“I can’t say I’m surprised,” I admitted, meeting Gage’s eyes. “The play at the Theatre Royal was also a remarkable success. You should have seen the mother’s death scene. There practically wasn’t a dry eye in the house. And the staging of the jailbreak scene was nothing short of revolutionary.”
“Not to mention the swordfight with Maggie Kincaid’s kidnappers,” Gage supplied.
“The Grand’s version had its fair share of fisticuffs and violence, as well. Along with a storm created by special effects, a ghost scene . . .” The corner of Anderley’s lips quirked. “And not one but two defiant speeches decrying the aristocracy’s suppression of the poor.”
Given the fact that the Grand’s audience was composed of people from the lower and merchant classes, this wasn’t entirely unexpected. Nor was the fact that such a thing was left out of the Theatre Royal’s script.
“Aye, but I think the main draw is the banter and the music. Over and over, in the streets, I heard people repeatin’ some o’ the choicest phrases and singin’ the more memorable tunes. The drinkin’ song from the second act seems to be the favorite.” She began to hum a few bars.
“Good heavens,” I gasped. “I heard a lad singing that inside the Lejeunes’ patisserie just the other day. Something about . . . nix my dolly?”
“Aye, that’s the one. ’Tis a catchy tune. Probably more so because it’s in thieves’ cant.”
Anderley’s fingers drummed against the arms of his chair, revealing more of his restlessness and agitation than perhaps he realized. “All the theaters and gaffs recognize what a windfall Bonnie Brock’s story is, and they’re going to keep competing with one another for their share of the audience and profits as long as the interest lasts.”
“Which could be a very long time,” I murmured in resignation.
“What of the story?” Gage interjected. “Did it adhere closely to what’s in the book?”
Once again, Bree and Anderley exchanged a look.
“Yes and no,” Anderley replied somewhat hesitantly. “I suppose it followed the general narrative of the book, but there were also parts that were heavily . . . embellished.”
I wasn’t certain I liked that word. Embellished. It gave me a sinking feeling. I could tell from the tone of Gage’s voice that he didn’t like it either.
“Embellished how? Did they mention the corruption?”
“No. No, they didn’t touch on that.”
“What about the body snatching?”
“They mainly skirted that issue, as well.”
Much like the Theatre Royal, they understood what played well with their audience and what did not.
Gage arched his eyebrows. “Then . . . ?”
Anderley cleared his throat, seeming to look to Bree for help, but she merely scowled at him. “Well, the venue being what it is, and the audience being less inhibited . . . I suppose you could say the dialogue was a bit . . . bawdier.”
My gaze flicked to Bree’s furrowed brow and back. “Just the dialogue?”
“Er, well . . .” He cleared his throat again. “Mainly.”
What exactly this meant was unclear, but given Anderley’s discomfort and Bree’s displeasure at his mentioning it, it was easy to deduce that this bawdiness pertained to the alleged romantic relationship between me and Bonnie Brock. That sick, swirling feeling began again in the pit of my stomach. I knew I should ignore it all. After all, what was there to be done? But the ire and aggravation etched across Gage’s face made it difficult to disregard.
“And did the characters Lady Dalby and Mr. Gale look like us?” Gage demanded to know.
“Not particularly,” Anderley replied.
Which meant the theater hadn’t gone out of its way to make the characters not look like us.
Gage turned to stare into the hearth, aggravation tightening every muscle of his six-foot-two-inch frame. Meanwhile, Bree continued to glare at Anderley across the expanse of the low table. But it wasn’t his fault. He was merely the messenger.
“Well, at least now we know what we have to contend with,” I said. “The Theatre Royal and others like it might choose to omit some of the more titillating elements of the book, but it appears the minor theaters will not balk at it.”
Gage exhaled a deep breath, releasing some of his frustration. “And neither will the gaffs and any traveling shows. In fact, I expect some of them to be outright lewd.”
Anderley nodded in confirmation.
More often than not, when the manager of a theater company was fined or prosecuted for lewdness or indecency, it was one of the makeshift, pop-up penny gaffs or a traveling company of players moving from county to county—for obvious reasons. It was far easier to evade the law when one’s play could take place in a different location every night.
“What of the production and audience in general?” I broke off, grunting as I adjusted the pillow at my lower back. “Did anything occur to you that might help us uncover the author’s identity? For instance, differences in interpretations between what the book describes and what the playwright and actors chose to portray?”
I was curious to hear their thoughts. For some reason the book had given me the impression that Mugdock had not actually lived among the people he described. Despite his intimate knowledge of Bonnie Brock’s past and vivid descriptions of some of the more lurid elements of his life, I felt quite certain Mugdock had never been a member of Brock’s gang or even a rival one. For all its insight, at times the story devolved into either bland prose or gross caricature, making me suspect Mugdock was unfamiliar with what he was describing, and so had chosen to either ignore it entirely or manufacture the ambience out of whole cloth.
In contrast, many of the members of a minor theater’s company had likely lived and grown up among the streets of Old Town, if not in Grassmarket itself. They knew the streets and wynds, the sounds and smells and textures of its walls. They intimately understood many of the experiences Bonnie Brock had endured, and they would have corrected any inaccuracies, either consciously or not, found in the book.
It was clear from her troubled expression that something had occurred to Bree almost immediately, though it took her a moment to find her words. “Well, I dinna ken how they depicted him at the Theatre Royal, but one o’ the things that most struck me was how ruthless they portrayed Bonnie Brock. They certainly dinna shy away from it.”
Anderley crossed his arms over his chest as he considered this. “He was very much the relentless, unbending, almost brutal man he’s purported to be. And yet this did not repel the audience. Far from it. They seemed to find him even more heroic because of it.”