Funeral of Figaro

Ellis Peters

Description

An opera company tries to save a production dogged by murder

Jimmy Clash, aka Jimmy the One, has poured thousands into the Leander Theatre’s opera company and never seen a cent of profit, but he doesn’t mind a bit. Jimmy loves the extravagance of great opera, and the Leander’s new production of The Marriage of Figaro will be its most spectacular feat yet. But when the star basso dies in a freak plane accident, the production is thrown into jeopardy. Luckily, Jimmy is able to secure Marc Chartier, the greatest Figaro in the world and the man who will singlehandedly save the Leander—or tear it apart.

A living legend, Chartier is also a womanizer, a brute, and a coward. He steals the heart of every woman backstage, and when he’s murdered in the middle of a performance, every member of the company becomes a suspect. Before the last curtain falls, the killer must be captured, or the Leander will be audience to a murderous encore.

Sujets

• Music
• 1950s
• Historical fiction
• Crime fiction
• Ópera

Informations

• Publié par: Open Road Media
• Date de parution: 01 mars 2016
• Nombre de lectures: 2
• EAN13: 9781480444553
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 3 Mo

Extrait

Funeral of Figaro
Ellis Peters

MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM
Chapter One
It was curiously appropriate that he should arrive just in the middle of Deh vieni non tardar, at the precise spot in the fourth act when he was later to make his exit. The purposeful chaos of a piano rehearsal disguised the significance of the moment, and dulled the impact of his coming into a mere natural quiver of interest and awareness; but afterwards they remembered it as if with a quickened vision, and even believed they had had premonitions of disaster.
Slumped on his back in the front row of the stalls, with his crossed feet on the balustrade of the orchestra pit, Johnny listened with delight to Tonda, and kept his eyes closed to avoid seeing her. It wasn t that she was ugly; far from it, she was thought by some sound critics to be rather like her celebrated countrywoman Gina Lollobrigida. In Susanna s bell skirts and tightly-laced bodices she looked enchanting, but she was rising forty, and she really ought not to come to rehearsals in black ballet tights and thick mohair sweaters. She hadn t acquired the nickname of Tonda for nothing, and the impression of a ball of angora knitting wool transfixed by black plastic needles was overwhelming. But she sounded wonderful, worth every lavish pound he was paying for her three roles in the season s repertoire.
Some Susannas made Deh vieni too arch, some too ethereal, the utterance of a disembodied spirit. Tonda knew better. Her Susanna was a flesh and blood woman and her voice took up the deliberate, maliciously seductive invitation to love with all the vengeful subtlety of which the female is capable, tormenting her listening lover with the certainty that she was not addressing him, and then gradually in the middle of her teasing she forgot her grudge, forgot the very face of the Count, and was indeed singing to Figaro, pouring out to him all the rapture and excitement of her wedding night in soft, thrilling, aching cries of passion. And still the fool didn t realise!
That was what Tonda could do with her voice, make you believe in the profundities of human love even at rehearsal, and turn back the convoluted leaves of comedy one by one to delve into the deepest places of the heart after Mozart. Provided you didn t look at her there was no limit to the marvellous potentialities she could suggest. Johnny kept his eyes closed, even when by the faint stirring of the air and the fragrance of muguet he knew that Gisela had slipped round to take the seat beside him. He turned his face towards her and smiled blindly, and she touched his hand with one finger, and they listened together.
Count Almaviva, in grey slacks and a sports shirt, stood with folded arms in the wings, listening attentively. Cherubino, in toreador pants and one of Johnny s old sweaters - seemingly sweaters were just the right size these days if you could get into em twice over - copied his attitude and his gravity, her fair head tilted, her grey eyes fixed respectfully upon the singer.
Across the stage from them the Countess, tall and stately and immaculate in a closely-tailored suit that made her Scandinavian legs look even longer and more delectable than usual, divided her critical attention between Tonda and the Count.
He was young for the r le, a rising star out of Austria, not yet used to being famous. What he had in voice and natural ability he still lacked in experience, and it was no small honour for him to be asked to sing so important a r le opposite Inga Iversen. She had been at pains to be gracious to him. It was necessary that someone should take him in hand, or the predatory Italian woman would ruin him. And that would be a pity, for he had a fine voice and some acting ability. And such eyes! Blue as gentians, and of a heart-rending innocence. Also he was that marvel, a partner tall enough for her. Inga had suffered untold embarrassments at the hands of short, tubby Counts.
In the most remote corner of the orchestra pit Doctor Bartolo and Don Basilio sat cheek by jowl, shirt-sleeved and comfortable, their backs propped solidly against the wooden barrier, their cynical elderly eyes swivelling knowingly from Tonda s rapt face and heaving bosom to Inga s aristocratic calm, behind which the feline claws flexed themselves thoughtfully in secret.
Doctor Bartolo was lean and cadaverous and dignified, and as English as a wet summer, and his name was Max Forrester. Don Basilio was short and rosy, pepper-and-salt haired, and with the Welshman s bold, strongly-marked bones and tough, weathered flesh. He had sung Don Basilio so often in his thirty years on the stage that he sometimes had difficulty in remembering that his name was Ralph Howell. Tenor character parts of any quality are comparatively few and far between, he had taken some pains to corner the best of them as soon as he became resigned to being forty years old. They were conducting a laconic conversation in an almost soundless, almost motionless style that would have done credit to two old lags under the warder s eye.
What did I tell you? said Don Basilio, digging an elbow into his friend s lean ribs. You re on a loser, boy. Tonda s got him dazzled.
They re only warming up yet, returned Doctor Bartolo confidently. Wait until Inga gets to him with the great forgiveness phrase at the end.
Ah, a couple of bars, man, what s that after a brainwashing like this? Look at him! Ravished to the soul, poor lad! You might as well pay up now, you ve said good-bye to that fiver.
I ll still put my shirt on Inga. Want to raise the stake?
Double it, offered Don Basilio promptly, surveying the ample charms of the lady who carried his money, and dwelling with professional pleasure on the melting ease with which she turned the lovely high phrase and sank in a series of soft falls, like a dove descending. Backstage half a dozen of Johnny s ship s company were listening to it no less appreciatively, straightening and stilling among the surrealist detail of their half-assembled sets. Perhaps the greatest love song ever written for a woman sank to its close in triumphant stillness, like a folding of wings.
Mate, said Stoker Bates, scratching thoughtfully at the back of his grizzled neck, that s a bit of all right, that is. You can have all your Traviatas and your Oh, my beloved daddies for one drop o Mozart.
The dove settled and nestled, soft as down.
Ti vo la fronte incoronar - incoronar di rose.
Old Franz Hassilt at the piano echoed the rounded cadence and drew breath to croak the indignant comment of the missing Figaro, for whom he delighted to do duty; but the interjection was taken clean from his lips by a great voice that spat the Perfiaa! over their startled heads from the doorway on the right of the stalls.
Traitress! So all the time she meant to betray me!
Cherubino flashed round open-mouthed, forgetting the trill she had been about to launch after Figaro s line. Johnny opened his eyes abruptly and came leaping to his feet, Franz whirled on the piano stool, and every head turned expectantly to examine the Leander Theatre s new bass-baritone.
His fame had come before him, and they were curious and wary, for they had to measure their powers side by side with his from now on. It was only by luck Johnny s agent had been able to sign him up at all; after the loss of Raimondo Gatti in the plane crash at Vienna they might well have had to make do with a minor artist and be thankful, but fate in the shape of an army cabal in Latin America had effectively cancelled a prior engagement, and presented them with the chance of a lifetime to get Marc Chatrier, and Jimmy Clash had jumped at it. Johnny could stand the racket; grand opera was the one undertaking on which Johnny had ever managed to lose money, and he needed it to ease his tax position, so he said. One of the biggest sums even he had ever paid out was very well spent on the greatest living Figaro.
And there he was, just within the doorway, looking them over with calm, quizzical eyes and visibly selecting Johnny from among them as the man to be reckoned with. Johnny came bounding like a Saint Bernard dog, shoving out a brown fist and beaming.
Mr Chatrier, this is wonderful! We didn t expect you to show up this morning, after your journey. I m sorry I couldn t meet you myself at the airport last night, but I hope Mr Clash looked after you properly.
Jimmy always looked faintly bewildered when he was referred to as Mr Clash. He was so used to being Number One or Jimmy the One that the rare occasions when he got his proper name, for the benefit of newcomers who couldn t yet be expected to understand the peculiarities of the Leander Theatre, jolted him like being suddenly confronted with a distorting mirror. He beamed back happily at his employer and friend, proud of his errand and of the acquisition he had brought them.
Are you comfortable at the Grand Eden? It s a longish drive out here, but there ll be a car at your disposal for the season.
All your arrangements worked admirably, said Marc Chatrier in his black velvet voice, and the hotel seems excellent.
They were much of an age, and matched each other in vigour and glow so evenly that the meeting of their hands should have started a flurry of sparks. Johnny was brown and bright, with thick russet hair greying at the temples, and an uneven, mobile, responsive face. Chatrier was black-haired and black-eyed and self-contained, with the quirk of a slightly quizzical smile never far from his lip. The experienced face was a little lined, the dark eyes a little world-weary, but he knew how to wear even these ominous signs as added graces.
What s the betting, murmured Ralph Howell, eyeing this formidable new competition, the girls don t switch their attentions?
Doctor Bartolo conside