Inspector Alleyn 3-Book Collection 6: Opening Night, Spinsters in Jeopardy, Scales of Justice

‘You are prolific in cryptic titles.’

‘Call her what you like, it’s a peculiar business. What is she? You may as well tell me, you know. Some ancient indiscretion of Adam’s adolescence come home to roost?’

‘Be quiet, Ben.’

‘For twopence I’d ask Adam himself. And that’s not the only question I’d like to ask him. Do you think I relish my position?’

‘They are getting near the tag. It is almost over.’

‘Why do you suppose I drink a bit? What would you do in my place?’

‘Think before I speak,’ said Jacko, ‘for one thing.’

A buzzer sounded. ‘There’s the curtain,’ said Jacko. ‘Look out.’

Martyn heard a kind of scuffle followed by an oath from Bennington. There were steps in the passage. The curtain fell with a giant whisper. A gust of air swept through the region back-stage.

‘All on,’ said the stage-manager distantly. Martyn heard the players go on and the curtain rise and fall again.

Poole, on the stage, said: ‘And that’s all of that. All right, everyone. Settle down and I’ll take the notes. John will be round in a moment. I’ll wait for you, Ella.’

Miss Hamilton came into the improvised room. Martyn removed her dress and put her into her gown.

‘I’ll take my make-up off out there,’ she said. ‘Bring the things, Martyn, will you? Grease, towels and my cigarettes?’

Martyn had them ready. She followed Miss Hamilton out and for the first time that night went on to the set.

Poole, wearing a dark dressing-gown, stood with his back to the curtain. The other five members of the cast sat, relaxed but attentive, about the stage. Jacko and Clem Smith waited by the prompt corner with papers and pencils. Martyn held a looking-glass before Miss Hamilton who said: ‘Adam, darling, you don’t mind, do you? I mustn’t miss a word but I do rather want to get on,’ and began to remove her make-up.

Upon this scene Dr John James Rutherford erupted. His arrival was prefaced in his usual manner by slammed doors, blundering footsteps and loud ejaculations. He then appeared in the central entrance, flame-headed, unshaven, overcoated, and grasping a sheaf of papers.

‘Roast me,’ he said, ‘in sulphur. Wash me in steepdown gulfs of liquid fire ere I again endure the loathy torment of a dress-rehearsal. What have I done, ye gods, that I should –’

‘All right, John,’ Poole said. ‘Not yet. Sit down. On some heavy piece of furniture and carefully.’

Clem Smith shouted: ‘Alf! The doctor’s chair.’

A large chair with broken springs was brought on and placed with its back to the curtain. Dr Rutherford hurled himself into it and produced his snuff-box. ‘I am a child to chiding,’ he said. ‘What goes on, chums?’

Poole said: ‘I’m going to take my stuff. If anything I have to say repeats exactly any of your own notes you might leave it out for the sake of saving time. If you’ve any objections, be a good chap and save them till I’ve finished. Agreed?’

‘Can’t we cut the flummery and get down to business.’

‘That’s just what I’m suggesting.’

‘Is it? I wasn’t listening. Press on then, my dear fellow. Press on.’

They settled down. Jacko gave Poole a block of notes and he began to work through them. ‘Nothing much in Act I,’ he said, ‘until we get to –’ His voice went on evenly. He spoke of details in timing, of orchestration and occasionally of stage-management. Sometimes a player would ask a question and there would be a brief discussion. Sometimes Clem Smith would make a note. For the scenes where Poole had been on, Jacko, it appeared, had taken separate notes. Martyn learnt for the first time that Jacko’s official status was that of assistant to Poole and thought it characteristic of him that he made so little of his authority.

From where she stood, holding the glass for Helena Hamilton, she could see all the players. In the foreground was the alert and beautiful face of her employer, a little older now with its make-up gone, turning at times to the looking-glass and at times, when something in his notes concerned her, towards Poole. Beyond Miss Hamilton sat J. G. Darcey alone and thoughtfully filling his pipe. He glanced occasionally, with an air of anxious solicitude, at Miss Gainsford. At the far side Parry Percival lay in an armchair looking fretful. Bennington stood near the centre with a towel in his hands. At one moment he came behind his wife. Putting a hand on her shoulder he reached over it, helped himself to a dollop of grease from a jar in her case and slapped it on his face. She made a slight movement of distaste and immediately afterwards a little secret grimace as if she had caught herself out in a blunder. For a moment he retained his hold of her shoulder. Then he looked down at her, dragged his clean fingers across her neck and, smearing the grease over his face, returned to his former position and began to clean away his make-up.

Martyn didn’t want to look at Gay Gainsford but was unable altogether to avoid doing so. Miss Gainsford sat, at first alone, on a smallish sofa. She seemed to have herself tolerably well in hand but her eyes were restless and her fingers plaited and replaited the folds of her dress. Bennington watched her from a distance until he had done with his towel. Then he crossed the stage and sat beside her, taking one of the restless hands in his. He looked hard at Martyn who was visited painfully by a feeling of great compassion for both of them and by a sensation of remorse. She had a notion, which she tried to dismiss as fantastic, that Poole sensed this reaction. His glance rested for a moment on her and she thought: ‘This is getting too complicated. It’s going to be too much for me.’ She made an involuntary movement and at once Miss Hamilton put out a hand to the glass.

When Poole had dealt with the first act he turned to Dr Rutherford who had sat throughout with his legs extended and his chin on his chest, directing from under his brows a glare of extreme malevolence at the entire cast.

‘Anything to add to that, John?’ Poole asked.

‘Apart from a passing observation that I regard the whole thing as a tour de force of understatement and with reservations that I keep to myself –’ Here Dr Rutherford looked fixedly at Parry Percival. ‘I am mum. I reserve my fire.’

‘Act Two, then,’ said Poole and began again.

Martyn became aware after a few minutes that Dr Rutherford, like Bennington, was staring at her. She was as horribly fascinated as birds are said to be by the unwinking gaze of a snake. Do what she could to look elsewhere about the stage, she must after a time steal a glance at him only to meet his speculative and bloodshot regard. This alarmed her profoundly. She was persuaded that a feeling of tension had been communicated to the others and that they, too, were aware of some kind of impending crisis. This feeling grew in intensity as Poole’s voice went steadily on with his notes. He had got about half-way through the second act when Dr Rutherford ejaculated, ‘Hi! Wait a bit!’ and began a frenzied search through his own notes which seemed to be in complete disorder. Finally he pounced on a sheet of paper, dragged out a pair of spectacles and, with a hand raised to enjoin silence, read it to himself with strange noises in his breathing. Having scattered the rest of his notes over his person and the floor he now folded this particular sheet and sat on it.

‘Proceed,’ he said. The cast stirred uneasily. Poole continued. He had come to the scene between himself and Miss Gainsford and beyond a minor adjustment of position said nothing about it. Miss Hamilton, who had arrived at the final stage of her street make-up, dusted her face with powder, nodded good-humouredly at Martyn and turned to face Poole. Martyn thankfully shut the dressing-case and made for the nearest exit.

At the same moment Poole reached the end of his notes for the second act and Dr Rutherford shouted: ‘Hold on! Stop that wench!’

Martyn, with a sensation of falling into chaos, turned in the doorway.

She saw nine faces lifted towards her own. They made a pattern against the smoke-thickened air. Her eyes travelled from one to the other and rested finally on Poole’s.

‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘Go home.’

‘No, you don’t,’ Dr Rutherford shouted excitedly.

‘Indeed she does,’ said Poole. ‘Run away home, Kate. Goodnight to you.’

Martyn heard the storm break as she fled down the passage.

CHAPTER 5 (#ulink_06040a01-e147-5a95-8eb4-cef5e6e7767d)

Opening Night (#ulink_06040a01-e147-5a95-8eb4-cef5e6e7767d)

From noon until half-past six on the opening night of Dr Rutherford’s new play, the persons most concerned in its birth were absent from their theatre. Left to itself the Vulcan was possessed only by an immense expectancy. It waited. In the auditorium, rows of seats, stripped of their dust-cloths, stared at the curtain. The curtain itself presented its reverse side to Jacko’s set, closing it in with a stuffy air of secrecy. The stage was dark. Battalions of dead lamps, focused at crazy angles, overhung it with the promise of light. Cue-sheets fixed to the switchboard awaited the electrician, the prompt-script was on its shelf, the properties were ranged on trestle-tables. Everything abided its time in the dark theatre.

To enter into this silent house was to feel as if one surprised a poised and expectant presence. This air of suspense made itself felt to the occasional intruders: to the boy who from time to time came through from the office with telegrams for the dressing-rooms, to the girl from Florian’s and the young man from the wig-maker’s, and to the piano-tuner who, for an hour, twanged and hammered in the covered well. And to Martyn Tarne who, alone in the ironing-room, set about the final pressing of the dresses under her care.

The offices were already active and behind their sandblasted glass walls typewriters clattered and telephone bells rang incessantly. The blacked-out box-plan lay across Bob Grantley’s desk and stacked along the wall were rectangular parcels of programmes, fresh from the printer.

And at two o’clock the queues for the early doors began to form up in Carpet Street.

II

It was at two o’clock that Helena Hamilton, after an hour’s massage, went to bed. Her husband had telephoned, with a certain air of opulence which she had learnt to dread, that he would lunch at his club and return to their flat during the afternoon to rest.

In her darkened room she followed a practised routine and, relaxing one set of muscles after another, awaited sleep. This time, however, her self-discipline was unsuccessful. If only she could hear him come in it would be better: if only she could see into what sort of state he had got himself. She used all her formulae for repose but none of them worked. At three o’clock she was still awake and still miserably anxious.

It was no good trying to cheer herself up by telling over her rosary of romantic memories. Usually this was a successful exercise. She had conducted her affairs of the heart, she knew, with grace and civility. She had almost always managed to keep them on a level of enchantment. She had simply allowed them to occur with the inconsequence and charm of self-sown larkspurs in an otherwise correctly ordered border. They had hung out their gay little banners for a season and then been painlessly tweaked up. Except, perhaps, for Adam. With Adam, she remembered uneasily, it had been different. With Adam, so much her junior, it had been a more deeply-rooted affair. It had put an end, finally, to her living with Ben as his wife. It had made an enemy of Ben. And at once her thoughts were infested with worries about the contemporary scene at the theatre. ‘It’s such a muddle!’ she thought, ‘and I hate muddles.’ They had had nothing but trouble all through rehearsals. Ben fighting with everybody and jealous of Adam. The doctor bawling everybody out. And that wretchedly unhappy child Gay (who, God knew, would never be an actress as long as she lived) first pitchforked into the part by Ben and now almost bullied out of it by the doctor. And, last of all, Martyn Tarne.