~ No Encores ~

by

Keith Slater

The climax approached. The audience, drawn subtly but inescapably into the plot, were riveted into their seats. The two men, her husband and her lover, rivals for her favors on stage as well as off, met face to face. Slowly they circled one another warily. Then, with a crash, swords met. Lord Fitzallan snarled at the smaller man.

"So, you would steal my wife from me, would you?"

"Steal her? Release her, rather!"

"You dog! I’ll release your soul from your body!"

"Not you, sirrah! I’ll send you down to Hell first!"

Suddenly, incongruously, he did. Sir Henry Ardent lunged with the sword, and Lord Fitzallan leapt swiftly backwards. Where he landed, a yawning hole appeared in the middle of the stage.

For an instant, arms flailing, he tried to regain his balance. It was no use. With an undignified scrabbling at the edge of the hole, Lord Fitzallan vanished slowly from sight.

The silence was broken by the man behind Eleanor sniggering nervously. He stopped quickly as his wife jabbed her sharp elbow into his ribs and hushed him in a loud whisper.

There was something wrong. The audience sensed it. Gilling felt from all around the familiar sinking feeling of embarrassment when an actor dries up.

And it seemed as if all the actors had dried up. Not a move was made, nor a line spoken. The cast had frozen in the bar of the inn, glasses suspended in mid-air and merriment disappearing as abruptly as if it had been switched off.

Suddenly, the spell was broken. From the depths of the gaping hole a moan echoed and then died away in a choking sob.

It was the cue for the actors to return to life. Melodie Clere stepped forward, drew herself up to the regal stature of her full height and became Lady Fitzallan again.

"Is my husband then dead?"

"You, Stephen, see if he’s breathing still," Sir Henry commanded haughtily.

The servant holding Sir Henry’s cloak stepped carefully to the edge of the black square and solemnly peered down into it.

"He does not stir, sire. Nor do I see him drawing breath."

"There, good my lady. You are rid of all your cares."

Something was wrong. Gilling felt it in his bones. Melodie Clere was still Lady Fitzallan in her appearance and demeanor, but her voice was mechanical, and she hesitated in the delivery of the lines as she stepped toward Sir Henry.

"And you, good sir, of all your rest.

From this day forth, may torture rack your soul.

You have destroyed my life, my joy, my love.

I must withdraw my vision from this world, lest my two eyes should chance on you again.

In peaceful nunnery I’ll end my days, in forlorn hope that what has happened here may from my soul be cleansed before I die.

Should this not be, I’ll go to Hell, to follow my beloved to his peace.

For Hell itself were peaceful, ‘gainst the torment in my heart."

Slowly, majestically, Lady Fitzallan glided out of the door of the inn and off the stage. The lights dimmed slowly to complete blackness. Applause began, hesitantly at first, then welling to a tumult.

The stage lights remained dimmed for an even longer time before finally beginning to glow. The minor characters of the cast began to assemble on stage, followed by the more important ones, until Melodie and Brian Porter walked on together, hand clasped in hand as a symbol of their reconciliation off stage if not on.

There was a hint of hesitancy. The cast glanced at each other and then bowed in a ragged semblance of unity. The major characters bowed in turn, and the stage lights began to fade. The unbelievable truth hit the audience.

For the first time in a long and distinguished acting career, Lionel Quinn had failed to make an entrance.

Two

Because of Eleanor’s disability, the Gillings decided to stay in their seats until the theatre was empty. Even before the first few members of the audience had reached the exit, muffled noises from below the stage told them that Lionel Quinn was being rescued from the ignominy of his fall.

The crowd gradually thinned out as people straggled towards the double mahogany doors at the back of the auditorium, and the inspector had plenty of time to admire the ornate carved plaster of the ceiling. He’d seen it described in the local rag as a work of sublime art and, while his practical, down-to-earth mind wouldn’t have gone quite that far, it was certainly attractive.

When they could leave, Gilling helped his wife to her feet, and they moved slowly along the plush burgundy carpeting that covered the side aisle. They had almost reached the rear doors when Eleanor spoke slowly to him.

"Wasn’t that ending funny? Falling through the trapdoor like that, I mean."

He gave no sign of having heard and saw her mouth purse in exasperation at this habit of his as she lifted her pointed, determined, chin.

"Terry," she repeated. "Terry!"

"Yes?" he answered absently, still engrossed in his own private thoughts.

"Terry, you’re not listening!"

"Mmm? Yes, I am. Really. I was just wondering about the same thing."

Eleanor sighed.

"Men!"

She pulled herself together. No point in getting exasperated, because it wouldn’t have the slightest effect on Gilling.

"Do you think it was a mistake, or just a piece of symbolism that went corny on them?" she went on doggedly. "It looked real enough to me."

Gilling looked at her with an unexpectedly grim bleakness in his usually mild eyes.

"Oh, it was real all right. Whether it was intentional is another question."

Gilling smiled ruefully again at his wife’s expression. She was staggered, he saw, from the way her eyes opened wide as she looked at him in sudden surprise.

"It can’t have been. Something went wrong, or Lionel Quinn wouldn’t have missed his bow. He prides himself on never missing an entrance, or being late on one. It’s almost a religion with him."

"I hope there’s nothing seriously wrong," Gilling mused, his eyes back to their customary bland style.

Eleanor wasn’t satisfied. He should have expected that. Her instincts sensed concealment, and that was something she’d never tolerated in her husband!

"How do you mean? He might have hurt himself?" she persisted.