Night at the Vulcan (18 page)

“Have you any idea, Miss Gainsford,” Alleyn asked, “about when you dropped off?”

“I was exhausted, Mr. Alleyn. Physically and emotionally exhausted. I still am.”

“Was it, for instance, before the beginning of the last act?”

“N — n—no. No. Because J.G. came in to see how I was in the second interval. Didn’t you, darling? And I was exhausted, wasn’t I?”

“Yes, dear.”

“And he gave me some aspirins and I took two. And I suppose, in that state of utter exhaustion, they worked. So I fell into a sleep — an exhausted sleep, it was.”

“Naturally,” Helena murmured with a glance at Alleyn, “it would be exhausted.”

“Undoubtedly,” said Jacko, “it was exhausted.”

“Well, it was,” said Gay crossly. “Because I was. Utterly.”

“Did anyone else beside Mr. Darcey go into the Greenroom during the second interval?”

Gay looked quickly at J.G. “Honestly,” she said, “I’m so muddled about times it really isn’t safe to ask me. I’m sure to be wrong.”

“Mr. Darcey?”

“No,” J.G. said.

“Well, my dearest J.G.,” Parry said, “I couldn’t be more reluctant to keep popping in like one of the Eumenides in that utterly incomprehensible play, but I do assure you that you’re at fault here. Ben went into the Greenroom in the second interval.”

“Dear Heaven!” Helena said, on a note of desperation. “What has happened to us all!”

“I’m terribly sorry, Helena darling,” Parry said, and sounded it.

“But why should you be sorry? Why shouldn’t Ben go and see his niece in the interval? He played the whole of the third act afterwards. Of course you should say so, Parry, if you know what you’re talking about. Shouldn’t he, Adam? Shouldn’t he, Mr. Alleyn?”

Poole was looking with a sort of incredulous astonishment at Darcey. “I think he should,” he said slowly.

“And you, Mr. Darcey?” asked Alleyn.

“All right, Parry,” said J.G., “go on.”

“There’s not much more to be said, and anyway I don’t suppose it matters. It was before they’d called the third act. Helena and Adam and Martyn had gone out. They begin the act. I come on a bit later and Ben after me and J.G. later still. I wanted to see how the show was going and I was on my way in the passage when Ben came out of his room and went into the Greenroom next door. The act was called soon after that.”

“Did you speak to him?” Alleyn asked.

“I did not,” said Parry with some emphasis. “I merely went out to the stage and joined Jacko and the two dressers and the call-boy, who were watching from the Prompt side, and Clem.”

“That’s right,” Clem Smith said. “I remember telling you all to keep away from the bunches. The boy called J.G. and Ben about five minutes later.”

“Were you still in the Greenroom when you were called, Mr. Darcey?”

“Yes.”

“With Mr. Bennington?”

“He’d gone to his room.”

“Not for the life of me,” Helena said wearily, “can I see why you had to be so mysterious, J.G.”

“Perhaps,” Alleyn said, “the reason is in your left trousers pocket, Mr. Darcey.”

J.G. didn’t take his hand out of his pocket. He stood up and addressed himself directly to Alleyn.

“May I speak to you privately?” he asked.

“Of course,” Alleyn said. “Shall we go to the Greenroom?”

In the Greenroom and in the presence of Alleyn and of Fox, who had joined them there, J. G. Darcey took his left hand out of his trousers pocket and extended it palm downwards for their inspection. It was a well-shaped and well-kept hand but the knuckles were grazed. A trace of blood had seeped out round the greasepaint and powder which had been daubed over the raw skin.

“I suppose I’ve behaved very stupidly,” he said. “But I hoped there would be no need for this to come out. It has no bearing whatever on his death.”

“In that case,” Alleyn said, “it will not be brought out. But you’ll do well to be frank.”

“I dare say,” said J.G. wryly.

“There’s a bruise on the deceased’s jaw on the right side that could well have been caused by that straight left Mr. Poole talked about. Now, we can of course determine whether make-up from your left fist is mixed with Bennington’s own make-up over this bruise. If you tell me you didn’t let drive at him we’ll make this experiment.”

“I assure you that you don’t need to do any such thing. I’ll willingly admit that I hit him,” J.G. said with a shudder.

“And also why you hit him?”

“Oh, yes, if I can. If I can,” he repeated and pressed his hand to his eyes. “D’you mind if we sit down, Alleyn? I’m a bit tired.”

“Do.”

J.G. sat in the leather armchair where Martyn, and, in her turn, Gay Gainsford had slept. In the dim light of the Greenroom his face looked wan and shadowed. “Not the chicken I was,” he said, and it was an admission actors do not love to make.

Alleyn faced him. Fox sat down behind him, flattened his notebook on the table and placed his spectacles across his nose. There was something cosy about Fox when he took notes. Alleyn remembered absently that his wife had once observed that Mr. Fox was a cross between a bear and a baby and exhibited the most pleasing traits of both creatures.

The masked light above Jacko’s sketch of Adam Poole shone down upon it, and it thus was given considerable emphasis in an otherwise shadowed room.

“If you want a short statement,” J.G. said, “I can give it to you in a sentence. I hit Ben on the jaw in this room during the second act wait. I didn’t knock him out but he was so astonished he took himself off. I was a handy amateur welter-weight in my young days but it must be twenty years or more since I put up my hands. I must say I rather enjoyed it.”

“What sort of condition was he in?”

“Damned unpleasant Oh, you mean drunk or sober? I should say ugly-drunk. Ben was a soak. I’ve never seen him incapacitated, but really I’ve hardly ever seen him stone-cold either. He was in his second degree of drunkenness: offensive, outrageous and incalculable. He’d behaved atrociously throughout the first and second acts.”

“In what way?”

“As only a clever actor with too much drink in him can behave. Scoring off other people. Playing for cheap laughs. Doing unrehearsed bits of business that made nonsense of the production. Upon my word,” said J.G. thoughtfully, “I wonder Adam or the Doctor or poor little Parry, if he’d had the guts, didn’t get in first and give him what he deserved. A perfectly bloody fellow.”

“Was it because of his performance that you hit him?”

J.G. looked at his finger-nails and seemed to ponder. “No,” he said at last. “Or not directly. If I thought you’d believe me I’d say yes, but no doubt you’ll talk to her and she’s so upset anyway—”

“You mean Miss Gainsford?”

“Yes,” said J.G. with the oddest air of pride and embarrassment. “I mean Gay.”

“Was it on her account you dotted him one?”

“It was. He was damned offensive.”

“I’m sorry,” Alleyn said, “but you’ll realize that we do want to be told a little more than that about it.”

“I suppose so.” He clasped his hands and examined his bruised knuckles. “Although I find it extremely difficult and unpleasant to go into the wretched business. It’s only because I hope you’ll let Gay off, as far as possible, if you know the whole story. That’s why I asked to see you alone.” He slewed round and looked discontentedly at Fox.

“Inspector Fox,” Alleyn said, “is almost pathologically discreet.”

“Glad to hear it. Well, as you’ve heard, I’d managed to get hold of a bottle of aspirins and I brought them to her, here, in the second interval. Gay was sitting in this chair. She was still terribly upset. Crying. I don’t know if you’ve realized why she didn’t go on for the part?”

“No. I’d be glad to have the whole story.” J.G. embarked on it, with obvious reluctance, but as he talked his hesitancy lessened and he even seemed to find some kind of ease in speaking. He described Gay’s part and her struggle at rehearsals. It was clear that, however unwillingly, he shared the general opinion of her limited talent. “She’d have given a reasonable show,” he said, “if she’d been given a reasonable chance but from the beginning the part got her down. She’s a natural ingenue and this thing’s really ‘character.’ It was bad casting. Adam kept the Doctor at bay as much as possible but she knew what he thought. She didn’t
want
the part. She was happy where she was in repertory but Ben dragged her in. He saw himself as a sort of fairy-godfather-uncle and when she found the part difficult he turned obstinate and wouldn’t let her throw it in. Out of vanity really. He was very vain. She’s a frail little thing, you know, all heart and sensitivity, and between them they’ve brought her to the edge of a breakdown. It didn’t help matters when Miss Martyn Tarne appeared out of a clear sky, first as Helena Hamilton’s dresser and then as Gay’s understudy and then — mysteriously, as some of the cast, Ben in particular, thought — as Adam’s distant cousin. You noticed the uncanny resemblance but you may not know the part in the play requires it. That was the last straw for Gay. She’d been ill with nerves and fright and to-night she cracked up completely and wouldn’t — couldn’t go on. When I saw her in the first interval she was a bit quieter but in the second act little Miss Tarne did very well indeed. Quite startling, it was. Incidentally, I suppose her success infuriated Ben. And Gay heard everybody raving about her as they came off. Naturally that upset her again. So she was in tears when I came in.”

He leant forward and rested his head in his hands. His voice was less distinct “I’m fond of her,” he said. “She’s got used to me being about. When I came in she ran to me and — I needn’t go into the way I felt. There’s no explaining these things. She was sobbing in my arms, poor bird, and God knows my heart had turned over. Ben came in. He went for her like a pickpocket. He was crazy. I tried to shut him up. He didn’t make a noise — I don’t mean that — matter of fact what he said streamed out of him in a whisper. He was quite off his head and began talking about Helena — about his wife. He used straight-out obscenities. There’d been an episode in the afternoon and — well, he used the sort of generalization that Lear and Othello and Leontes use, if you remember your Shakespeare.”

“Yes.”

“Gay was still clinging to me and he began to talk the same sort of stuff about her. I’m not going into details. I put her away from me and quite deliberately gave him what was coming to him. I don’t remember what I said. I don’t think any of us said anything. So he went out nursing his jaw and they called me for the last act and I went out too. During this last act, when we were on together, I could see the bruise coming out under his make-up.”

“What was his general behaviour like during the final act?”

“As far as I was concerned he behaved in the way people do when they play opposite someone they’ve had a row with off-stage. He didn’t look me in the eye. He looked at my forehead or ears. It doesn’t show from the front. He played fairly soundly until poor Parry got out of position. Parry is his butt in the piece, but of course what Ben did was outrageous. He stuck out his foot as Parry moved and brought him down. That was not long before his own exit. I never saw him again after that until he was carried out. That’s all. I don’t know if you’ve believed me but I hope you’ll let Gay off any more of this stuff.”

Alleyn didn’t answer. He looked at the young-old actor for a moment. J.G. was lighting a cigarette with that trained economy and grace of movement that were part of his stock-in-trade. His head was stooped, and Alleyn saw how carefully the silver hair had been distributed over the scalp. The hands were slightly tremulous. How old was J.G.? Fifty? Fifty-five? Sixty? Was he the victim of that Indian Summer that can so unmercifully visit an ageing man?

“It’s the very devil, in these cases,” Alleyn said, “how one has to plug away at everyone in turn. Not that it helps to say so. There’s one more question that I’m afraid you won’t enjoy at all. Can you tell me more specifically what Bennington said about — I think you called it an episode — of the afternoon, in which his wife was concerned?”

“No, by God, I can’t,” said J.G. hotly.

“He spoke about it in front of Miss Gainsford, didn’t he?”

“You can’t possibly ask Gay about it. It’s out of the question.”

“Not, I’m afraid, for an investigating officer,” said Alleyn, who thought that J.G.’s delicacy, if delicacy were in question, was possibly a good deal more sensitive than Miss Gainsford’s. “Do you suppose Bennington talked about this episode to other people?”

“In the condition he was in I should think it possible.”

“Well,” Alleyn said, “we shall have to find out.”

“See here, Alleyn. What happened, if he spoke the truth, was something entirely between himself and his wife and it’s on her account that I can’t repeat what he said. You know she and Poole were on-stage at the crucial time and that there’s no sense in thinking of motive, if that’s what you’re after, where they are concerned.”

Alleyn said: “This episode might constitute a motive for suicide, however.”

J.G. looked up quickly. “Suicide? But — why?”

“Shame?” Alleyn suggested. “Self-loathing if he sobered up after you hit him and took stock of himself? I imagine they’ve been virtually separated for some time.”

“I see you have a talent,” said J.G., “for reading between the lines.”

“Let us rather call it an ugly little knack. Thank you, Mr. Darcey, I don’t think I need bother you any more for the moment.”

J.G. went slowly to the door. He hesitated for a moment and then said: “If you’re looking for motive, Alleyn, you’ll find it in a sort of way all over the place. He wasn’t a likeable chap and he’d antagonized everyone. Even poor little Parry came off breathing revenge after the way he’d been handled, but, my God, actors do that kind of thing only too often. Feeling runs high, you know, on first nights.”

“So it would seem.”

“Can I take that child home?”

“I’m sorry,” Alleyn said, “not yet. Not just yet.”

“Well,” Alleyn said when J.G. had gone, “what have you got at your end of the table, Br’er Fox?”

Fox turned back the pages of his note-book.

“What you might call negative evidence, on the whole, Mr. Alleyn. Clearance for the understudies, who watched the show from the back of the circle and then went home. Clearance for the two dressers (male), the stage-manager and his assistant, the stage-hands and the night-watchman. They were all watching the play or on their jobs. On statements taken independently, they clear each other.”