contempt, like a disgraced politician who knows that the punishment being meted out is nothing to worry about and that his place in the House of Lords is assured.
But I was very proud of Compton. He performed marvels with rather naff material and unhelpful circumstances. I just hoped he was going to get through the run without diving into the nearest whisky bottle. I doubted that I would manage it.
After the Dress finished, I didn’t hang around for the notes. I sent a message backstage to Compton that I would see him in the foyer. I had plenty of time until my train and while I couldn’t wait to flee Heelmouth and start my Christmas partying properly, I felt uneasy about abandoning poor old Pauncefoot.
While lurking in the foyer I met the manager of the theatre. He was a dwarf called Grendel O’Malley. He’d been part of a famous troupe called the The Pocket-Size Pals and, during a summer season headlined by Hope and Keen with Clodagh Rodgers, he’d fallen in love with a local girl and had remained behind, easily earning himself that manager job as no one else in the business wanted to live in Heelmouth.
I introduced myself and he invited me into his office for a snifter. I warmed to him immediately. He had a twinkle in his eye and an obvious love of the theatre. I asked him for his thoughts about the panto. He shook his head.
‘People here are desperate for theatre and they’ll flock to see this,’ he said. ‘But it’s not much cop, is it. Your chap is good,’ he added hastily, ‘but otherwise…’
‘Some of the casting is a bit rum,’ I suggested tentatively. ‘That Northfield cove…’
Grendel snorted. ‘They had no choice.’
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘No Northfield, no show.’ He enjoyed my puzzlement. ‘He’s paying for the whole thing.’
My eyebrows whizzed up so high that they briefly joined my Afro.
‘He’s the producer?’ I gasped.
‘Not quite, but he’s the main backer.’
‘Then why…?’ I quickly filled Grendel in about the confrontation during the Dress. ‘Northfield could’ve pulled rank far more than he did.’
Grendel poured me another drink. He was rapidly becoming my favourite theatre manager of all time. ‘I’ll tell you something even odder. Northfield chose Knowle `St Giles as director.’
I goggled at him. ‘But they obviously can’t stand each other!’
Grendel laughed and slugged back his drink.
‘What on earth is going on here?’ I said. ‘What have I dumped poor old Compton in?’
Grendel looked pensive. ‘The whole thing makes me very uneasy, but I can’t put my finger on why.’
I made a snap decision. ‘Could I have a seat for tonight?’ I asked Grendel. ‘I was planning to get the train later, but 12 hours extra won’t hurt me.
Not only did the little darling offer me a comp, but also arranged for a telegram to be sent to my hosts, explaining my delay. I don’t know why I had decided to stay for the first night, I just had… an inkling…
Something heavy was going down and this cat wasn’t splitting!
Fortuitously I had booked an extra night at the hotel, not intending to stay, just so I didn’t have to check out too early. I freshened up, put on my lilac velvet dinner suit with matching cummerbund, my enormous bow tie, polished my 3 inch stacked heel Chelsea boots, gargled with brandy, and I was ready for the first night. There was a pre-show drinkies do for local dignitaries to which Grendel had invited me. I hadn’t told Compton I would be around. I didn’t want to add to his first night butterflies by my unexpected presence.
While I was titivating myself ready for the evening, my brain was whirring at the events so far. Nothing made sense, and I was worried that I was approaching the whole situation from the wrong angle. I may be a groovy chap with a modern outlook, but I’m still a hard-headed businessman. I may dig peace and love, but I don’t buy into the whole ‘Age of Aquarius’ jazz. While Northfield was one creepy dude, he was no more than a clever conjurer. I couldn’t see what his motives were for paying for this panto, I guessed it was for some self-aggrandisement. Maybe it was just to impress the chicks? Nothing impresses an actress more than paying for a show in which she can star, but Northfield didn’t strike me as a cat who was motivated by the ‘happenings’ in his British Homes Stores Y-fronts.
The pier had been lit up properly and looked gayer and more enticing than it had done the night before. The snow had stopped, but there was a thick crunchy layer on the ground, and more threatened later. A steady stream of people were walking towards the theatre so it looked like there could be a gratifyingly healthy audience.
Grendel was in the foyer, smart in his – presumably bespoke – dinner jacket. He grabbed me and led me into a corner.
‘Knowle St Giles gone missing,’ he hissed. ‘Left the theatre after giving notes, and hasn’t been since.’
I shrugged. ‘Probably had enough and quit town. He’s an amateur, I could sense it a mile off, and doesn’t care if he’s letting his cast down.‘
Grendel still looked worried. ‘It’s outrageous. A director not staying for his first night.’
‘They’re probably better off without him.’ I said.
Grendel led me to the theatre bar, a tiny little room, ringed by portholes overlooking the sea. Fairy lights were draped across the bar, and a young barmaid was pouring glasses of Babycham. She was a pretty little thing, her attractive face marred by a frown of concentration as she measure out the drinks. I flashed her the Playfair smile and she inevitably melted.
There was a small group of people in there, the local dignitaries, I assumed. The first person I met introduced himself as the local chief of police, although I gathered that he was actually the local sergeant with just a constable beneath him. I couldn’t imagine that Heelmouth warranted a full force. About 50 years old, a small moustache above his pursed lips, he was wearing his uniform with gleaming buttons and boots so polished I could see a reflection of the contents of his nostrils in them. Self-important, I surmised, but not good enough to earn promotion.
Next, I was introduced to Dr Hamish MacHamish, the local GP. A handsome man in his mid-50s, silver mane of hair swept back from his face, twinkling eyes, perfect – if obvious – casting. His wife, a somewhat blowsy woman, with ill-applied make-up, was already drunk. I hoped she would fall asleep during the show and not heckle. I saw the doctor surreptitiously shake his head as the barmaid approached with the tray of Babycham; however, his wife without turning her head reached out and grabbed a fresh glass.
There was also the Mayor and his wife, a couple of such wretched tedium and mousiness that I refuse to bore you with a description. They were exactly what a town like Heelmouth deserved.
It was only a few minutes until curtain up when a young policeman entered the bar and approached the Sergeant. He whispered something into his superior’s ear. The Sergeant looked startled. He in turn whispered something to the Doctor who nodded. They both made for the exit. The Doctor turned before leaving and excused himself, claiming that duty called and he hoped to see us all in the interval.
Grendel looked mightily peeved at losing two of his dignitaries.
Actually, he lost three as I slipped quietly out after the two men.
I exited the theatre foyer. The Doctor and the two policeman were staring over the railings of the pier at the beach below. They walked back down the pier, yours truly in their wake. I followed them as they made their way onto the beach where a small crowd of people were gathered by one of the pier supports. As the three men approached the crowd parted… to reveal someone laying prone on the beach, covered in a light sprinkling of snow. I hurried to catch them up, arriving just as the Doctor squatted down and turned the body face upwards.
It was the director Knowle St Giles!
Chapter 5
Knowle St Giles lay dead on the beach, his corpse dusted with snow reddened by the blood which flowed from the wound in his throat…
The Sergeant asked if anyone recognised the victim.
‘I do,’ I said and identified him.
‘We must stop the show,’ the Sergeant said. ‘We need to interview all the cast.’
‘Nonsense, man,’ I said. You’ll cause a freak out, and then all the audience will flock down here to rubberneck, destroying the crime scene.’
The Sergeant flung away his cigarette and grudgingly agreed. He told his constable to ring the police station at the next town along to get some reinforcements. The constable said he didn’t have any money for the phone box on him. The Sergeant let out an exasperated huff and started to berate his minion. I abhor parsimony so I stumped up a tuppenny piece.
The Doctor stood and wiped his hands on his handkerchief.
‘His throat was slit,’ he proclaimed, somewhat redundantly.
‘Can you tell what sort of implement was used, Doctor?’ I asked. ‘Or will that require a full autopsy?’
I could tell the Sergeant was annoyed by the ease at which I was taking over the investigation, but frankly I’d probably been involved in more murder inquiries than he ever had in this dreary little town.
‘A sharp knife it will have been,’ the Sergeant stated, ‘Don’t need an autopsy to tell us that.’
‘Not a knife, Sergeant,’ the Doctor said gravely. ‘That cut was made by claws!’
I was so glad I’d changed my plans. I would have been furious if I’d missed out on all this. A juicy murder mystery trumps crackers and turkey any day.
‘You were at the Dress Rehearsal, Playfair,’ said the Doctor. ‘Did anyone threaten the victim?’
‘Just a dummy.’
The Doctor raised his eyebrows. I quickly explained what had occurred.
‘Sounds like this Sparkwell fellow is the main suspect,’ the Sergeant claimed.
I shook my head, dislodging the snow which had landed on my Afro.
‘No, if anyone in that company is responsible, I would stake my entire agency on it being Northfield,’ I countered. ‘I’ve no idea how, but he’s a clever cat. And a dangerous one.’
The constable returned from the phone box and informed his boss that policemen from the neighbouring town were on the way along with an ambulance, and also that the CID had been informed.
‘We don’t need CID, thank you very much,’ barked the Sergeant. ‘I am more than capable of solving a murder on my own patch.’
I doubted that, but said nothing. The Doctor suggested that we get out of the cold and back into the theatre. The Sergeant told the poor Constable to guard the body until the reinforcements arrived. The Constable’s lips trembled, whether from the cold or the thought of being left on this dark beach with a freshly-murdered body.
The Doctor, the Sergeant and I returned to the theatre bar. I told Grendel what had occurred. He looked shocked and immediately poured us all tots of whisky.
‘How’s the show going?’ I asked Grendel.
‘Well,’ he said, unable to hide his surprise.
He took me to the back of the auditorium. Not a bad house; not full, but healthy. Compton and Sparkwell were indulging in some badinage on stage. It all looked more colourful and joyous than it had that afternoon. Perhaps they just needed releasing from the baleful presence of poor old St Giles to unleash the proper pantomime spirit? I wondered what would happen when they reached the Demon King’s big scene. If, as I suspected, Northfield knew that Knowle was no longer an obstacle would he perform the full unexpurgated routine? And what would happen then…?
A shiver ran down my spine. I knocked back the whisky.
I checked my watch. By my estimation, that scene would occur in about 35 minutes time. I knew there was no point in recruiting the Sergeant’s help. He was a typical provincial Plod, unimaginative and close-minded, who had already dismissed me due to my threads and hair.
I watched the panto unfold, heart in my mouth. When Northfield Loveday made his first entrance, I gripped the rail at the back of the auditorium. This wasn’t the mousey man I had met in the bar last night. In his stage rags and ornate make-up he exuded an evil aura. The audience sensed it too, and the sense of fun which had pervaded the theatre chilled.
I was drenched in sweat despite the arctic temperature. What was going to happen?
Northfield moved to centre-stage and raised his arms. The lights dimmed, leaving the stage bathed in an eerie glow. Northfield clicked his fingers and suddenly he was ringed by a circle of flickering black candles. Nifty effect… if it was an effect.
As happened this afternoon, I was convinced that the temperature dropped sharply; suddenly I could see my breath as it left my mouth.
Northfield threw off his stage rags to reveal his gleaming crimson-lined robe, far superior to anything afforded by a flea-bitten production such as this. Northfield threw back his head and started to chant loudly in what I presumed was Latin. Too many years had passed since I was an altar boy so I hadn’t the foggiest what he was saying, although judging by the murderous expression on his face, it wasn’t ‘Why does a brown cow give white milk when it only eats green grass?’
A small red light appeared on the stage floor which quickly grew.
‘Come, my acolytes, come dance for me!’ roared Northfield, at which point several members of the cast – led by Denise and Duracella – rushed onto stage in the altogether and began to cut a very suggestive rug around the red light on the stage.
Now I’ll admit I was the first in the queue to see Hair, opera glasses ready, and I’m looking forward to the first night of Oh Calcutta, but this was a bit much for a provincial panto. You could see everything, and the writhing didn’t exactly draw one’s attention away from the wobbling parts. I expected to hear at the very least a lot of tut-tutting from the audience, never mind a bellow of disapproval, but instead the audience collectively leaned forward, licking their lips. Dirty provincial peasants!
I was distracted by a commotion coming from just behind me. It was the Sergeant.
‘Hello hello hello , what’s all this then?’ he yelled and started to march down the aisle. ‘None of that! This is a respectable town. Put your clothes back on.’ I think he even waved his truncheon. Everyone ignored him. ‘I’m telling you, cover yourselves up, you filthy animals.’ At which point he fell over, tripped, I suspect, by an audience member sticking their leg out into the aisle. I started to go to his aid, but Grendel stopped me. He pointed at the stage. The red light had become a hole in the stage floor from which emanated clouds of filthy smoke, the stench of which we could smell even from the back of the auditorium. The naked dancers got even more frenzied as Northfield’s big red hole widened. The Demon King’s chanting became more strident and his eyes glowed eerily.
‘Now we know why Northfield went to all this trouble,’ I whispered to Grendel. ‘It was for this. Some sort of mad ritual.’
Grendel nodded. ‘And it needed the presence of an audience. Look at them.’
The audience were swaying rhythmically from side to side, arms aloft, moaning quietly to themselves.
‘He’s hypnotised the lot of them!’ I gasped.
‘He may be an amateur,’ admitted Grendel, ‘But not even many pro’s can do that.’
Someone shushed us.
I dragged Grendel into the foyer. ‘But why here? Why now?’ I puzzled aloud.
‘Think about it,’ urged Grendel. ‘Why Heelmouth? There’s no River Heel. It must be a corruption of Hellmouth.’
‘You mean…?’
‘I’m guessing that directly below this theatre there is a direct opening to Hell itself!’
Chapter 6
I gasped at the little man’s deduction. It seemed ludicrous, but I couldn’t deny the evidence of what I had just seen.
‘So what can we do?’ I was unafraid to admit I felt out of my depth here. I had solved many murders and robberies in my time, but, vulgar as they were, they were rooted in the here and now. For all my beads and general grooviness, I was still a hard-headed businessman, ill-equipped to fight the forces of darkness.
Grendel shook his head. ‘The nearest I’ve got to black magic is playing Sneezy in Snow White at the Bodmin Alhambra a few years back.’
‘Let’s see what’s happening onstage,’ I suggested.
We crept back into the auditorium. The audience were still swaying and moaning in their hypnotised state. Foul-smelling smoke was filling the theatre as it escaped the hole on the stage which was now a diameter of about six foot. Northfield stood on the edge of the chasm, beckoning with his hands, a manic smile on his face.
‘Come, I command you, Krampus’ he cackled.
Grendel gasped. ‘Krampus!’
I was none the wiser.
‘He’s a sort of Christmas Daemon,’ Grendel explained. ‘Like the dark side of Father Christmas. When I was a kid, we were told that if we weren’t good, not only would we not get any presents, but that the Krampus would gobble us up.’
‘Hmm,’ I said, ‘I can well imagine that there are enough naughty people in a Heelmouth audience to feed the average daemon.’
Northfield was still cajoling his Hadean brute. ‘Unshackle yourself from the uterus of Hell and crawl through the infernal cervix to this craven world,’ he urged. ‘I have food for you.’ He gestured at the audience.
I didn’t like the sound of that.
An unholy roar erupted from the chasm and a giant scaly claw appeared, covered in a red warty skin with leather talons, clinging to the rim. Northfield’s face grew even more manic. He shouted something to his acolytes, and they increased their frenzied dancing.
‘I have to do something,’ I yelled at Grendel above the racket.
‘But what?’ he asked, quite reasonably.
‘Not a clue,’ I replied, and started to make my way down the side aisle towards the stage. I didn’t look behind me to see if he was following. I couldn’t blame him if he weren’t.
I was halfway down the aisle when I noticed a new arrival on stage. It was Compton.
My heart sank. Compton was staggering, clutching a large, half-empty bottle of whisky to his amply-padded bosom. The events of the past 24 hours had cracked him and the foolish chap was suckling at the nipple of the bottle again.
Compton ground to a halt and tried to focus on what was occurring in front of him.
‘I don’t remember this from rehearsals,’ he slurred. He looked out at the audience and waved.
‘Hello, everybody, it’s me Mother Goose again.’
The audience, still in their hypnotic fervour, ignored him.
This peeved Compton. He waved his bottle at the. ‘Oi, don’t ignore me, you rude sods. I’m the title character, for Christ’s sake.’
Usually I’d be very cross at this outrageous behaviour which would’ve got him sacked, not just from the show, but my agency. But at least his ranting was distracting Northfield.
‘Begone!’ the villainous magus hissed. He turned his attention to the owner of the claw again. ‘Come, Krampus, be born into this feeble world. I have carrion for you to feast on. A whole theatre of carrion!’
‘Don’t you ‘begone’ me, you bitch,’ Compton spat at him. ‘It’s all your fault. You’ve ruined this production, you steaming great amateur and your hopeless tart, whatzername.’ He suddenly spotted Denise as she writhed around the chasm. ‘Ooh, she’s got no knickers on!’ He peered myopically at her. ‘Not impressed by that arse at all. Seen better cushioning on the Woolwich tram.’ He swigged from the bottle. ‘Is this a private orgy or can anyone join in?’ he giggled.
Northfield was getting angry. ‘Silence, you prattling ham, or I will destroy you.’
Compton pulled a mock-shocked face at the audience. ‘Did you hear that? The nerve! Who are you calling a ham, you… you… dabbler.’
At which Compton, swinging his bottle, his torso bulked up with massively artificial knockers, rushed into Northfield, who unprepared for this onslaught, tried to push Compton away, but lost his balance and, with a horrified scream, fell into the chasm.
Compton fell back on his well-upholstered arse and sat, dazed.
I then saw with a thrill of horror that the Claw was still there and the the Krampus was getting an even firmer grip on the stage.
The dancers continued their dervish whirling for a while, then Duracella saw that Northfield was no longer there. She screamed and rushed to the edge of the Pit, staring forlornly down into the infernal abyss. With an even louder shriek Denise joined her. Duracella made as if to climb down into that dreaded hole, but before anyone could stop her, the Krampus flexed its repellent fingers and knocked both girls down and they plummeted after their doomed Master.
I leapt onto the stage and shouted into the wings at the DSM (Deputy Stage Manager for those of you who aren’t in the Biz) and yelled, ‘drop the song sheet’. He looked somewhat shell-shocked, poor darling, but give him his due, he did exactly that with the quick-thinking and fortitude which is the backbone of the British theatre.
‘It’s from the carol concert last Sunday,’ he yelled at me. ‘The panto didn’t have one.’
I gave him the thumbs up, and the sheet dropped with a thud.
I hauled Compton up on his feet and shouted into his befuddled ear, ‘Come on, old love, we’re getting this lot singing.’
I hot-footed it downstage (avoiding the fiery Pit and the claw which was getting more of a grip on the stage) and with a quick soft shoe shuffle (haven’t lost it, even though it’s years since I last trod the boards) I shouted, ‘Come on everybody, it’s time for a sing-song!’
I gestured frantically at the musicians in the pit (who I don’t think had noticed all the kerfuffle on stage thanks to their decrepitude and, if my prior experience of musicians is anything to go by, inebriation). They stared at the song sheet and struck up. I glanced backwards at the sheet, approved of the choice, and grabbed Compton. I snatched his bottle off him and when he protested, told him he’d get it back when we’d finished the song.
He lurched downstage and, his wig still akimbo, started to sing, all the while giving the audience encouraging hand gestures to join in.
‘Oh come all ye faithful…!’ we began, both of us in different keys, with the band in a further one that I suspect had never been previously identified by any respectable musicologist.
‘Joyful and triumphant!’
The audience, conditioned in their trance to respond to instructions from the stage, began to chant along; neither joyfully nor triumphantly, it must be said, but…
‘Look!’ I shouted at Compton, not that he would have twigged what I meant. ‘Krampus is losing his grip!’
I’d had an inkling that a bit of Christmas joy might do the trick.
‘Come on everybody,’ I loudly urged the audience. ‘With gusto, boys, with gusto!’ I encouraged the band.
‘Sing, damn you!’ I ordered Northfield’s acolytes who were still thrashing about in their birthday suits.
‘Oh, come let us adore him…!’
We sang our hearts out; I with the desperation of someone who wants to defeat the powers of darkness, Compton with the enthusiasm of an old piss artist.
And with a crescendo of ‘Oh Come let us adore him…’ the claws of the Krampus lost their grip on the stage and slipped into the Pit with a hideous scream. The hole in the stage closed up immediately and within seconds there was no trace that it had ever been there.
The audience started to snap slowly out of their collective trance and stare around in a confused fashion. Fortunately, this is England so there was no hysteria. Everyone just assumed they’d fallen asleep which is a natural thing to do in a theatre. They rubbed their eyes and looked at the stage, wondering where the story had got up to.
Northfield’s wretched dancers slowly came to their senses, realised they were on stage without a stitch on, and ran sheepishly into the wings.
Grendel approached, looking it has to be said, somewhat shell-shocked. I expect he would’ve said the same about yours truly.
‘Well…’ was all he was able to say.
‘I know,’ was my wholly inadequate response.
We took in the audience, slowly coming to life again like wasps after a frost. They all gaped at the stage, unsure if the panto had finished.
I nudged Grendel. ‘ I think you’d better make an announcement, old thing.’
He looked at me, horrified. ‘What do I say?’
I shrugged. ‘Something like… one of the cast has been taken ill. Off them a replacement ticket for later in the run.’
‘What run?’ asked Grendel. ‘The villain has fallen to everlasting torment.’
‘Oh, I can find you someone,’ I replied airily. ‘And if we get enough black coffee down Compton’s throat, he can take over the direction.’
Epilogue
‘BANG!’
‘The first cracker I’ve pulled in donkey’s years,’ squealed Compton, rummaging excitedly for his paper hat.
Grendel and his lovely wife Nutella – blonde, 6ft 2, a former Miss Whitley Bay (1962) – had kindly invited Compton and me for Christmas lunch in their sweet, but bijou bungalow overlooking the sea front; the pier and its theatre an omnipresent vista from the window. I’d contacted my original hosts who were sweetly sending their chauffeur to fetch me later on, although I knew I’d have to cough up one hell of a tip to mollify the poor peak-capped sod for losing his Christmas Day to the M1.
The previous evening we’d left the local Plod to clean up the mess. The audience were all so dazed that they were of no use as witnesses. Grendel and I were a bit vague in our statements too, partly because we weren’t sure what the hell we’d seen, but also because we didn’t want to be dragged to the funny farm.
But they had a corpse and two missing actresses to investigate, not to mention Northfield Loveday himself, although preliminary investigations had turned up no records of anyone with that name. I wanted to tell the Fuzz to cool their boots, that this case was one that they’d never crack, and they might as well just file it under ‘Freaky Unsolved Shit.’
After my enthusiasm of the previous night, the future of the panto was now uncertain. Half the cast had scarpered, the villain and the principal boy and girl had all vanished mysteriously, and the director had had his throat sliced open. You can’t buy that kind of publicity, but assembling a new cast over Christmas and rehearsing them would take time. It would be new year by the time the show was ready.
But then Compton reminded me that he had his one-man show ‘Out Damn Spot – and Other Shakespearean Dogs!’ If he did it in drag and added a few sing-songs it would make an ideal Christmas entertainment, particularly for the good burghers of Heelmouth who wouldn’t know any better. Frankly, if it kept Compton off the sauce, it was fine by me. His brief fall from the wagon last night didn’t seem to have troubled him – not even a trace of a hangover!
There was a toot-toot sound from outside.
‘That’s my ride,’ I said , removing the napkin from my shirt and my paper crown from my head. I stood up.
‘Well, it’s certainly been a different Christmas, I can categorically confirm that!’ I stated unnecessarily, shaking hands with Grendel and kissing his red-hot stunner of a wife. Down boy, I sternly warned myself.
‘Thank you, my darlings, for your hospitality.’
I hugged Compton who had a mouthful of mince pie which he hastily swallowed.
‘Happy new year, old thing,’ I said. ‘Send me telegram when you’ve decided what you’re going to do. Otherwise, give me a bell when you get back to London.’
‘Oh, I think I’ll stay here for a while,’ Compton said in a voice not quite his own. With a shiver, I realised it was a pitch-perfect impression of Northfield Loveday’s voice. ‘I have unfinished business.’ And I could’ve sworn that, briefly, his eyes glowed.
The car horn sounded again. I looked at Compton who gave me a big kiss on the lips, quite his old self.
‘Have a dolly new year with your posh chums,’ Compton said in his own voice, picking up another mince pie from the plate.
Grendel saw me to the door while Compton helped Nutella with crockery gathering.
‘Keep an eye on him,’ I warned Grendel as I collected my suitcase.
‘Any reason?’ My new short chum asked.
‘He’s been through a lot,’ I replied. ‘Don’t want him back on the sauce.’
Grendel nodded, and we shook hands again.
‘I think we’re going to meet again, my diminutive chum,’ I told him. ‘We make a good team.’
Grendel beamed. ‘Happy new year, Derek,’ he said.
The chauffeur took my case and held the car door open for me. A 1937 Bentley, very nice. Should be a smooth enough ride for a snooze.
If only I could get that glow in Compton’s eyes out of my mind…
THE END
You can hear Sir Desmond narrate this story here
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Written by Anthony Keetch
(c) Anthony Keetch 2022