The Dragonfly Brooch Read online

  More significantly the author was frustratingly hazy when it came to Minnie’s fate: Her whereabouts during the Second World War were obscure and the place of her death uncertain. Most sources believe she ended her days in Paris, but no concrete evidence has ever been forthcoming.

  The story was becoming more and more complicated.

  *

  He went back to the reception desk. ‘Celia, what can you tell me about Geoffrey d’Urvaine?’ After foraging around in the depths of the library for ten minutes she returned with a photocopied section from one of her reference books. ‘How about this to begin with? A straight forward background piece.’

  Charlie took the article and read swiftly:

  Geoffrey D’Urvaine, successful playwright in the late 19th, early 20th century, was famed during his early career for writing significant roles for women; unsurprisingly many actresses were fond of him. Going against the grain of established ‘drawing room’ drama, he often introduced satirical and subversive elements into his plays, some of which were not always immediately apparent to the censorship of the Lord Chamberlain’s office. Notorious Woman despite its provocative title was in essence a morality play with a spirited yet kind hearted heroine at its centre – movingly played by the actress Minnie Etherege Devine, and a later play Fits of Fury paired Miss Devine with her actor manager partner William Farrar Fay, both of whom derived positive critical notices for what was arguably an early precursor of a Hollywood rom com. However, one play in particular, The House in the Hills, set in Spain, drew particular censure as the ‘house’ in question was quite obviously a bordello. Minnie Etherege Devine appeared in many of his earlier plays, although even she baulked at playing a brothel madam, nevertheless, she did defend the writer on numerous occasions, both publically and in the press, writing letters to the Times, and even appearing as a witness for the defence in the case brought against d’Urvaine for blasphemy. One of the characters in the play, although not the lead, curses God and calls into question received religious wisdom. Although his plays are largely forgotten in modern times, for a period before the First World War, a d’Urvaine play guaranteed brilliant box office and he was engaged by many actor managers, eager for him to cast a little of his magic in their direction. The Farrar Fay players performed many of his works, and in tandem with William Farrar Fay’s extraordinary set designs and innovative staging, what might have been a very mundane domestic drama was almost invariably transformed into something far more grandiose and thought-provoking. Although D’Urvaine’s popularity waned somewhat, and his latter career never matched the headiness of those early years, he lived out the remainder of his days in some degree of comfort, having made a late marriage in the 1930s, to the dairy heiress, Mary Shawcroft. Some years younger than him, she bore him three children, and the family lived together in California until Geoffrey’s death at the age of eighty-seven in 1960.

  ‘All right,’ said Charlie, again returning to the desk. ‘We know D’Urvaine and Minnie Devine had a successful working relationship, but was there a personal relationship between them, too? And what’s with this blasphemy case? It sounds like the kind of thing that would inspire plenty of press coverage.’

  ‘Didn’t you find anything in the file I gave you?’ said Celia. ‘There should be a couple of articles relating to the blasphemy case, along with letters written to the Times newspaper, and an interview with Minnie Devine where she specifically mentions Geoffrey.’

  She was right. The magazine interview was dated 1922.

  ‘I absolutely adore Geoffrey D’Urvaine,’ Miss Devine gushed as she finished her coffee, sitting in the dining room of the Savoy Hotel. ‘He always knows how a woman behaves, how she thinks and feels!’ Here the grand lady clutched a fluttering hand to her ample bosom, ‘and what she would naturally utter given the chance. Added to which his lines are always so beautifully composed. A few critics may carp that some of his speeches are unrealistic, but I disagree! I always say exactly what I think, to everyone’s face, and they seldom castigate me for it. In fact, they tell me my honesty is refreshing! Geoffrey admires a forthright woman and he writes his characters accordingly.’

  But Miss Devine, says I, do you not think a forthright manner is sometimes used as an excuse to ride roughshod over your audience? (Using the word ‘audience’ to mean in private as well as on stage). At this her ladyship fixes your hapless reporter with her beady eye, swells up her chest even higher, and says in her famously velvety yet commanding tone, ‘There are people who talk sense and there are others who talk nonsense, it is the duty of those of us who have sensible opinions to correct the mistakes and errors made by others. It is the playwrights’ cause, is it not, to spell out society’s errors and make the audience understand and atone for its past mistakes?’

  Having wandered afar from our initial friendly interchange, I hasten to assure her ladyship that verily the playwright might challenge the often complacent opinions of his audience, but that surely in everyday life, courtesy is needed for our individual discourse?

  At this, our doughty actress begins to think that I am in fact insulting her, and although I apologise profusely and maintain that it is not my intention, it becomes clear that a fawning hack is what she prefers and not a man with opinions of his own. Our conversation draws to a close, and summoning a minion from who-knows-where – her portmanteau perhaps – Miss Minnie Etherege Devine bids me depart, while she attends to her pet: a very small, angry looking dog, whose face now I come to think of it, closely resembles her own …

  All very entertaining, but where was Geoffrey himself? Was there an interview with him, a piece where he gave his impression of Minnie?

  He shuffled through the photocopied sheets Celia had given him and found a piece from the Times dated 1909: Actors and actresses join forces to defend playwright’s honour.

  The play, The House in the Hills, was refused a license by the Lord Chamberlain’s office, prompting several actors and performers to compose a strongly worded letter to this publication, expressing their deep disappointment and arguing that such an innovative work deserved to be seen by anyone curious enough to want to attend.

  The letter was printed in Tuesday’s edition prompting much debate in our subsequent editions regarding decency and decorum etc as laid down in the Theatre Act. In the case of the play in question, following its suppression by the Lord Chamberlain, the solution was simple: the audience was asked to become a member of the House in the Hills Society, whereupon the performance of the said play technically became a private one and was not therefore bound by the restrictions laid down by the Lord Chamberlain’s office. By no means an unusual arrangement, in this way many so called ‘experimental’ plays can be seen by the club members, usually with no great disaster befalling them.

  So, she wasn’t just a self centred diva, as the young Savoy reporter would have it – she was actually part of a group who were willing to challenge the Establishment, to forward theatre development, to champion perhaps unfashionable issues, new writers, new styles.

  ‘Quite the Granville Barker, isn’t she?’ said Celia. ‘I wonder she didn’t set up her own theatre, become an actor-manager herself.’

  ‘Too much like hard work,’ Charlie said. ‘I think she’s happy enough to support her men – of which there are many – while they continue to worship and adore her.’

  He studied Geoffrey D’Urvaine’s blurry photo. ‘Is this all you’ve got? I need more – excuse the pun – prompts.’

  ‘Would his address do?’ said Celia.

  ‘You,’ he said, ‘are a magician. Where did you get it?’

  ‘There’s a blue plaque on his house,’ she said dryly. ‘You can’t miss it.’

  Chapter Eleven

  The tall town house was in a street not far from the theatre district. Number 29 was divided into five flats. He tried three buzzers before a suspicious resident from one of the upstairs flats answered: ‘Hello?’

  He pressed his face against the intercom. ‘Er
, good morning sir, my name’s Charlie Gilchrist. I am a historian researching the background to your building. Would it be okay if I had a brief wander around?’

  There was a long silence and then the buzzer sounded and the front door gave way into a dark hallway. The light switch was on a timer and the bulb clicked off before he’d even got around the first bend in the stair. Flat number 4 was opened by a spry old man in grey green slacks and a sloppy beige cardigan. ‘What did you say your name was?’

  ‘Charlie Gilchrist.’

  They shook hands. ‘Anthony Blenkinsop,’ said the flat’s owner. ‘I’m ex-army and ex-police so if this is a con trick you won’t get far with me.’

  ‘Right,’ said Charlie. ‘That’s good to know.’

  ‘What is it you want?’ Anthony Blenkinsop stood aside to let him in.

  ‘I understand from the blue plaque outside that the playwright Geoffrey D’Urvaine once lived in this block,’ said Charlie.

  Blenkinsop rolled his eyes. ‘The estate agent told me thirty years ago that a blue plaque was a unique and desirable feature! It certainly added thousands to the asking price. Patronising young man, as I recall. I suppose he thought I was old enough to remember the Edwardians personally!’

  It didn’t sound very promising; estate agent waffle wasn’t much to go on – nothing that Charlie didn’t already know. He surveyed the high-ceilinged room, examining the décor, trying to picture the space as it would have been nearly a hundred years earlier. The fireplace and the windows were original, but the décor was modern with fitted carpet and double radiators. There were a few tasteful knickknacks and vases on the shelves in the alcoves either side of the chimney breast and a gold-framed mirror above the mantelpiece. Assuming Geoffrey had occupied the whole building, the kitchen must have been on the ground floor, a dining room or a sitting room on the next level, and Mr Blenkinsop’s apartment the bedrooms or dressing rooms. He felt in his pocket for the dragonfly brooch, safely wrapped in its tissue paper.

  ‘It must have been an impressive house at one time – before it was divided into all these flats,’ Blenkinsop went on. ‘Must have been worth a bomb. I feel sorry for people these days, trying to get on the property ladder. None of you can afford the prices these days. My grandson’s the same.’

  ‘I still live at home,’ Charlie admitted. ‘With my dad.’

  ‘You’re not the first curious historian I’ve had ring on my door bell truth be told,’ said Blenkinsop, ‘but I don’t get many other visitors; it’s nice to have someone to talk to …’

  ‘Talk away,’ Charlie said. ‘Tell me what you know about D’Urvaine.’

  ‘Not much,’ he replied. ‘Several leading actresses of the day are rumoured to have caught his roving eye. Would you like tea or coffee?’

  ‘Coffee if it’s not too much trouble,’ said Charlie.

  Blenkinsop went into the small kitchen at the rear of the flat where Classic FM on the radio was competing with the spin cycle on the washing machine.

  As Charlie removed the dragonfly brooch from his pocket he began to see the environment shifting, subtly changing in front of his eyes …

  Geoffrey leans wearily against the mantelpiece, a cigarette to his lips. He briefly checks his reflection in the mirror above and then turns around to address the person sitting opposite him. ‘My darling,’ he says, ‘I do wish you’d read with a little more expression in your voice.’

  ‘But Geoffrey,’ coos his companion, ‘I can’t possibly read this character with any kind of vitality when I don’t understand her.’

  Geoffrey rubs his brow. ‘Try paying more attention to the words and the feeling will come to you directly.’

  Minnie Devine flings herself back on the sofa in an attitude of despair, and says, ‘she sounds utterly tiresome, moaning and groaning at her husband the entire time; no wonder he grew bored with her.’

  ‘No, no, Minnie, you are entirely missing the point! It is not moaning and groaning, as you so delicately put it, it is a strong woman standing up for herself against the tyranny of her oppressors. If you take the marriage as metaphor—’

  At this Minnie jumps up. ‘Oh spare me your metaphors! How bothersome and tiresome it all is. You promised me we wouldn’t spend all afternoon tiring ourselves out by reading; you said it was just a preliminary read through while you outlined the plot.’

  ‘Which I have done. Twice. And you know you can’t go into rehearsals until you have at least a passing acquaintance with the character you are to play.’

  ‘And you wrote her for me?’ Minnie approaches him, the heavily beaded fabric of her gown swishing as she moves. ‘This constantly complaining woman …’

  He raises a hand to her dark, disheveled hair and twists a curl of it through his fingers, before stretching it away to the side and gently letting go. ‘I write everything for you, you goddess, as you well know. Who else would read these parts, and yet you, with all the ingratitude of a spoilt princess, will dismiss my work like a kitten patting a ball of knitting across the nursery floor, until it is all tangled and covered in smuts and has to be disposed of as unusable.’

  ‘Not fair,’ Minnie pouts. ‘Monstrously unfair. I adore your plays, you wretch. I always have.’

  Geoffrey feigns disbelief and then pulls her towards him. ‘Kiss me,’ he demands.

  ‘We mustn’t …’ she begins. ‘William already suspects us.’

  Geoffrey tuts. ‘He’d be a fool if he didn’t. Why else does he think I write plays for his theatre? Not for him. For you. And he knows that in order to keep me sweet, his lady love sometimes shows me a little gratitude now and again …’

  Minnie heaves a great sigh and turns her face up to be kissed. Geoffrey clasps her to him and kisses the length of her neck and throat until he has reached the top of her breasts. Then he gently begins to unhook each eye of the dress until the heavy fabric slips away from her shoulders …

  ‘Oh God,’ said Charlie. ‘Not again!’

  ‘What’s that?’ said Blenkinsop, handing him a mug of coffee.

  ‘Sorry, miles away! I was thinking about Geoffrey D’Urvaine.’

  ‘Why don’t you come up to the roof garden,’ said Blenkinsop. ‘You can see all over the theatre district from there.’

  He wasn’t wrong. Upstairs, on the roof, drinking his coffee, Charlie leaned against the wall and surveyed Geoffrey’s domain. From the high vantage point there was a clear view of the neighbourhood’s rooftops, skylights, balconies and chimney pots. Across the nearby square he could see the busy road beyond. A white van, a black cab, an Alpha Romeo, a Mercedes, flashed briefly through the trees on their way towards the theatre district. Close enough for the playwright to walk home after an evening at the box office or dinner in a nearby restaurant.

  He wondered if D’Urvaine had come up here for inspiration – and if he’d brought Minnie with him. She certainly didn’t feel the need to compromise her desires. If she wanted a man, she got him, and even if she didn’t keep him for long, she took pleasure from him while she could.

  But how did it end? Did they break off their relationship, or did it fizzle out once Minnie’s fame started to wane?

  It sounded like she had been carrying on with Geoffrey right under William’s nose. She and William had worked together all those years, and yet she’d never quite committed to him, never played the part of quiet consort; never allied herself fully to the partnership. Instead she’d gone on the hunt for prettier, wilder, younger consorts. A quiet domestic life wasn’t for her; she thrived on drama, incident, conflict. The more complicated the better; the more attention she garnered, the more she needed. Like a regular shot in the arm, a dose of feel good opprobrium, she couldn’t function without it. And in the world of the theatre she got it – men wrote parts especially for her, audiences came expressly to see her, young acolytes pandered to her every whim – and the more people she surrounded herself with, the more complicated her life became. And when her beauty faded and her success dwindled she couldn’t
let go of her need to be loved and adored. It was hardly front page news – “Needy actress craves attention” – but what happened to her once the parts dried up? Where did she go? Where did she end her days? And who did she end them with?

  With the dragonfly brooch stowed safely in his pocket Charlie took his leave of Anthony Blenkinsop and headed back to the library.

  Chapter Twelve

  It was only four o’clock but Celia was finishing up for the day.

  ‘Been here since eight,’ she said, the zips on her leather jacket clicking as she bent down under the desk to retrieve handbag and shopping. ‘Time for me to go home.’

  He waved the theatre guide at her. ‘Is this loan stock, or can I take it out of the building?’

  ‘Reference only, I’m afraid. You can photocopy the bits you need. Although I think the printer’s out of ink …’ Celia hoisted her bag over her head and shoulder. ‘What have you unearthed?’

  ‘That Minnie Devine had many admirers.’

  ‘Actors!’ Celia rolled her eyes. ‘Bunch of narcissists.’

  ‘It seems to be the consensus,’ he agreed.

  ‘When you’ve read as much theatrical anecdotery as I have,’ said Celia, ‘you won’t doubt it.’

  ‘Celia, do you know when William Farrar Fay died?’

  ‘Some time in the late 1920s. Not long after The Farrar Fay Players disbanded.’

  ‘Victor Etherege suspects that he’s the father of Minnie’s two children. It was the story doing the rounds. He doesn’t have any proof, but I can see the appeal. William Farrar Fay gave her fame, a glamorous lifestyle, a high profile, and yet she cuckolded him and made a fool of him.’

  ‘The one man who was a match for her,’ said Celia. ‘Who understood her, knew all her fabulous, infuriating ways, and still adored her, no matter what. He offered her security, a shared past, a stable future. But it wasn’t enough.’