Found a nice piece of Gutenberg mash in the archive tonight, in a spam mail from “Juen Staenglen” entitled “goitres”:
The scene it inspired takes place in a rehearsal room at June Staenglen’s amateur dramatics group. Miss Staenglen, the chorus master and the seamstress discuss a mysterious death.
The Soprano’s Brother
“Heyello!” cried Mr. Goitres, the chorus master, as he blustered into the rehearsal room. “I hope the scripts have been marked up!”
Miss Staenglen sighed, and prepared to deliver another lecture about nonproprietary and proprietary form. She was overburdened, and worried greatly about her tasks again. The last things she needed was Mr. Goitres’ sticking his oar in.
“The scripts have been marked up, sir,” she muttered. “I did it myself this afternoon,”
“Where is our new soprano?” Goitres asked, scanning the room.
“She has left the group,” Miss Staenglen told him.
“It’s awfully tragic,” piped up Miss Monro, the seamstress. “She has stopped singing! She suffered a terrible loss, you see. The very day her brother killed himself, she sang no more.”
“So that’s it?” Goitres barked. “We don’t have a lead soprano?”
“By the looks of it,” Miss Staenglen said.
“The looks of it,” Goitres chuckled to himself, then spread his arms melodramatically. “So looks the Shakespearean actor who is confronted!”
“Yes, indeed,” sighed Miss Monro, turning back to her stitching. “Poor boy,”
“Who?” Goitres asked, sitting down at the piano.
“The soprano’s brother what died,” Miss Monro said. “Her family is Spanish, you know,”
“Then let’s do as the Inquisition had done, and banish them from our thoughts!” Goitres commanded. “We have a performance to rehearse. There’s no time for idle chit-chat,”
Miss Monro turned to Miss Staenglen. “And I imagine that they’ll leave England at once, for the disgrace of it!”
Goitres looked at the women, aghast.
“You can do no good here with your gossip!” he cried. “We have to rehearse the play!”
“Mr. Goitres, sir,” Miss Monro turned to him. “I don’t suppose you could recommend to them to improve their acquaintance with the church?”
“Raisins of the sun ston’d,” Goitres cursed, sighing in exasperation.
“If you couldn’t spare them just a small hundred pounds in money,” Miss Monro went on. “For them to pay for a funeral with,”
“I shan’t even consider it!” Goitres snapped. “I hardly know this woman!”
“But she has something which will set you pleading,” said Miss Monro.
“And what might that be?” Goitres’ curiosity was piqued, but he tried not to show it.
“It’s been said that the brother was killed by a rival,” Miss Monro began. Miss Staenglen gasped.
“So it wasn’t a suicide?”
“No! A murder!” Miss Monro whispered. “And if the family remains here, you can help them bring their case before the Queen, sir!”
Goitres mulled it over. Since retiring from the Bar the previous year, he had often yearned to be back in court, fighting for justice. His eyes glazed for a moment. Then, with a curl of his lip, he rose.
“The wheel turns upon a pivot placed just so,” he proclaimed. “And just as raisins are put in a pipkin, I will take on this case,”
Just then, there was a knock at the door. It was a barrow boy carrying a sliced ham.
“Ah, supper has arrived!” Goitres marched over and opened the door.
“Mr. Peters has left instructions, sir,” the barrow boy said.
“Will you come in?” Goitres stepped aside. “There’s plenty to go around,”
“No, I oughtn’t, sir,” the boy made to retreat.
“Very well. Then, ladies,” Goitres laid the ham on the piano and beckoned to Miss Staenglen and Miss Monro. “Let us eat!”
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