“I’ll work whenever you like. We’ve got the weekend.”
“Thank you, Helena.”
“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 Watching him, she was reminded of his portrait in the Greenroom: he looked withdrawn and troubled.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 re-casting 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. He and the young constable came in and, as if he had walked into somebody’s flat, he took off his hat and put it on a table near the door. The young constable looked round and then went off-stage, returning with two chairs which he placed, one in a central position for Alleyn, and one in the O.P. corner for himself. To Martyn he had fantastically the air of an A.D.C. As he settled himself he gave her another of his friendly smiles.
Clem and Parry had got uncomfortably to their feet and now sat down again in a faintly huffy manner. With the exception of Dr. Rutherford, the company reorientated itself, unobtrusively, on Alleyn.
“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. To-night 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 to-night. 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.