Last Act by Jane Aiken Hodge Page B

himself another Marcus, will he not?” Absurd, in a way, to make such a point of this, and yet … “Have all the other singers signed?” she asked.
    â€œThat is their affair.” The lawyer retrieved the contract and folded it with an angry rustle of stiff paper. “I must consult the Prince about this.”
    â€œPerhaps he will let me explain my views to him tonight. It is a matter of principle with me. I am sure he will understand.”
    â€œTonight?” asked the lawyer.
    She smiled at him sweetly. “I am dining at the castle,” she said.
    When the time came, it was the last thing she wanted to do. The day had been an exhausting kaleidoscope of hard work and new faces. The first rehearsal had introduced her to Adolf Stern, who played Regulus and made it very clear that he would rather sing with a Princess than with a British unknown. Incredibly handsome in the best blond Viking manner, he seemed wasted as anything but Siegfried, and made an occasional passing reference to Bayreuth—“But, of course, Lissenberg must come first.” He did not explain why, and Anne did not ask him, any more than she asked whether he had signed that anti-union clause in the contract. She thought he very likely had. She was afraid, as he contrived to make her miss her cue for the third time, that she was not going to like Herr Stern very much. She was also very sure that when she knew her words better, she would be able to cope with him, and managed to convey as much to an anxious Carl Meyer in a brief aside as they parted.
    Anyway, the music was what mattered, and the music was extraordinary. Carl had been right in his description of it as Beethoven at his best, the music echoing the grandeur of the tragedy, and yet a recurrent C major theme, which she was learning to love, reminding, always, of human dignity. Only Regulus, his daughter, and Marcus were given it, and oddly enough, the Carthaginian leader, just once. But, leafing quickly through the complete score Carl had found for her, Anne saw that it came out strong in the final chorus, sung by the Roman people after Regulus and Marcus had sailed away to the barbarous fate that awaited them.
    She looked at her watch. Half past seven. One does not keep royalty waiting. Ten minutes later she was breathlessly applying lipstick when the telephone rang. “The car is here, Miss Paget.” Did Josef never go off duty?
    She stepped into shabby golden sandals, picked up the bag that matched them, twisted a piece of Woolworth’s gold chain round her neck in lieu of her lost jewels, flashed herself a wry grin in the glass and hurried along the hall to the lift. She ought to be worrying about that contract, but, why? So far as she could see, her position was impregnable. I look down on them, she thought, from the unassailable ramparts of death.
    Downstairs, Josef was waiting near the lift doors. “Punctuality”—he smiled at her—“is the politeness of princes.”
    â€œOr to them. Will I do, Josef?”
    â€œAdmirably.” Comforting to think he meant it. “The car’s outside.” He looked as if he might have said more, thought better of it, and escorted her through the lobby in silence. A couple of Roman citizens whom she had met earlier in the day honoured her passing with low whistles, which confirmed her theory that they were Italian. But it was good for morale, and so was the courteous way Josef ushered her out through the heavy door and down the well-lighted portico steps to where a small sports car was waiting. She turned, smiling. “And there was I expecting a pumpkin carriage at the least of it.”
    â€œYou’ll be just as surprised.” He led her round the car and opened the front door for her.
    â€œForgive my not getting out.” A girl’s voice, warm, deep, friendly and, to the expert ear, unmistakable. “It’s such a bind in long skirts.”
    â€œPrincess