In 1882 the Shakespeare Hotel in Stratford-upon-Avon was not the splendid leaded-windowed, black and white beamed building we see today, but a mid-Victorian pile with a plastered facade that was thought to reflect the prosperity of the guests who frequented the establishment: guests who were warmly welcomed by a liveried doorman beneath the imposing entrance porch that straddled the pavement. Only the rich, those who claimed to be rich, those who planned to be rich, and the guests of the rich, oh, and the dishonestly rich, stayed there.

But the inside of the building could not disguise its 16th century origins, indeed it flaunted them. The grand dining-room was something magnificent to behold. A large, gold-framed mirror dominated the wall above the fireplace, reflecting the red Persian carpets that covered the polished oak floors. The glass of the heavily curtained windows shone like silver, and like the mirror, reflected the warmth and expense. Of course Henry Donaldson and Littleton were very much at home in such surroundings, and in their starched evening wear added to the sparkle and sense of occasion.

A few days after Sergeant Parker met his wife Ann in The Shakespeare Rooms at the theatre, Pierre, the maitre d’hotel of the Shakespeare, showed the recently arrived actors to their table, which was the longest in the entire room, with its white Irish linen tablecloth adorned with silver cutlery, deeply cut crystal glasses, tall vases of flowers and glass bowls full of fruit.

As each of the actors sat a veritable swarm of waiters, in black-tailed coats, high collars, and white aprons, served warm soft bread rolls, wrapped in napkins, with each diner given a small silver dish of fresh farm butter, all of which glistened and gleamed in the recently installed gas lighting. Indeed, George Bartlett had no sooner sat down than he was sizing up where he could conceal any of these delicacies for later.

And while George attempted to take care of his future dietary needs, Henry Donaldson settled himself at one end of the great table, opposite Littleton at the other. Donaldson was immediately proffered a cigar by an anxious waiter, who eventually, and with shaking hands, managed to ignite it with a large match. Littleton accepted a fine Havana too, making quite a fuss about igniting the thing with his newly acquired golden mechanical lighter. He didn’t need a waiter to light a cigar for him. He had the style to do that for himself.

The others settled themselves.

On Henry’s right was Dorothea, who frequently gazed at her husband with what looked like concern and care, ensuring the others would ultimately know where her devotion lay.

Next to Dorothea was Thomas Devereux, who, with his wife, had arrived only that afternoon and was trying hard to remember as many bad jokes as possible. To the young Devereux Littleton was a man who seemed easily impressed, therefore he had to show Littleton that he was the funniest, and the hardest working, and the deepest thinker, of the group. He gazed over at his wife, sitting directly opposite, and could see in her eyes how very much she respected him. The young actor smiled to himself.

Buffoon was actually what Mrs Devereux was thinking. Rosalind had seen the way that her husband had started flirting with that Jess creature the minute he set eyes on her. And she had responded immediately, too, the cow, knowing all she had to do was flash her eyes, or an ankle, for her fool of a spouse to go weak at his stupid knees, and no doubt rather firmer somewhere else. Let him wreck yet another chance to make a name for himself, she thought – hadn’t she supported him long enough?

On Rosalind Devereux’s right was Jacob Samuelson, a former sailor. He’d filled and lit a pipe, making no apologies for the clouds of dark blue smoke that, with the two cigars also smouldering away, began to fill every corner of the room. Despite the fact that his bushy beard was in imminent danger of bursting into flames from fragments of glowing tobacco that fell into it Jacob had little time for worrying about smoking in company. At his advanced age he had no time for changing attitudes. This drawing-room culture was becoming a pain in the backside, he thought. Won’t be able to do anything at all at this rate. Then again, he could think of one or two things he’d like to do with the long-necked Mrs Devereux, whose slippered foot was nestling gently against his own size tens. My god she’s up for it, he thought, and the old candle might not get lit many more times, so let’s enjoy what’s left. With that he let out a hiss of smoke in the direction of Thomas Devereux that made the young man turn quite purple in the face before exploding in a fit of dreadful, uncontrollable coughing; and as he did so Rosalind’s foot pressed just a tad harder against Jacob’s.

Jacob, who was now in earnest conversation with Rosalind, had always been a great inspiration for George Bartlett, who was sitting opposite. And when George thought about it most of the assembled had worked together at least once before, with the exception of the Devereux couple, whoever they were.

But George had to admit that this lavish reception was something he hadn’t experienced for quite a while, not since his Drury Lane days. And as the memory of Drury Lane, and London, passed through George’s head for the first time in years he heard himself calling for wine and caught himself staring hard at Dorothea Donaldson. Then he heard himself ask a question.

” Do you have any children, Mrs Donaldson?”

Before Dorothea could answer Littleton was on his feet demanding wine from waiters who kept appearing from and disappearing into the nicotine fog.

Sitting at Littleton’s right elbow, and on Jacob’s left, was the youngest member of the group, Jess Robinson. She had surprised, and not exactly endeared herself, to Rosalind by being so completely at home in this group of older people, and Jacob in particular, who seemed to be completely unperturbed by her forwardness. In fact Jacob was far from being unperturbed due to the fact that Jess’s right foot had been nestling rather comfortably against his left for the last few minutes.

My god she’s up for it, too, he thought.

” Soup, sir?”

” Eh?”

” Soup, sir”, asked the waiter of Samuelson again.

” Soup, yes. Soup.”

While the group partook of the soup, a not unpleasant pigs-trotter broth, Jess began to talk of the importance of women in the world of politics, acting, and the activities of the bedroom, which almost made George choke on said soup. And although Rosalind tended to agree with the young woman she didn’t feel comfortable with such things being said in public, and in front of a new employer. Rosalind then turned to her husband and gave him a look that ensured he kept his thoughts on the subject very firmly to himself.

So, through the first course – and indeed the fish and roast beef that followed – the group continued to operate in this manner. Each conversing with another – the Donaldson quietly talking of their (or rather Henry’s) needs during this production; Jacob chatting to Jess and Rosalind about the social changes he had seen in his lifetime, at the same time playfully touching first the knee of Jess and then Rosalind’s, who both responded with their feet.

Thomas Devereux ended up in conversation with George Bartlett about the best way to prepare for the play, a subject that George seemed to have little or no interest in. All George was interested in was quietly stashing away bread rolls, apples and even a bottle of wine, under the table to help replenish his larder in the caravan.

But before George could grab a few slices of beef Henry Donaldson stood up and rapped his wine glass loudly with his coffee spoon. All the other guests in the restaurant turned to see what was going on, which had been Donaldson’s intention of course.

And with a, “If I may have your attention, Ladies and Gentlemen! Thank you”, he continued.” Now, you all know who I am, but more importantly you know who our employer is, Sir Augustus Littleton, actor and producer extraordinaire, who, after such a fine banquet in such an exquisite hostelry, should be allowed to say a few words.”

The table rang out with “Surely! Surely!” and “Of course!” And so Donaldson, having introduced the man opposite him, sat back down looking as relaxed as a cat after a bowl of cream. A round of applause rang out, and with perfect timing Littleton stood and held out his hands as if to quell the continuing applause.

” Thank you, Henry. You truly are very kind. And may I just say that it is an honour, nay, a privilege, to work with you all again. But let me talk of this production, written by a very skilled playwright who, sadly, cannot be with us tonight, called. The Crime of the Crimea. This is an exciting project, I can tell you, and I know you will all perform your roles to the very letter because I know you are all prepared to work. There are no parts available for wastrels in my productions, so I know you won’t let me down.”

All the guests, with the exception of Thomas Devereux, knew they would not let him down.

” But before I continue I would like to introduce three new faces who I am sure will soon feel as if they’ve known you all for years, and three young people who will not only need your help, but your guidance too.”

Littleton looked hard at Donaldson, who nodded.

” Firstly, may I introduce Rosalind and Thomas Devereux.”

The young couple stood and smiled.

” They are, I am assured by the playwright, who recommended them to me, two of this countries rising theatrical stars. So I hand them over to your tender mercies.”

There was another round of applause, led this time by Jacob Samuelson, whose hands had, until he’d brought them together to applaud, been firmly clamped to the thighs of Rosalind and Jess.

” Hear, hear, sir!” bellowed Samuelson. ” My tender mercies are, as ever, at the service of a fellow thespian, especially one so beautiful as Mrs Devereux.”

I bet they are, thought Thomas Devereux, as he looked, with a beaming, innocent, smile, at Samuelson, I bet they are.

The Devereuxs, with extenuated bows to the other guests, sat back down.

” And secondly,” continued Littleton, ” may I introduce Jessica Robinson.”

Littleton gestured to Jess with his right hand for her to stand, which, after removing Samuelson’s hand from her thigh, she did with a flourish that was just a bit too theatrical, with more than a whiff of the bordello about it.

” Now, ladies and gentlemen, Jess is an actress of outstanding talents, talents I have witnessed first hand on many occasions.”

George Bartlett looked hard at Littleton, although Littleton avoided his gaze and shouted out:

” Would that be on any stage we are familiar with, Augustus?”

” Oh, indeed, George. One very familiar to you.”

George smiled widely and then asked Jess: ” Do you have any children, Miss Robinson?”

” Children, sir? No, sir.”

Littleton now intervened.

” I think that’s enough, George.”

” Civil question, Augustus. I’ve known many in this business with the odd secret or two.”

Thomas Devereux’s ears pricked up.

” Such as, Mr Bartlett?” he asked.

Donaldson and Littleton now looked at George with a severity that wasn’t lost on Devereux.

” Oh, nothing that need concern you, Mr Devereux,” came George’s reply.

After looking slowly around, and looking everyone in the eye, Littleton continued.

” Anyway, my dear fellows, I would ask that you take Miss Robinson into the bosom of your kindly hearts.”

Jess gratefully sat back down, gave George Bartlett a look that was as sharp as a butcher’s knife, and then gave Jacob Samuelson a swift jab in the ribs with her elbow as he tried to clamp his hand back onto her thigh.

Littleton, after instructing the waiters to refill the glasses
with champagne, continued.

” Now, I’m sure you’re all keen to know what this play is about. So come on a trip back in time. The year is 1854, the siege of Sebastapol is under way in the Crimea. The Russian Bear sits with his back to the wall. Despite dreadful losses, like the suicidal Charge Of The Light Brigade, the British, helped by our allies, the French, have the port on the Black Sea under bombardment. Whilst inside a brave man, once rejected by the army, fights nobly to defend the city. That man is General Totleben.”

” Played by my good self, perhaps? asked Donaldson, who, grinning from ear-to-ear, knew he’d been born to play this part.

And indeed he had. Everyone else at the table, except Dorothea, turned to their neighbour, quietly asking who this Totleben fellow was. Even the older thespians had no real inkling of who he was, even if they had heard of the rumblings in the East some twenty-five years earlier. The question was: who were they going to be playing?