‘No, I don’t see. And I don’t understand why, if it is so obvious, you didn’t tell Casteix and what’shisname.’
He feigned not recalling Quatremain’s name, as if the man was of no significance to him, when in fact he had got under his skin.
Doll squeezed his arm, pulling him close to her side. ‘Is Joe just a teensy bit jealous of the elegant Monsieur Étienne? He is quite handsome, isn’t he? But the reason why I didn’t tell them my conclusion was so that the old man didn’t rush off and beat us to it.’
‘Beat us?’
‘To solving the riddle of the hieroglyphs.’
Malinferno’s curiosity overcame his exasperation at Doll’s obtuseness. ‘And how is the riddle to be solved by us?’
Doll stuck her fingers under her turban and scratched her head. ‘Well, it’s only a start, you understand.’
Malinferno growled, and Doll held up her hands defensively.
‘If the Greek text is made up of four hundred and eighty words and the hieroglyphs amount to one thousand four hundred…’
‘… and ten. You said one thousand four hundred and ten.’
Doll grinned conspiratorially. ‘Oh, I added the ten to my estimate to make it sound more clever. But the point is, bearing in mind that the two texts are the same, then the disparity in numbers suggests that-’
Malinferno broke in. ‘That each hieroglyph is a letter, not a symbol of ideas or a full word.’
‘Give the man a prize!’
‘But it still doesn’t tell us their meanings.’
Doll’s face fell a little. ‘I know, but it’s a start. Now we know each picture is a letter. Let’s go back and see if we can decipher that cartouche. You see, I have an idea.’
They had hurried back to Creechurch Lane, intent on cracking the code. But an exciting message diverted them from even looking at the papyruses left lying on the table. As they climbed the stairs to Malinferno’s rooms, a rotund figure waddled out of the ground-floor parlour. It was their landlady. Mrs Stanhope’s mobcap sat askew on her head, and her face was flushed. When she spoke, her slurred voice betrayed her having imbibed the best part of a bottle of gin, despite it being not yet the middle of the day. She leaned on the doorframe or she might have fallen over, and called up the rickety stairs to her lodgers.
‘Mr Mali… Manli… Joe, there is an urgent message for you.’
Malinferno descended the stairs, and stood before his landlady. She grinned inanely.
‘A message you say?’ he prompted her.
Mrs Stanhope tilted her head to one side as if pondering the depths of his question. He observed in fascination as her mobcap failed to tip with her head, slipping down until it covered one eye.
‘Yes. From a perfect tadpole of a man. I could have wrapped him in a nappy and had him suckle at my breast.’
Malinferno recognised Bromhead from her description, and cast from his mind the image of Augustus as a baby on his landlady’s large and fulsome tit. He prompted her again.
‘May I have the message?’
Slowly, Mrs Stanhope’s hand went up to her face, where one long finger tapped the side of her nose. The other hand slipped into the pocket of her apron, where it rummaged around interminably. Finally it drew out a slip of paper, which was then offered to Malinferno. He took it, and read it. Excited by its contents, he went back up to Doll, who was hovering on the landing. She could tell by the look on his face that the message bore interesting news.
‘What does it say, Joe?’
‘That we should go directly to the Royal Coburg Theatre, where Augustus Bromhead is casting his play. He says there is a part for you.’
Doll Pocket gave out a whoop, forgetting all about ancient hieroglyphs. This was the chance of a lifetime, and she was not about to give it up. She grabbed Joe’s hand, and dragged him back down the stairs. Mrs Stanhope gave them a befuddled wave as they dashed out into the lane and past the church on the corner to find a cab.
They managed to hail a small fly and, having given the cabby the theatre’s name, they settled back under the flimsy hood. The driver turned south, and they crossed the river by the grand new Waterloo Bridge, named for Wellington’s great victory six years earlier. For some reason, Doll was beginning to have doubts about the scheme. The Thames looked grey and oily as it roiled around the Doric pillars that divided up each of the nine arches of Waterloo Bridge. The journey to the south bank seemed to take for ever, and the far side looked most unwelcoming with looming rain clouds racing towards them. She clutched Joe’s arm.
‘Is this the right choice to make, Joe? I mean, the Royal Coburg is not Drury Lane or Covent Garden. It is south of the river, and is not even allowed to put on serious drama. What is this play of Gus’s like?’
Malinferno knew that Doll yearned to be an actress in what she called the ‘legit’ theatres she had mentioned by name. All other theatres in London were restricted to melodrama or burlesque. And it wasn’t as if the theatre they were now approaching was even in the West End. But it was a grand theatre, and had taken its name from Princess Charlotte, King George’s only child with Queen Caroline, when she had married Leopold of Saxe-Coburg. Charlotte’s death in childbirth had been a terrible tragedy, but had not marred the Royal Coburg Theatre’s reputation as a popular place for entertainment. Malinferno tried to reassure Doll.
‘The play is… a classic. You shall see.’
He knew it was stretching the truth to call ‘a classic’ the ancient set of mystery plays that he had seen only a brief part of. But it seemed to mollify Doll, and she perked up despite the splashes of raindrops hitting the soft cab roof. Then, as the cabby, who sat behind them to drive, turned off the Waterloo Road into The Cut, she saw the façade of the theatre straight ahead. It was an imposing and classical structure, all arches and pediments. A sudden thrill of pleasure ran up her spine, and her doubts disappeared.
Descending, Malinferno passed a silver sixpence to the driver of the fly, and he and Doll dashed across the pavement in the sudden downpour that blew over their heads. Under the cover of the theatre’s portico, they paused while Doll rearranged her turban with its long ostrich feather. She reasoned she would have to look her best for the audition for the part of Eve, even if the character she might play would have originally been as naked as the day she was born. A sudden thought came to her, and she hesitated on the threshold of the auditorium, grasping Malinferno’s arm.
‘Joe. Was Eve born, or was she created?’
Malinferno gave her a puzzled look. ‘Born of Adam’s rib, of course.’
That still didn’t answer Doll’s question, and she felt full of confusion. How was she to play Eve, if she didn’t even know the slightest thing about her? She saw that this acting lark was not as straightforward as she had anticipated. Well, she would have to rely on her manifest charms to see her through. They had served her well in the past, after all. Resolute once more, she pushed the heavy oak doors open.
Inside, the auditorium all was dark, save for a blaze of light on the stage, which must have been lit by a hundred candles. And in the light was a bevy of pretty young girls, most showing off well developed décolletages. Doll heard Malinferno sigh deeply at the array of cleavages, and suddenly she felt very old. After all, her thirtieth birthday was fast approaching. Someone in the dark of the auditorium called out a name, and the girl first in line stepped forward. She pouted and posed with her breasts thrust out, looking friskily at the huddle of figures seated in the front row of the stalls.
A male voice rang out. ‘No. Next.’
The girl stamped her slipper-clad foot, and stormed offstage. The next buxom offering stepped up, only to receive the same short shrift. This one burst into tears, and ran into the wings. A flurry of ‘no’s accompanied Doll’s walk down the aisle to the front of the auditorium. Malinferno spotted the large head of Bromhead at the end of the front row, and he slipped into the seat next to him. Doll sat too, as the queue of hopefuls was whittled down inexorably. She began to slump in her seat. What hope did she stand if such young pulchritude was being discarded? Bromhead looked at Malinferno, and patted him on the knee. Then he turned to the young man who sat on his other side. He was a well-formed young man with a head of black curls, and was the source of the negative responses to the procession of girls on the stage. He listened to Bromhead’s whisper, and held his hand up as the final girl stepped to the front of the stage. He leaned forward in his seat, and looked along at Doll. A smile broke out on his handsome face. He waved a dismissive hand at the girl onstage.