all, a Major’s stipend and hadn’t actually met Charlotte.
The auditorium darkened and the galvanic lights came up on the stage. A hush and then applause rippled through the audience as the plump Master of Ceremonies, a jolly dandy in a dress suit, bounded from the wings.
“My Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen,” he began. “Tonight, for your entertainment, for your exaltification, your edification and your entrepidation…”
His pause elicited an ‘ooh’.
“I don’t think those are words,” Earnestine said.
“Don’t spoil it, Ness,” Georgina whispered in reply.
“…your entrapulation.”
“See?”
“Ness!”
The Master of Ceremonies established and extended an edifice of excitement and exhilaration before, exhausted, he changed letter: “First, a Maestro of Magic, the Mage of Mañana, the Mephistopheles of Magnificence – do you want to know your future, madam? This man, this prestidigitator of precognition, can and will. Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen, all the way from Moscow, the Master Malakov!!!”
Another formally dressed man entered to the Master of Ceremonies beckoning hand.
“Dames, Gospoda! And the spirits, the ethereal conveyors from the beyond, I bid thee welcome.”
The magician sported a Russian beard, piercing eyes and some vowels from Hackney, but he had a charisma that demanded attention. He strode across the stage, held his right hand to his forehead and invited the audience closer with his left.
“The spirits,” Malakov announced, “they are here, they can see the future. You madam, your name is… Ethel.”
“It is, it is,” said a woman in pink, turning round to tell everyone behind her row.
“You come from… Harrow.”
“I do, I do.”
“You – I see it now, clearly as if it were happening this very moment in front of me – you are going to meet a stranger, tall and dark.”
“Oh yes.”
Everyone in the stalls thought it incredible, but Earnestine was less impressed. I mean, she thought, how would one know if Ethel from Harrow was going to meet a tall, dark stranger? The audience applauded and Ethel was well pleased, but surely such an act should be congratulated only after it was demonstrably true. And men were either tall or short, light or dark, known or unknown, so surely by the law of averages, Ethel was bound to meet at least one tall, dark stranger with every eight men she met.
The Master Malakov turned his attention to the higher realms of the auditorium.
“I feel… is there someone who has lost a dear, dear person to them?”
Georgina stiffened next to Earnestine.
“Well, obviously, one’s only got to look at how many people are dressed in black,” Earnestine said, rather too loudly. She regretted it as the Master’s attention was drawn inexorably towards their box.
“Up here,” Malakov said. He pointed and a light from upon high shone in their faces. “Yes, a father… no, a husband… beginning with an eee… jaaa… aahhh.”
Georgina cried out: “Arthur!”
“Arthur, he was tall… a military man.”
Georgina lent forward: “Yes.”
“He’s here now.”
The audience applauded the arrival of the unseen military man.
“He wants to say something… yes… it’s coming through now… ‘I love you’.”
Georgina breathed out, a gasp of utter rapture: her cheeks shone in the light. She was crying: there was no excuse for such a display, Earnestine thought, and that went for all the women swooning in the stalls as well.
It was simply bad taste to remind those who had lost a loved one of their calamity. Part of the reason they were going out for the evening was to try and jolly Georgina out of the dark humour that had settled upon her, and not to have entertainers turn it into a spectacle for all and sundry.
Now, Georgina would just sink back into her black mood again, all because her husband had been murdered during that business with the Austro–Hungarians, which hadn’t been an adventure at all.
It was rotten luck,
The auditorium darkened and the galvanic lights came up on the stage. A hush and then applause rippled through the audience as the plump Master of Ceremonies, a jolly dandy in a dress suit, bounded from the wings.
“My Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen,” he began. “Tonight, for your entertainment, for your exaltification, your edification and your entrepidation…”
His pause elicited an ‘ooh’.
“I don’t think those are words,” Earnestine said.
“Don’t spoil it, Ness,” Georgina whispered in reply.
“…your entrapulation.”
“See?”
“Ness!”
The Master of Ceremonies established and extended an edifice of excitement and exhilaration before, exhausted, he changed letter: “First, a Maestro of Magic, the Mage of Mañana, the Mephistopheles of Magnificence – do you want to know your future, madam? This man, this prestidigitator of precognition, can and will. Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen, all the way from Moscow, the Master Malakov!!!”
Another formally dressed man entered to the Master of Ceremonies beckoning hand.
“Dames, Gospoda! And the spirits, the ethereal conveyors from the beyond, I bid thee welcome.”
The magician sported a Russian beard, piercing eyes and some vowels from Hackney, but he had a charisma that demanded attention. He strode across the stage, held his right hand to his forehead and invited the audience closer with his left.
“The spirits,” Malakov announced, “they are here, they can see the future. You madam, your name is… Ethel.”
“It is, it is,” said a woman in pink, turning round to tell everyone behind her row.
“You come from… Harrow.”
“I do, I do.”
“You – I see it now, clearly as if it were happening this very moment in front of me – you are going to meet a stranger, tall and dark.”
“Oh yes.”
Everyone in the stalls thought it incredible, but Earnestine was less impressed. I mean, she thought, how would one know if Ethel from Harrow was going to meet a tall, dark stranger? The audience applauded and Ethel was well pleased, but surely such an act should be congratulated only after it was demonstrably true. And men were either tall or short, light or dark, known or unknown, so surely by the law of averages, Ethel was bound to meet at least one tall, dark stranger with every eight men she met.
The Master Malakov turned his attention to the higher realms of the auditorium.
“I feel… is there someone who has lost a dear, dear person to them?”
Georgina stiffened next to Earnestine.
“Well, obviously, one’s only got to look at how many people are dressed in black,” Earnestine said, rather too loudly. She regretted it as the Master’s attention was drawn inexorably towards their box.
“Up here,” Malakov said. He pointed and a light from upon high shone in their faces. “Yes, a father… no, a husband… beginning with an eee… jaaa… aahhh.”
Georgina cried out: “Arthur!”
“Arthur, he was tall… a military man.”
Georgina lent forward: “Yes.”
“He’s here now.”
The audience applauded the arrival of the unseen military man.
“He wants to say something… yes… it’s coming through now… ‘I love you’.”
Georgina breathed out, a gasp of utter rapture: her cheeks shone in the light. She was crying: there was no excuse for such a display, Earnestine thought, and that went for all the women swooning in the stalls as well.
It was simply bad taste to remind those who had lost a loved one of their calamity. Part of the reason they were going out for the evening was to try and jolly Georgina out of the dark humour that had settled upon her, and not to have entertainers turn it into a spectacle for all and sundry.
Now, Georgina would just sink back into her black mood again, all because her husband had been murdered during that business with the Austro–Hungarians, which hadn’t been an adventure at all.
It was rotten luck,
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