Death and the Chaste Apprentice by Robert Barnard

expression suggested that he was long-suffering but had been pushed near the limits of even his saintly endurance.
    â€œ Now ,” he said when Terry Potts paused for breath, “is all clear? We go from there to the end of scene.”
    It was only ten minutes of music, but it seemed endless to Peter. The ensemble developed into a big scene of suspicion and suppressed fears, with every character generously sharing his innermost feelings with the audience. The problems of balance were acute, not least because of Krister Kroll’s sweet but small tenor, which was swamped by the larger voices around him. Again and again Gottlieb stopped the music, reorganized the singers, hushed the orchestra, subjected Krister Kroll to heavy, biting irony, lashed the other singers, and ridiculed members of his orchestra. Even Peter felt himself sweating with tension. It was at the height of the unpleasant session, when the frayed tempers of singers and players were beginning to conquer their fear of Gottlieb and find open expression, that Peter from the wings saw Gottlieb’s “heavy” sitting in the front row of the stalls, a slow, relishing smile on his face. He might not like music, but he certainly did appreciate aggro.
    At long, long last Gottlieb called a break, and the tension dissolved. Peter’s immediate visual impression was one of sweat. The orchestral musicians, jostling their way out through the door at the back of the pit, were shining with it, and one of the younger men seemed close to tears. The chorus members were bathed in it and wiping their foreheads, and the principals were drenched and close to the breaking point. Backstage everything became a jumble as singers and players made for the Green Room in search of cold drinks or chocolate to revive their strength. Peter was conscious of the Mexican baritone standing by a wall, clenching and unclenching his fists and muttering furiously to himself in the manner of operatic baritones. He was conscious in a far corner of the room of Krister Kroll being collared by Des Capper. Des had been in the GreenRoom when they arrived, making himself at home and waiting for a victim. The chain-saw voice cut through to Peter:
    â€œYou know, physiologically speaking there’s no such thing as a small or a large voice. It’s all a question of the diaphragm and the way you use it. If you’ll take a tip from me . . .”
    The American seemed to be a supernaturally nice person, for he was showing only small nervous signs of wanting to get away. Then Natalya Radilova arrived from the stage, and Peter darted away and took her aside.
    â€œThe message came through for you,” he said in Russian. “It was ‘Best wishes for rehearsals and the first night.’ ”
    Natalya smiled, a smile apparently out of all proportion to the banality of the message. She squeezed Peter’s hand, and they found themselves a private corner of the Green Room.
    Once the chaos there had sorted itself out into groups, Peter and Natalya found themselves joined by Krister Kroll, still wiping the sweat from his open, engaging face.
    â€œWho is that creep who got hold of me?” he demanded. “That schmuck? That smart-ass? I have never heard such crap as that guy was spouting.”
    â€œIt’s the landlord of the Saracen,” said Peter. “A loathsome Australian by the name of Capper.”
    â€œI’ve known plenty of Australian singers,” said Kroll, “and they’ve mostly been great people. But this, this—”
    â€œIt’s not the nationality, it’s the type. As with Gottlieb. Keep away from Capper. He’s poison.”
    â€œBoy, am I glad I rented an apartment. I nearly went to the Saracen this time, to treat myself. But to have that creep giving me advice about breathing all day would—”
    But he stopped, because heads were turning in the direction of the door, and conversation was stilling