Silas showed an amused expression on his skull-face and pounded the door again. “Open it, you miser! It’s your friend Silas Hodder and Miss Fanny Hastings, come to see you!”
There was a shuffling from inside and the door was opened instantly by the little man. His mustache quivered with joy as he embraced Fanny and shook hands with Silas. He said, “I thought I should never see either of you again. Do come on in!”
He led the way and she saw he was wearing the same vest and brown trousers which she remembered seeing the previous year. He sat at his rolltop desk and indicated chairs for them.
The little man told Fanny, “My dear, you’ve bloomed into a greater beauty than ever!”
“Thank you,” she said, blushing. “What about Moll, is she still your mermaid?”
The little man shook his head. “No. Moll proved a terrible disappointment. She did well in the show but a soldier came along who took a fancy to her, fishtail and all. Soon they were walking out together and then she informed me they were getting married. She’s off with him to India or some other awful place!”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I liked her. I was looking forward to seeing her again.”
“I have another mermaid but I’ll give you the job back in a minute, if you’ll take it. This one has poor skin. There never was a mermaid like you!” Gilbert Tingley said.
Silas Hodder held up his hand. “You’re rushing ahead too fast, my friend. This young woman has a story to tell. Suppose you hear her out before you begin making suggestions.”
“Very well,” the freak show owner said. “Let us enjoy some port along with the story.” And they did.
Fanny repeated all the salient points of her adventures and ended with, “If my father had lived he would have been a great help. He knew all the London theatre people.”
Gilbert Tingley sighed. “Great tragedy, his being killed like that!”
“It was,” she agreed. “But I’m determined to make my way on the London stage because it was what he wished.”
Silas Hodder said, “A sincere tribute to your late parent. What do you think, Tingley? We need your advice.”
The little man twitched his mustache as he so often did when in the grip of a deep emotion. He said, “It would seem to me the friends of your father would remain his friends even though he is dead.”
“That is true,” she said.
Tingley went on, “Now, if you could recall some of the names he mentioned, that might help.”
She thought for a moment. Then she said, “There was one person he seemed to count on more than anyone else. The owner of the People’s Theatre. His name is Sir Alan Tredale.”
The little man showed immediate interest. “Sir Alan Tredale is one of the most famous actor-managers in London. He stages his productions in his own theatre. I’ve seen him act. He plays fine gentlemen most splendidly.”
Silas Hodder said, “Then the way is clear. The little lady should present herself to Tredale with the least possible delay.”
“I agree,” Gerald Tingley said. “And if he is half the gent I think him to be, and if your father really was friendly with him, I see no reason why he shouldn’t want to help you!”
Silas said, “I knew a chat with Tingley would be most helpful.”
“Call on me at any time,” the freak show owner said. “I don’t forget my friends either. And if you find yourself in a London play, Fanny, I want you to let me know. I’ll be there along with Silas for the opening performance!”
She stood up. “I’ll surely let you know. And I’ll be back to see the Fat Woman and the Thin Man if I may.”
“Why not come back and stay here?” the freak show owner suggested. “I have an empty room. It would be like old times.”
“How kind you are!” Fanny exclaimed, kissing the little man on the cheek and delighting him.
So it was settled. He showed her up to a room at once and she left her valise there. Then she and Silas departed the building on their way to the theatrical district and a meeting with Sir Alan Tredale. This time they took a horse car at the behest of Silas who told her she mustn’t spend too freely.
“It may be a while until a suitable part comes along,” he warned her. “And you don’t want to end up wearing that fishtail again!”
This chastened her enough to make her accept his idea of using the cheaper form of transportation in preference to the hackney cabs to which she had become addicted. They arrived in the bustling theatre district and got off at the regular stop in Piccadilly Circus.
A few enquiries brought forth the information that the People’s Theatre was located in St. Martin’s Lane. She and the gaunt Silas made their way to the building which housed the theatre. It bore the theatre’s name in large letters and there were broadsheets at either side of the entrance, announcing a production of “The Knight and The Lady” a new costume drama by Sheridan Knowles starring Sir Alan Tredale.
Silas studied the broadsheets with interest. “It would appear the eminent gentleman has a production under way,” he said.
“I’m frightened,” she said, realizing she was trembling and suddenly wishing she were back in the provinces with David.
“None of that!” Silas Hodder told her. “This is not the time to give way to nerves.”
“Suppose he won’t see me!” she worried.
“He
will
see you,” the gaunt man promised. And he strode up to the box office and accosted the somber-faced man in charge saying, “This young lady wishes to see Sir Alan. Her father was an old friend and fellow actor of his!”
The clerk glared at the odd-looking Silas over his square steel-rimmed spectacles and said, “Sir Alan is inside rehearsing his new play. He cannot be disturbed.”
“But this is urgent!” Silas said with a show of outrage. “This young lady’s father was an eminent man. Sir Alan will wish to see her.”
“I don’t care if her father was Prince Albert himself,” the sour-faced man in the ticket booth stated. “Sir Alan will not see anyone now!”
Fanny went up by Silas and tugged his arm. “Please! We can come back later when he’s not busy!”
The skull-faced Silas turned to her and with a gloved hand of which one finger of the glove was missing he waved at her airily. “My dear Fanny, you do not understand these things! Men like Sir Alan always have flunkies for protection! They never allow anyone inside unless they are forced to!”
The sour-faced ticket seller snapped, “Let me assure you, sir, that you are not forcing my hand!”
“There will be no more fol-de-rol with you, my friend,” Silas said grandly and he grasped Fanny by the arm. Unwillingly she allowed herself to be propelled through the doors into the theatre.
It was no surprise to her that the outraged ticket seller threw the door of his cage open with a loud bang and came screaming after them. Silas, in the meantime, dragged her on into the theatre itself. They entered the back of the dark auditorium, a weird trio, with the shouting ticket seller in the rear.
The pandemonium in the theatre temporarily halted the goings-on behind the footlights. Onstage a stout man and an attractive young woman halted in declaiming their lines to find out what the disturbance was. Silas continued down the aisle towards the stage with an unhappy Fanny in his grasp and the irate ticket seller on his heels complaining loudly.
At this moment a tall, distinguished figure rose from one of the seats and turned to shout out, “What the blazes is going on, Crimmins?”
Near tears, an upset Crimmins dashed down the aisle and sputtered, “I warned him, Sir Alan! I
warned
him not to bring this young lady into the theatre! But he wouldn’t listen! He came anyway!”
The tall, thin man said, “Silence, Crimmins. I shall handle this.” He came a few steps up the aisle, an annoyed look on his patrician face. “What sort of conduct is this? Will you two leave or shall I call the police?”
Fanny was too embarrassed to say anything; she leaned next to Silas, trying to hide behind him and thinking she might at any moment faint.
Silas assumed his most dignified manner and said, “Sir Alan, this young woman is the daughter of a fellow actor and friend of yours. A fine man who has recently passed away!”
“Indeed!” Sir Alan said studying him with suspicion. Then sudden recognition came to the patrician face. He pointed an accusing forefinger at Silas Hodder and in his fine, cultivated voice declared, “I remember you!”
“Do you, sir? I’m not sure I’ve had the pleasure!” Silas said, taken back.
“You were at my club. You somehow managed to get in and sit among the members soliciting alms for yourself in the guise of a former member fallen on evil days! You did very well among us until the manager discovered you, and knowing you were a faker, threw you out!”
“The incident escapes my memory!” Silas said nervously.
“Well, it doesn’t escape mine,” the distinguished actor replied sternly. “What is your game this time? From what I heard you always have some trick up your sleeve. Where does the young lady fit in?”
“She doesn’t fit in at all!” Silas said. “I’ve brought her here because she is the orphan daughter of an old friend of yours! A matter of common kindness on my part, Sir Alan, for which I ask no payment!”
“It has to be the first time you haven’t had your hand out,” Sir Alan declared. “What was the name of my supposed friend, this young lady’s father?”
Silas looked distressed. “Blast it, sir. All this confusion has sent the name clear out of my mind. But he was close to you and a dear friend of the novelist, Charles Dickens!” Fanny cringed at this. She had never mentioned Dickens to Silas; it was his own invention.
At the mention of Charles Dickens, a shorter man, who had been standing in the background now stepped forward and said, “I’m Charles Dickens. You say this girl’s father knew me?”
Silas gaped and could not reply. Thoroughly distressed, Fanny came out from behind him and, nearly weeping, said, “I’m
so
sorry about this! Silas meant well but he went about it the wrong way! My father was an actor who knew you, Sir Alan. His name was Ernest Hansom!”
“Ernest Hansom!” Sir Alan Tredale said. “You are Hansom’s daughter? I didn’t knew he had one.
“We met shortly before he was tragically killed in a lorry accident,” she said unhappily. “He told me shortly before he died to come to London and look you up.”
“I’ll be dashed,” Sir Alan said, turning to the other man. “What do you make of this, Dickens?”
The shorter man with a fine, sensitive face said, “A most unusual situation. But the sepulchral fellow with the gray hair is right. I did know your father, miss. A fine actor. He played leading roles with Macready!”
“Bless me! I must have had a message from the spirit world,” Silas Hodder gasped.
“One minute,” Sir Alan Tredale said sternly. Then he turned to the people gathered on the stage and told them, “All right, company. Rehearsal is postponed until three this afternoon. No sense trying to go on after this melée.”
The figures melted slowly away from the stage as the man told a troubled Crimmins, “Go back to your office, Crimmins. And next time you attempt to keep order, do so less noisily!”
“Yes, sir,” the unfortunate Crimmins said in a near whisper and slunk off.
Sir Alan then spoke sternly to Silas. “It would seem you have done your work well enough, sir. You have brought the girl to my attention. If you will be good enough to leave her in my care, I shall talk to her.”
“Thank you, Sir Alan,” Silas Hodder said with a smile. “Actually, I must be on my way. I’m already late for an important engagement.”
“At one of the taverns or clubs, I have no doubt,” Sir Alan said with irony. “Good day to you then!”
Silas turned to Fanny. “You’ll do well enough now, my dear. I’ll see you later at Tingley’s place.” And lifting his hat to one and all he marched grandly out.
Charles Dickens laughed. “That is a most remarkable fellow!”
“The nerve of a Prime Minister,” Sir Alan said, with a chuckle. He stared at her, “How did Ernest Hansom’s daughter happen to become associated with a vagabond like that?”
Fanny managed a faint smile. “He is not all that bad! In fact he is a kind person. He has helped me more than once. I cannot repudiate him.”
“Then I shan’t ask you to,” Sir Alan said. “Dickens and I are about to have lunch at a nearby pub. Would you think me bold if I asked you to join us so we might discuss why you came to see me?”
“It would be kind of you to take me to lunch, Sir Alan,” she said. “But I don’t wish to be a bother to you!”
“A pretty girl like you is never a bother to susceptible chaps like Dickens and myself,” the distinguished actor said. “So come along!”
The pub was only a few doors distant and a friendly waiter showed them to a quiet corner of the busy place. Dickens at once asked for a sherry, and Sir Alan Tredale ordered one for himself and for Fanny. When the sherries were served she told the two men her story.
“So that is what happened to poor Hansom,” Sir Alan said with a sigh. And he asked her, “You knew, of course, that the only reason he wasn’t working in London was because of his drinking problem?”
“I was told that,” she said. “He was frank about it himself. But in those last months he was free of the liquor and he gave many fine performances.”
Charles Dickens offered her a friendly smile. “I like the sound of your company. It has always been my ambition to tour widely with a theatrical company. But the writing of my novels robs me of the opportunity.”
“We did your ‘Cricket On The Hearth,’” she told him.
“A miserable adaption,” the novelist said promptly.
“Even so, it was well liked,” she assured him.
Sir Alan told the novelist, “It was the same in London. Even though you didn’t approve of the adaptation it was well received by the audiences.”
“One day I shall adapt it myself,” Dickens said.
Sir Alan studied her and said, “You say you have had good provincial training.”
She said proudly, “Barnaby Samuels was a good director and I played opposite a fine, young actor named David Cornish. My father also coached me and he told me I was ready for London.”
Charles Dickens said, “If Ernest Hansom told you that it meant something.”
“I agree,” Sir Alan said. “If you have a small portion of your father’s talent along with your lovely face and figure, you should go far.”