Pirate King by Laurie R. King Page B

fictional-director/apprentice pirate’s romantic interest, Mabel (Bibi presented herself as a Parisian-born American, although she was in fact a product of the East End, named Eleanor Murphy). The dual part of Bibi’s fathers—the investor/chaperone and Major-General Stanley—was filled by a red-faced and invariably tipsy Yorkshireman named Scott, a stage actor of Holmes’ era. His twelve other daughters were played by the twelve yellow-haired girls, the symmetry of whom was threatened by the growth spurt of Daughter Five, Edith—it had not been her shoes that made her seem taller, and by the start of filming she would have to bend her knees to fit between Doris and Fannie. The youngest four girls were accompanied at every moment by their mothers, who (as Hale had warned me back in London) constantly jostled for primacy.
    I had the impression that Holmes’ original idea—and perhaps Lestrade’s, although he hadn’t the courage to suggest it to my face—had been that I try out for the part of Ruth, the forty-seven-year-old Piratical Maid of All Work who fancies herself as a future wife for her young charge, Frederic. Fortunately for us all, Lestrade had come up with an alternative. My job was to make note of the commands issued by Hale, Fflytte, and Will, the chief cameraman; delete any of Fflytte’s that contradicted one of the other men; delete any of Will’s that went against Hale’s; then see to the implementation of said commands.
    Beginning with the hiring of pirates.
    I’d only had time for a single exchange of telegrams with Mr Pessoa before we set off from London, although I’d read his previous cables and letters closely. The film industry would be as new a venture for the translator-poet as it was for me; however, on the taxi over, he seemed sanguine that one industry would be much like another in its need for skilled labourers, nourishment for the overfed egos of its principals, and grease on the wheels of communication.
    But then, he hadn’t met Bibi or her dozen “sisters.” So instead of checking into my room, I abandoned my luggage and took Mr Pessoa to one side for a review of wants and needs, finding a chair close to a radiator. He took off his hat, but before I could unfold my list, he had a concern.
    “I was not given guidelines as to bodyguards.”
    “Bodyguards? Good heavens, Mr Pessoa, we’re not working with Rudolph Valentino and Mary Pickford, here. I shouldn’t think the masses of fans are going to make us need bodyguards.”
    “These are troubled times, in my country. Your ladies and gentlemen may require—”
    “If anyone needs guarding, it’s the populace, not my girls. No, our first order of business is to hire actors.”
    He shrugged, and took out a tobacco pouch to roll a cigarette. “I have hired a theatre, posted notices, and taken out advertisements announcing the casting sessions this afternoon.”
    “We don’t need a theatre, just a large room,” I protested.
    “It was inexpensive, so long as you end each day before their evening performances.”
    “How inexpensive?”
    He took a sheaf of papers from his inner pocket and showed me various figures, comparing an actual theatre (having both lights and heat) with a bare, cold warehouse. I nodded.
    “Very good, thanks. Next, as you may have been told, we’ll need the various accoutrements of pirates.”
    He looked puzzled.
    “Things like costumes and make-up—you’ll need to help Sally and Maude, two of our crew, find what they need.”
    “For pirates?”
    “Yes. Didn’t Miss Johns tell you what this picture is about?”
    “Not in detail, no.”
    “Oh, Lord. Say, I don’t suppose she mentioned to you where she was going?”
    “Your telegram was the first I knew that she was no longer with Fflytte Films.”
    “Odd. Well, do you know the comic opera The Pirates of Penzance ?”
    “I have heard of it, but not seen it.”
    Lisbon began to sound appealing. “This picture is about a moving picture company