Dread Murder by Gwendoline Butler

tonight.’
    â€˜What’s a walk-on?’
    â€˜No dialogue. You just go on and follow the crowd.’
    â€˜Will there be a crowd?’
    â€˜Well, not much of one.’ It was all being done on the cheap. In fact, Charlie might be the crowd.
    â€˜Do I get paid?’
    She told him how much, and he nodded as if satisfied. She saw the approval flash in his eyes. ‘Just one night,’ she said quickly. ‘You can’t count on the theatre as an earner.’
    Depends where you start from, was what Charlie thought. A day walking-on paid better than a week in the blacking factory.
    â€˜It’s the writer who makes the money,’ said the actress. ‘A play can go on for years.’
    â€˜Like Shakespeare,’ said Charlie thoughtfully. The play that night was Macbeth. He knew about Shakespeare; his mother used to recite passages, flirting with her big eyes. He had not admired her performance, however.
    â€˜You don’t have to be Shakespeare.’ Miss Fairface thought of all the poor romances and comedies in which she had appeared that had run and run. ‘Just give the audience what it wants. You have to find that out, of course, or stumble on it by luck by finding a hole and filling it.’

    Charlie thought he would look for that hole. ‘How will I know where to go tonight?’
    â€˜Follow the stage manager; that’s Jack Eden. He’s the one with the big nose and the red hair.’ Attributes which had prevented Jack from making a success as a performer. One physical drawback you can overcome, but not two.
    Charlie had noticed the nose.
    He followed the nose later that day, down the corridors, towards the dressing rooms and the stage. Here he was stopped by a harassed-looking woman who told him all that she could allow him for the crowd scene was a cloak. ‘Which might be on the big side for you, lad.’
    The cloak was black corded silk and velvet. ‘Stand up as straight as you can, lad,’ said the wardrobe keeper. ‘Pity they couldn’t get someone taller.’ But Charlie dragged the cloak over his shoulders and gave it a kind of a tuck at his neck which shortened it.
    He soon discovered that all he had to do was walk behind Miss Fairface. He had the feeling that the stage and performing came naturally to him.
    From the front row, the Major and Denny, sitting side by side, had an excellent view. Shakespeare was not the first choice of a play to see for either man, but they had received complimentary tickets from the Manager – a man one did not scorn in Windsor social circles. Also, there was to be some conviviality on stage after the performance that the Major meant to attend.
    Denny recognised Charlie and pointed him out to the
Major. ‘That’s the messenger boy.’
    â€˜I saw him too,’ said Mearns impatiently. He had handed over a few more coins to the lad after the last delivery. You had to admire such cheek. Except it was not cheek, the Major had been around the world enough to recognise the difference. It was a kind of deep self-assurance. ‘What’s he doing here?’
    â€˜Earning. He’ll get paid.’
    The Major gave a short laugh; he felt sure the boy would get paid. ‘He ought to go home …if he’s got one.’
    He watched the performance, deciding glumly that Macbeth had not been much of a soldier and was certainly a poor leader of a country’s army. He wouldn’t blame it on the man, being a Scot; but Shakespeare he could blame. Clearly the great bard had not understood military matters.
    And as for Lady Macbeth – she was such a beauty, mad or otherwise. He could see it was a good part for such as Miss Fairface.
    He watched Macbeth advance across the stage to his wife.
    â€˜If I’d had him in the army, I’d have made him carry himself better than that,’ he thought as he looked. ‘Not sure if her ladyship likes his lordship very well