From:
The Daily Telegraph
November 30th 1971, Obituaries page
:
Sir Kenneth Marlesford C.B.E.
,
Industrialist and Philanthropist known as ‘The Blind Billionaire’
(1885–1971)
Sir Kenneth Marlesford, who died at the age of 86, was one of the last of the old school of great industrial magnates. Born in the palmy days of the British Empire, he represented the sturdy values of that era, its overwhelming sense of patriotic duty, and also, perhaps, a certain inflexibility in the unquestioning conviction of the justice of its own cause. As an arms manufacturer he played a key role in both world wars, a role which made him powerful, influential, and phenomenally rich. The sobriquet ‘The Blind Billionaire’ may well have been first coined by the press with alliteration rather than accuracy in mind, but it probably reflects the state of his finances towards the end of his long life. He was born in Salford in 1885, the son of Ezekiel Marlesford, a manufacturer of moderately priced sporting guns. Kenneth Marlesford is said to have been to have been educated at the Manchester Grammar School, though there is no record of his attendance there. Certainly he began working for his father’s firm, the Marlesford Gun Company, at a comparatively early age, and was very soon demonstrating remarkable energy and business acumen. By the time he was in his twenties he had, due to his own abilities and his father’s ailing health, taken over the direction of the firm, which in 1911 became the Marlesford Light Arms Company. By this time the firm had already secured contracts to supply the military with small arms and light field artillery. With the advent of the First World War came a further expansion and another change of name, to Imperial Armaments Ltd. It was the war that made Marlesford a millionaire, but the advent of peace saw no dwindling of the business. The subsequent expansion of Imperial Armaments throughout the ’20s and ’30s was at the expense of other firms, many of which Marlesford took over or bought up, employing business tactics that are more familiar today than they were then. It was in 1935, however, that he suffered his first setback, though this was more on a personal than a business level. Accounts of how he was blinded differ, but on certain facts there is general agreement. There had been some unrest at one of his factories in Sunderland, owing to the lack of safety precautions provided for the men who were working on the manufacture of a new kind of incendiary shell. Marlesford went in person to investigate the cause of unease and settle the dispute. It while he was inspecting arrangements that the accident occurred: there was an explosion, and he received the full force of some virulent chemical compound in his eyes. Rumours that the event was not accidental, but the deliberate contrivance of disaffected workers, have persisted; however, nothing was ever proved. Within the year the Sunderland plant closed down, resulting in many people being thrown out of work. Marlesford did not let his blindness affect his energies and ambitions, and the fact that he remained in full command of a powerful and ever-expanding industrial concern in spite of his visual impairment is testimony to a character of extraordinary tenacity and fortitude. During the Second World War his position as one of Britain’s key arms manufacturers secured him a place in the secret councils of the war office, and he formed close alliances with Lord Beaverbrook (Minister for Procurement) and others of Churchill’s inner circle. Despite his handicap he had the ear of Churchill himself, who referred to him in private, affectionately enough it is thought, as ‘Blind Pew’. In 1943 he married a twenty-six-year-old actress, Jane Selway, to the surprise of many who thought him a confirmed bachelor, but the couple appeared, in the early years of their marriage at least, to be devoted, and he did much to promote his wife’s theatrical career. The differing climate of the post-war years brought changes in the industry, but no diminution of Marlesford’s energies. In recognition of Britain’s new role in the world, Marlesford changed the name of his firm again, from Imperial Armaments to Advance Systems International. After the tragic suicide in 1953 of his wife, Marlesford became something of a recluse and put his business concerns in the hands of a management consortium, of which he remained chairman until his death. Notwithstanding this withdrawal from the world, he began to give generously to various charitable and political causes, and it was these numerous benefactions which earned him a knighthood in 1967. (He had been awarded the C.B.E in 1945 for his wartime services.) He had no children and has left the bulk of his fortune to the Actor’s Benevolent Fund.
From:
The Seabourne Mercury
, Monday August 18th 1952
ACTOR IN TRAGIC DEATH FALL
Horrific Discovery by Stage Doorman
At some time during the night of August 16th or the early hours of the 17th a tragedy occurred at the Grand Pavilion Theatre, Seabourne which has police baffled. On the morning of the 17th of August Mr Jack Pegley, stage doorman and caretaker of the Grand Pavilion, had opened up the theatre and was doing his customary round of inspection when he noticed that something was amiss in the orchestra pit. There he discovered to his horror the body of a man who had evidently fallen from the stage into the pit and broken his neck, though precisely how or why remains a mystery.
The body was quickly identified as that of actor, Roland Payne (31), who only the night before had been appearing at the theatre as Bruce Lovell opposite Jane Selway in a revival of Frank Vosper’s tense drama
Love From a Stranger
. Mr Payne, a popular figure both in the town and among his colleagues, had been playing leading roles at the theatre this summer, and had scored notable successes as Gregory Black in
The Late Edwina Black
and Thomas Mendip in
The Lady’s Not For Burning
.
Whether foul play was involved or whether this was simply a tragic accident, police are unable to say at this moment, but the case has certain puzzling features. Mr Pegley has told the police that the theatre, to the best of his knowledge, was empty when he locked the stage door the previous night, and that it was still locked when he opened it the following morning.
Police investigations continue. Leading actress Jane Selway and her husband, the owner of the theatre, Mr Kenneth Marlesford are said to be deeply shocked and distressed by the event.
From:
The Diary and Notebook of George Vilier
.
Friday 6 July 2006:
Train to Seabourne this afternoon. The town seemed to be full, but fortunately I had booked into ‘Sunnydene Guest House’ on the front for the week.
I’d better state why I’m here, and why I have begun to keep this journal. I had been interested in ‘the Seabourne Tragedy’, as it was known in our family, for a long time because Roland Payne was my Uncle. As I was a month old when he died I never met him, and it was only recently that I had the leisure to investigate the case. My parents also died when I was comparatively young and were, in any case, reticent about the affair. A clipping from the
Seabourne Mercury
found in a drawer was all I had to go on.
Monday 9 July 2006:
Until today I have found very few people who knew anything about the events of August 1952, let alone remembered them personally. It was quite by luck that I was put in touch with someone who was able to help me. Something had gone wrong with the exhaust of my Renault and, on enquiring after repair garages in the area with Renault dealerships, I was referred to Pegley’s Garage on the Folkestone Road. Of course, the name Pegley was familiar to me from the press cutting about my uncle. It turned out that the proprietor, Tom Pegley, was the son of Jack Pegley, who had died in 1991 aged 85.
Tom Pegley is a friendly man. He was intrigued by my interest, but could tell me nothing of relevance beyond the fact that his father, despite having been little more than a humble theatre caretaker, died a comparatively wealthy man. But, he said, there was a box of papers and other items belonging to his father, which he had never troubled to look through. Would I care to see them?
The lack of curiosity that some people have about themselves and their origins always surprises, even shocks me, but I was glad to be allowed an uncensored look at this virgin material. Among the miscellaneous memorabilia of a life spent in theatrical environs there was one item which looked promising. It was a large brown manilla envelope containing something flat and cylindrical. The flap had been secured with sealing wax, and on it was written words to the effect that it was only to be opened on Pegley’s death, or before on his express instructions. Tom told me that it had been sent to him on his father’s death by a firm of Seabourne solicitors who had been keeping it for him. No, he had never thought of opening it. No, he didn’t mind if I did.
The envelope contained another envelope, typewritten and addressed to ‘Mr J. Pegley’ which had been carefully resealed. By the feel of it it contained a letter. Then there was the flat cylindrical object which I had felt. It was a reel of audio tape, eight or nine inches in diameter, of the kind which could be played on those big old-fashioned ‘reel-to-reel’ tape recorders of the ’50s and ’60s.
As it happened, Tom said he still had the old Grundig tape recorder which his father had salvaged from the theatre when it closed. We played a few seconds of the tape, and when Tom heard that it was his father’s voice on it he stopped the machine. He does not want to listen to his dead father’s voice. I suppose I can understand that. Tom has given me the tape and the recorder to take back to my guest house. I am going to transcribe what his father says and give him a copy.
Tuesday 10 July 2006:
I have been sitting up all night listening with earphones on, transcribing Jack Pegley’s tape. I have hardly had time to think about what he said, and perhaps that is just as well. I give it here complete without any expurgations.
‘Testing . . . Can you hear me? Right. This is Jack Pegley. I am Jack Pegley and I wish to state . . . I am the Hallkeeper of the Grand Pavilion theatre. That’s right, hallkeeper. None of this caretaker, stage doorman rubbish. I been with the Grand Pavilion a long time. Before the war I started. Stage Carpenter, I was then, when there was stage carpenters. I was a flyman too; did all sorts. That was before Mr Marlesford, Sir Kenneth as he became, bought the theatre. I was there before him. Then when I injured my knee down that orchestra pit, they made me hallkeeper and I ran the corner. The prompt corner to you. I was in charge. Well, Mr Marlesford, he trusted me. He said I was his eyes. Blind he was, Mr Marlesford. “Pegley,” he said, “be my eyes.” So I was. Now this what I’m saying is for a reason, so I’m not telling any funny stories, only what I got to. [A pause. Pegley seems to be breathing hard.] Right then. Mrs Marlesford, she was Jane Selway, the leading lady and what she said went in the theatre. Mr Marlesford, he allowed that, and anyway he had his own, the arms and that, but he come down every weekend and sometimes in the week and he sits in the box with his guide dog Wisper, and he listens to the show, and sometimes he talks to me through the Tannoy we had made for him in his box where the old speaking tubes used to be. “Pegley, are you there?” he says, whispering through the machine to me in the prompt corner. “Pegley, are you there?” And I says, “Yes, sir, Mr Marlesford, and it’s five minutes to the end of act one,” or some such. And he says: “Pegley, leave the mike on so’s I can hear you in the prompt corner,” so I do that. He likes to hear me give my orders to ring down the curtain or dim the straws in the battens, or some such. Well Jane Selway, I call her Jane, because she says: “Call me Jane. Everyone calls me Jane,” she’s a fine, beautiful young woman and a fine actress. I see her do all sorts. “You should have seen her,” I says once to Mr Marlesford, accidental, and he says “I can’t!” All sharp and sudden like. He had a cold temper on him sometimes. Well, here’s the thing. Jane, she gets on with everyone, but specially with this young man who comes down from London. Roland Payne, his name was. Comes down having been in one of Mr Binkie Beaumont’s shows at the Haymarket. Oh, it’s Binkie this and Binkie that, and dear Noel and darling Boo Laye and what not, but he could act a bit, I’ll say that. Well, he and Jane they get on famously and that season, 1952 it was, I’ll never forget, they’re a team, like leading man and leading lady. Roland Payne and Jane Selway. They get a bit of a following, and people want to come and see Payne and Selway. Most nights they’re selling out, and it’s a big house, I tell you, thousand seater plus. Well, one night, it’s
Love from a Stranger
— no, I tell a lie, that came later: it’s
The Lady’s Not For Burning
. I remember there was a lot of fancy talk in that show. Well, I was in the prompt corner during Act I and I hear Mr Marlesford on the Tannoy “Pegley, are you there?” He says. And I say, “Yes, sir, Mr Marlesford; it’s twenty minutes to the Act One curtain, and I’m just nipping round to the opposite prompt side to put another stage weight on one of the braces. There’s a flat flapping about horrible. I’ve got plenty of time and they won’t need me on the book, so I’d rather see to it myself.” And he says:“‘Right you are, Pegley, but still leave the mike on so’s I can hear the prompt corner.” So that’s what I do and then I went round to the OP and I fix the stage weight. And as I do so I look across the stage and see Roland and Jane in the wings on the other side, waiting to go on. They’re standing by my desk and talking, and touching, and I wonder if they know my microphone’s on. Well, it’s only a thought and I forget it when I get back to the prompt corner. Then it’s getting ready to bring the curtain down on act one. And it’s a big line from Mr Roland Payne that rings down the curtain: “For God’s sake hang me, before I love that woman!” I remember that. Funny stuff. The curtain drops, big round of applause and we bring in the iron for the interval. Then I hear on the Tannoy: “Pegley, are you there?” It’s Mr. Marlesford in his box. It was a shock like because I’d forgotten him. So I says, “Yes, sir, Mr Marlesford. I’m here.” And he says: “Did you see them?” Just that. It took me a time to figure it out what he meant and then the penny drops. So I says, “Yes, sir, Mr Marlesford. I did see.” Then he just says: “We know,” and clicks off. Well, I’m sticking to what’s important now, but let’s just say as the weeks pass it’s plain what’s going on. Mr Marlesford, he says nothing, but when he’s in his box he always tells me to keep my mike on, and sometimes he sends me off if I’m not busy in the corner to check the box office returns, or some such, just to get me away from the corner. I know what he’s up to. Anyway, we start on a two week run of
Love from a Stranger
. Always goes down well, that show; and Jane is playing the girl, and Mr Payne he’s playing the villain, Bruce, and we come to the Saturday, end of the first week. Mr Marlesford he’s come down to see the Saturday night show, but I don’t hear from him down the Tannoy till right at the end just before the curtain: “Pegley, are you there?” he says. So I says, “Yes, sir, Mr Marlesford. I’m here.” And he says, “Come up and see me in the box after the show.” Well, that’s a turn up for a start. He’s never done that before, so up I go after the show. And there he is bolt upright in his chair with his black guide dog Wisper lying flat on the carpet underneath it. “Pegley,” he says, “I want you to do something for me. Nodder” — that’s his chauffeur, Mortimer Nodder — “will drive my wife and self back to the Seabourne house, then he’s taking me to London. Now then, where does Mr Payne go for a drink after the show?” I says it’s usually The Feathers. “Right then,” he says. “When you leave the theatre tonight, I want you to throw the main electricity switch in the prompt corner like you always do, but I don’t want you to lock up as per, I want you to leave the stage door unlocked. Do you understand?” I says yes. He says, “Then you take your time, but you go over to The Feathers and you find Mr Roland Payne and you say to him these words: ‘There’s someone waiting for you on stage at the theatre. Go now. The stage door’s unlocked.’ Just that. Then you skedaddle.” And it’s as if he can see me opening my mouth to say something, because the next thing he says is, “Don’t ask any questions. I’ll see the stage door is locked afterwards, and I’ll see you don’t lose by it. That’s all.” Then he gets up and picks up his stick and whistles to Wisper who leads him out of the box and through the pass door and down to his wife’s dressing room. And I’m left standing there in the box, scratching my head and not knowing what to think. Well, I do exactly what I’m told and I go to The Feathers and I give Mr Payne the message. And there’s one funny thing. When I give him what I’m told to say, Mr Payne he doesn’t seem surprised. He just nods his head and gives a little smile, like what they call a smirk, and then he looks at me like he wants me to get out of there, so I do. And then the more I think about it, the more I don’t like it. It’s not that I can put my finger on it, but it smells nasty. So I wait round the corner from The Feathers — it’s a fine night with a big moon — and not long after I see Mr Payne come out of The Feathers with his trilby on cocked at an angle, cheeky like, and he hurries towards the Grand Pav. Well, I follow at a distance because I know where he’s going, and I go round the theatre the other way so I won’t be seen by him. And that’s where I see round the side, in the shadow of the theatre there’s a car. It’s Mr Marlesford’s Rolls with Nodder, the chauffeur, in his uniform standing beside it.