38

“You know there are graphologists—people who can match a person’s handwriting,” said Phipps, holding the death threat in the air.

“Tom, please hide that note.” Layton didn’t like the fact that Phipps was waving the note around at the theatre.

To Phipps’s delight, Layton had taken him to the backstage of the Queen’s while the show was going on. Layton could tell that the architect was thrilled to see the show from this vantage point, with all the hustle and bustle of the show’s operation. He was fascinated by the sight of the performers waiting for their turn and the stagehands raising cloths and moving props. He insisted on bringing the note with him in the hopes of coming across anything with similar handwriting. He even began asking the performers for their autographs to find a link. He looked about for notes that stagehands may have written. On the rear brick wall of the backstage was a chalkboard marked with daily instructions, and he examined it for similarities.

Layton saw no hope in all that. The note was deliberately done in crude, oversize block letters. It would be impossible to trace, but he liked Phipps too much to throw cold water on his idea.

At the moment, Phipps wasn’t interested in handwriting analysis. With a smile stretched ear to ear, he was standing next to Layton, watching the act that was on the stage. An attractive middle-aged woman stood near them with a stopwatch in her hand.

“Every morning, me mum would get up at six, eat her breakfast, and go to work. Then me brother Tom would get up and go. At half past six, me brother Charlie would go to work. Then at seven, me dad would get up. By that time, I had the bed all to meself.” A ripple of tittering arose from the audience.

Ally Bransby, Master of Mirth, had two minutes to go in his turn. From the stage, he glanced at his wife, Sybil, who waited in the wings with a stopwatch. Layton knew that she was calculating the length of the applause after each joke, a common way of honing timing and choosing the best material.

“You know, they’re making all these ladies’ hats with bird feathers all over ’em. Now they’re making a new kind of hat with a live pigeon on top. If you don’t pay the bill, the hat flies back to the shop.”

That one got a big laugh, especially from Phipps in the wings, and Ally glowed with satisfaction. He took his call and skipped off the stage, Sybil right behind him.

“Damn you,” she was hissing. “I told you that bed joke was bollocks. It was as funny as a dog turd. And you paid ten bob for that one. That’s money down the bog!”

Ally grimaced and slunk away. The minute his makeup was off, Layton thought, he was off to the Prince of York to hide from Sybil until the second show.

“Bloody fool,” Sybil screamed after him. To Layton, she said playfully, “Can you write jokes—in addition to your other artistic talents, Frank?” She reached up, playfully rubbing the underside of Layton’s chin as though he were a cat. When Cissie appeared behind them, Sybil quickly lowered her hand.

“On your bike, girl,” Cissie said grimly. “And tell that husband of yours that if he doesn’t get funnier, he’ll be playing the Alhambra—the one in the middle of Australia.”

The orchestra was playing “College Life,” a march that was all the rage in Britain. The audience was caught up, clapping along to the lively tune.

Out from stage left came Helen McCoy, the Piccadilly Lilly. The crowd roared. She lifted her dress to expose her pretty ankles and two-stepped expertly across the stage. The crowd, especially the men, exploded with joy. The orchestra repeated the tune, as they sometimes did when the audience seemed particularly enchanted.

Finally, the song ended. Helen waited patiently for the applause to die down before beginning her first song, “I Want What I Want When I Want It.”

By this time, Layton had seen many acts come and go. Very few performers were able to forge a truly special bond between themselves and the audience. Helen was one who could. There was definitely an electric wire connecting her and the audience. As she piped up her energy, the house in turn piped up theirs. And her voice was lovely, dulcet and clear, never straining for notes, and always full of emotion.

Halfway through “I’m Trying to Find a Sweetheart,” shouting erupted from the rear of the theatre’s main level. Variety performers were accustomed to disruptions from drunks and hecklers, and at first, Helen ignored the noise. But the shouting increased, and the audience began to rumble angrily. Who dared interrupt the beautiful young singer?

Along the side aisle of the stalls came a bald man in his sixties, wearing evening dress and a top hat. Some men rose from their seats and tried to grab him, but he bulled by until he reached the orchestra pit.

“You get the hell down from there this minute, Gladys!” he shouted.

Helen stopped singing and stared at the man in disbelief.

“You’re the daughter of the Earl of Suttonfield. No child of mine will disgrace our name by going onstage!”

The entire auditorium erupted in anger. People were booing and hissing the old man. Men from the stalls and a male usher caught hold of the Earl of Suttonfield and tried to drag him away, but it took six men to make him move—barely. His face beet red, saliva spraying from his mouth with every shout, the earl kept screaming at Helen, who stood paralyzed on the stage.

“You’re a tart,” he shouted. “Parading your ankles in front of this trash!”

This classist remark further incensed the crowd, especially those in the gallery. A small group began making their way down to the main level, determined to beat the hell out of the earl.

“You’re a disgrace to our family!” he ranted on. “William the Conqueror himself granted us our lands!”

“Shove off, slaphead!”

“You toffee-nosed twit, get the hell out of here!”

Wilding, the stage manager, sprinted down the side stair to the stalls to join the melee. Layton, Cissie, the crew, and the artistes all came right out onto the stage to watch.

“If you don’t come down from there,” the earl screamed, “you’ll never set foot in Suttonfield again! Do you hear me? You’re Lady Gladys Suttonfield! You have a title to uphold! Who the hell do you think will marry a music hall singer? You’ll be a social leper, my girl!”

At last, the gang of men had the earl under control. They dragged him, kicking and screaming, to the door of the theatre and flung him out into the gutter on Shaftesbury Avenue. Thirty seconds later, the earl was back in the theatre, shouting at the top of his lungs, and had to be thrown out again.

Helen still stood, dumbfounded, on the stage, her arms hanging limp at her sides. Unsure what else to do, she turned to leave. But the audience cried out for her to continue.

“Give us a song, Helen.”

“Don’t mind what that horse’s arse said, even if he is your dad!”

“Sing, girl, sing. Sing, girl, sing. Sing, girl, sing,” chanted the crowd.

From the wings, Cissie smiled at the singer and motioned her to go back on. Helen did an about-face. At the center of the stage, she smiled brightly and bowed to the crowd. The orchestra struck up “Is Everybody Happy,” and she belted the song out proudly, the audience joining in on all the choruses.

When Helen finished, the crowd jumped to their feet and cheered like crazy.

When she walked past Layton in the wings, he caught her attention.

“Helen, meet my friend Tom Phipps. He’s the best architect in Great Britain.”

“How do you do, Mr. Phipps.”

“You have a magnificent voice, Miss McCoy. May I have the pleasure of your autograph?”