Night at the Vulcan

  ‘I’ve no idea about that,’ Clem said. ‘Alleyn just said they’d be here soon.’ He had brought a cup of soup with him and he withdrew into a corner and began to drink it. The others watched him anxiously but said nothing.

  ‘What did he ask you about?’ Jacko demanded suddenly.

  ‘About what we did at the time.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Well, yes. He—well in point of fact, he seemed to be interested in the alterations to the theatre.’

  ‘To the dressing-rooms in particular?’ Poole asked quickly.

  ‘Yes,’ Clem said unhappily. ‘To them.’

  There was a long silence broken by Jacko.

  ‘I find nothing remarkable in this,’ he said. ‘Ella has shown us the way with great courage and Adam has spoken his mind. Let us all speak ours. I may resemble an ostrich but I do not propose to imitate its behaviour. Of what do we all think? There is the unpleasing little circumstance of the Jupiter case and we think of that. When Gay mentions it she does so with the air of one who opens a closet and out tumbles a skeleton. But why? It is inevitable that these gentlemen, who also remember the Jupiter case, should wish to inspect the dressing-rooms. They wish, in fact, to make very sure indeed that this is a case of suicide and not of murder. And since we are all quite certain that it is suicide we should not disturb ourselves that they do their duty.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Poole said.

  ‘It’s going,’ Darcey muttered, ‘to be damn bad publicity.’

  ‘Merciful Heavens!’ Parry Percival exclaimed. ‘The Publicity! None of us thought of that!’

  ‘Did we not?’ said Poole.

  ‘I must say,’ Parry complained, ‘I would like to know what’s going to happen, Adam. I mean—darling Ella, I know you’ll understand—but I mean, about the piece. Do we go on? Or what?’

  ‘Yes,’ Helena said. ‘We go on. Please, Adam.’

  ‘Ella, I’ve got to think. There are so many—’

  ‘We go on. Indeed, indeed we do.’

  Martyn felt rather than saw the sense of relief in Darcey and Percival.

  Darcey said, ‘I’m the understudy, Lord help me,’ and Percival made a tiny ambiguous sound that might have been one of satisfaction or of chagrin.

  ‘How are you for it, J.G.?’ Helena asked.

  ‘I know it,’ he said heavily.

  ‘I’ll work whenever you like. We’ve got the weekend.’

  ‘Thank you, Ella.’

  ‘Your own understudy’s all right,’ said Clem.

  ‘Good.’

  It was clear to Martyn that this retreat into professionalism was a great relief to them and it was clear also that Poole didn’t share in their comfort. Watching him, she was reminded of his portrait in the greenroom: he looked withdrawn and troubled.

  A lively and almost cosy discussion about recasting had developed. Clem Smith, Jacko and Percival were all talking at once when, with her infallible talent for scenes, Gay exclaimed passionately:

  ‘I can’t bear it! I think you’re all awful!’

  They broke off. Having collected their attention she built rapidly to her climax. ‘To sit round and talk about the show as if nothing had happened! How you can! When beyond those doors, he’s lying there forgotten. Cold and forgotten! It’s the most brutal thing I’ve ever heard of and if you think I’m coming near this horrible, fated, haunted place again, I’m telling you, here and now, that wild horses wouldn’t drag me inside the theatre once I’m away from it. I suppose someone will find time to tell me when the funeral is going to be. I happen to be just about his only relation.’

  They all began to expostulate at once but she topped their lines with the determination of a robust star. ‘You needn’t bother to explain,’ she shouted. ‘I understand only too well, thank you.’ She caught sight of Martyn and pointed wildly at her. ‘You’ve angled for this miserable part, and now you’ve got it. I think it’s extremely likely you’re responsible for what’s happened.’

  Poole said: ‘You’ll stop at once, Gay. Stop.’

  ‘I won’t! I won’t be gagged! It drove my Uncle Ben to despair and I don’t care who knows it.’

  It was upon this line that Alleyn, as if he had mastered one of the major points of stage technique, made his entrance up-stage and centre.

  Although he must have heard every word of Gay’s final outburst, Alleyn gave no sign of having done so.

  ‘Well, now,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid the first thing I have to say to you all won’t be very pleasant news. We don’t look like getting through with our side of this unhappy business as quickly as I hoped. I know you are all desperately tired and very shocked and I’m sorry. But the general circumstances aren’t quite as straightforward as, on the face of it, you have probably supposed them to be.’

  A trickle of ice moved under Martyn’s diaphragm. She thought: ‘No, it’s not fair. I can’t be made to have two goes of the jim-jams in one night.’

  Alleyn addressed himself specifically to Helena Hamilton.

  ‘You’ll have guessed—of course you will—that one can’t overlook the other case of gas-poisoning that is associated with this theatre. It must have jumped to everybody’s mind, almost at once.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ she said. ‘We’ve been talking about it.’

  The men looked uneasily at her but Alleyn said at once: ‘I’m sure you have. So have we. And I expect you’ve wondered, as we have, if the memory of that former case could have influenced your husband.’

  ‘I’m certain it did,’ she said quickly. ‘We all are.’

  The others made small affirmative noises. Only Dr Rutherford was silent. Martyn saw with amazement that his chin had sunk on his rhythmically heaving bosom, his eyes were shut and his lips pursed in the manner of a sleeper who is just not snoring. He was at the back of the group and, she hoped, concealed from Alleyn.

  ‘Have you,’ Alleyn asked, ‘any specific argument to support this theory?’

  ‘No specific reason. But I know he thought a lot of that other dreadful business. He didn’t like this theatre. Mr Alleyn, actors are sensitive to atmosphere. We talk a lot about the theatres we play in and we get very vivid—you would probably think absurdly vivid—impressions of their “personalities”. My husband felt there was a—an unpleasant atmosphere in this place. He often said so. In a way I think it had a rather horrible fascination for him. We’d a sort of tacit understanding in the Vulcan that its past history wouldn’t be discussed among us but I know he did talk about it. Not to us but to people who had been concerned in the other affair.’

  ‘Yes, I see.’ Alleyn waited for a moment. The young constable completed a note. His back was now turned to the company. ‘Did anyone else notice this preoccupation of Mr Bennington’s?’

  ‘Oh, yes!’ Gay said with mournful emphasis. ‘I did. He talked to me about it, but when he saw how much it upset me—because I’m so stupidly sensitive to atmosphere—I just can’t help it—it’s one of those things—but I am—because when I first came—into the theatre I just knew—you may laugh at me but these things can’t be denied—’

  ‘When,’ Alleyn prompted, ‘he saw that it upset you?’

  ‘He stopped. I was his niece. It was rather a marvellous relationship.’

  ‘He stopped,’ Alleyn said. ‘Right.’ He had a programme in his hand and now glanced at it. ‘You must be Miss Gainsford I think. Is that right?’

  ‘Yes, I am. But my name’s really Bennington. I’m his only brother’s daughter. My father died in the war and Uncle Ben really felt we were awfully near to each other, do you know? That’s why it’s so devastating for me because I sensed how wretchedly unhappy he was.’

  ‘Do you mind telling us why you thought him so unhappy?’

  J. G. Darcey interposed quickly: ‘I don’t think it was more than a general intuitive sort of thing, was it, Gay? Nothing special.’

  ‘Well—’ Gay said reluctantly and Helena intervened.

  ‘I don’t think any of
us have any doubt about my husband’s unhappiness, Mr Alleyn. Before you came in I was saying how most most anxious I am that we should be very frank with each other and of course with you. My husband drank so heavily that he had ruined his health and his work quite completely. I wasn’t able to help him and we were not—’ The colour died out of her face and she hesitated. ‘Our life together wasn’t true,’ she said, ‘it had no reality at all. Tonight he behaved very badly on the stage. He coloured his part at the expense of the other actors and I think he was horrified at what he’d done. He was very drunk indeed tonight. I feel he suddenly looked at himself and couldn’t face what he saw. I feel that very strongly.’

  ‘One does sense these things,’ Gay interjected eagerly, ‘or I do at any rate.’

  ‘I’m sure you do,’ Alleyn agreed politely. Gay drew breath and was about to go on when he said: ‘Of course, if any of you can tell us any happenings or remarks or so on, that seem to prove that he had this thing in mind, it will be a very great help.’

  Martyn heard her voice, acting, it seemed, of its own volition: ‘I think, perhaps—’

  Alleyn turned to her and his smile reassured her. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Forgive me, but I don’t yet know all your names.’ He looked again at his programme and then at her. Gay gave a small laugh. Darcey put his hand over hers and said something undistinguishable.

  Poole said quickly: ‘Miss Martyn Tarne. She is, or should be, our heroine tonight. Miss Gainsford was ill and Miss Tarne, who was the understudy, took her part at half an hour’s notice. We’d all be extremely proud of her if we had the wits to be anything but worried and exhausted.’

  Martyn’s heart seemed to perform some eccentric gyration in the direction of her throat and she thought: ‘That’s done it. Now my voice is going to be ungainly with emotion.’

  Alleyn said: ‘That must have been a most terrifying and exciting adventure,’ and she gulped and nodded. ‘What had you remembered,’ he went on after a moment, ‘that might help us?’

  ‘It was something he said when he came off in the last act.’

  ‘For his final exit in the play?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ll be very glad to hear it.’

  ‘I’ll try to remember exactly what it was,’ Martyn said carefully. ‘I was in the dressing-room passage on my way to my—to Miss Gainsford’s room and he caught me up. He spoke very disjointedly and strangely, not finishing his sentences. But one thing he said—I think it was the last—I do remember quite distinctly because it puzzled me very much. He said: “I just wanted to tell you that you needn’t suppose what I’m going to do—” and then he stopped as if he was confused and added, I think: “you needn’t suppose—” and broke off again. And then Jacko—Mr Doré—came and told me to go into the dressing-room to have my make-up attended to and, I think, said something to Mr Bennington about his.’

  ‘I told him he was shining with sweat,’ said Jacko. ‘And he went into his room.’

  ‘Alone?’ Alleyn asked.

  ‘I just looked in to make sure he had heard me. I told him again he needed powder and then went at once to this infant.’

  ‘Miss Tarne, can you remember anything else Mr Bennington said?’

  ‘Not really. I’m afraid I was rather in a haze myself just then.’

  ‘The great adventure?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Martyn gratefully. ‘I’ve an idea he said something about my performance. Perhaps I should explain that I knew he must be very disappointed and upset about my going on instead of Miss Gainsford but his manner was not unfriendly and I have the impression that he meant to say he didn’t bear for me, personally, any kind of resentment. But that’s putting it too definitely. I’m not at all sure what he said, except for that one sentence. Of that I’m quite positive.’

  ‘Good,’ Alleyn said. ‘Thank you. Did you hear this remark, Mr Doré?’

  Jacko said promptly: ‘But certainly. I was already in the passage and he spoke loudly as I came up.’

  ‘Did you form any opinion as to what he meant?’

  ‘I was busy and very pleased with this infant and I did not concern myself. If I thought at all it was to wonder if he was going to make a scene because the niece had not played. He had a talent for scenes. It appears to be a family trait. I thought perhaps he meant that this infant would not be included in some scene he planned to make or be scolded for her success.’

  ‘Did he seem to you to be upset?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Yes. Upset. Yes.’

  ‘Very much distressed, would you say?’

  ‘All his visage wanned?’ inquired a voice in the background. ‘Tears in his eyes. Distraction in’s aspect?’

  Alleyn moved his position until he could look past Gay and Darcey at the recumbent doctor. ‘Or even,’ he said, ‘his whole function suiting with forms to his conceit?’

  ‘Hah!’ the doctor ejaculated and sat up. ‘Upon my soul the whirligig of time brings in his revenges. Even to the point where the dull detection apes at artifice, inspectors echo with informéd breath their pasteboard prototypes of fancy wrought. I am amazed and know not what to say.’ He helped himself to snuff and fell back into a recumbent position.

  ‘Please don’t mind him,’ Helena said, smiling at Alleyn. ‘He is a very foolish vain old man and has read somewhere that it’s clever to quote in a muddled sort of way from the better known bits of the Bard.’

  ‘We encourage him too much,’ Jacko added gloomily.

  ‘We have become too friendly with him,’ said Poole.

  ‘A figo for your friendship,’ said Dr Rutherford.

  Parry Percival sighed ostentatiously and Darcey said: ‘Couldn’t we get on?’ Alleyn looked good-humouredly at Jacko and said: ‘Yes, Mr Doré?’

  ‘I wouldn’t agree,’ Jacko said, ‘that Ben was very much upset but that was an almost chronic condition of late with poor Ben. I believe now with Miss Hamilton that he had decided there was little further enjoyment to be found in observing the dissolution of his own character and was about to take the foolproof way of ending it. He wished to assure Martyn that the decision had nothing to do with chagrin over Martyn’s success or the failure of his niece. And that, if I am right, was nice of Ben.’

  ‘I don’t think we need use the word “failure”,’ J.G. objected. ‘Gay was quite unable to go on.’

  ‘I hope you are better now, Miss Gainsford,’ Alleyn said.

  Gay made an eloquent gesture with both hands and let them fall in her lap. ‘What does it matter?’ she said. ‘Better? Oh, yes, I’m better.’ And with the closest possible imitation of Helena Hamilton’s familiar gesture she extended her hand, without looking at him to J.G. Darcey. He took it anxiously. ‘Much better,’ he said, patting it.

  Martyn thought: ‘Oh, dear, he is in love with her. Poor J.G.!’

  Alleyn looked thoughtfully at them for a moment and then turned to the others.

  ‘There’s a general suggestion,’ he said, ‘that none of you was very surprised by this event. May I just—sort of tally-up—the general opinion as far as I’ve heard it? It helps to keep things tidy, I find. Miss Hamilton, you tell us that your husband had a curious, an almost morbid interest in the Jupiter case. You and Mr Doré agree that Mr Bennington had decided to take his life because he couldn’t face the “dissolution of his character”. Miss Gainsford, if I understand her, believes he was deeply disturbed by the mise en scène and also by her inability to go on tonight for this part. Miss Tarne’s account of what was probably the last statement he made suggests that he wanted her to understand that some action he had in mind had nothing to do with her. Mr Doré supports this interpretation and confirms the actual words that were used. This, as far as it goes, is the only tangible bit of evidence as to intention that we have.’

  Poole lifted his head. His face was very white and a lock of black hair had fallen over his forehead turning him momentarily into the likeness, Martyn thought inconsequently, of Michelangelo’s ‘Adam’. He said: ‘There’s the fac
t itself, Alleyn. There’s what he did.’

  Alleyn said carefully: ‘There’s an interval of perhaps eight minutes between what he said and when he was found.’

  ‘Look here—’ Parry Percival began and then relapsed. ‘Let it pass,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘Pipe up, Narcissus,’ Dr Rutherford adjured him, ‘the inspector won’t bite you.’

  ‘Oh, shut up!’ Parry shouted and was awarded a complete and astonished silence. He rose and addressed himself to the players. ‘You’re all being so bloody frank and sensible about this suicide,’ he said. ‘You’re so anxious to show everybody how honest you are. The doctor’s so unconcerned he can even spare a moment to indulge in his favourite pastime of me-baiting. I know what the doctor thinks of me and it doesn’t say much for his talents as a diagnostician. But if it’s Queer to feel desperately sorry for a man who was miserable enough to choke himself to death at a gas-jet, if it’s Queer to be physically and mentally sick at the thought of it then, by God, I’d rather be Queer than normal. Now!’

  There followed a silence broken only by the faint whisper of the young constable’s pencil.

  Doctor Rutherford struggled to his feet and lumbered down to Parry.

  ‘Your argument, my young coxcomb,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘is as seaworthy as a sieve. As for my diagnosis, if you’re the normal man you’d have me believe, why the hell don’t you show like one? You exhibit the stigmata of that waterfly whom it is a vice to know, and fly into a fit when the inevitable conclusion is drawn.’ He took Parry by the elbow and addressed himself to the company in the manner of a lecturer. ‘A phenomenon,’ he said, ‘that is not without its dim interest. I invite your attention. Here is an alleged actor who, an hour or two since, was made a public and egregious figure of fun by the deceased. Who was roasted by the deceased before an audience of a thousand whinnying nincompoops? Who allowed his performance to be prostituted by the deceased before this audience? Who before his final and most welcome exit suffered himself to be tripped up contemptuously by the deceased, and who fell on his painted face before this audience? Here is this phenomenon, ladies and gents, who now proposes himself as Exhibit A in the Compassion Stakes. I invite your—’