Something caught my attention as I slowly scanned the stage for perhaps the fifteenth time. The first act had finished, the interval had passed, and the performers were now more than halfway through the second act. Absorbing though the performances were — and Hardcastle himself was outstanding, as were his wife and Dolly Richmond-I bore in mind the importance of the service Pons had entrusted to me and I was ever mindful of the great faith he had in my abilities.
Now, as I brought the glasses past the stage curtains, a faint smudge of white caught my attention in the shadow. I brought the glasses back, adjusted the focusing ring to give even finer detail on this new subject. I was considerably startled to see that someone was standing silently in the wings, obviously watching the course of the drama. I was certain it was not one of the actors because they would never reveal themselves to the audience in that way.
The smudge of white I had noticed resolved itself into the fingers and knuckles of a hand which was clutching the edge of the curtain. Nothing more. The thin wrist was cut off by the fold of the material. There was something so sinister in the presence of this silent watcher at the edge of the stage that I was considerably agitated and for a moment considered descending and seeking out Potts.
Then a moment's reflection convinced me of the folly of this course. It was obviously my duty to observe without doing anything, unless there was any evident danger to our client or the people in the theatre. And if it did transpire that some prompter or stagehand was merely standing in the wings out of idle curiosity I should look foolish indeed. No, it would be better to keep careful watch and make perfectly sure before I acted.
The hand disappeared before a good many minutes had passed but I nevertheless continued my careful watch of the theatre, giving my attention principally to the stage and its surroundings; the boxes I could conveniently keep under observation, and the audience in the auditorium, of course. There was nothing else suspicious that I could see and I therefore naturally concentrated on that side of the stage on which I had seen the hand.
The second interval passed and the third and final act of the drama of Death Comes to Thornfield commenced. There was a deep hush of concentration from the audience in which the voices of the actors came up to me crystal clear and powerfully reinforced by the acoustics. Hardcastle was certainly a magnificent actor and he put everything he possessed into the finale of the drama which was now inexorably mounting to its striking high point.
This made it difficult for me to concentrate on the stage and when I again refocused my glasses on the right-hand side I saw something that gave me cause for concern. In addition to the hand which was now back in its old position there was an evil-looking bearded face which was staring with rapt attention at Hardcastle and his three companions on stage. I reached into my inner pocket with my disengaged hand and sought my revolver.
I put it down on the ledge beside me and then, when I had made sure that the bearded figure was still immobile, the profile of the face just clear of the curtains, I put down the glasses and threw off the weapon's safety catch. When I again raised the glasses to my eyes I saw that the situation had changed.
There were now three objects in view; the clenched hand holding the fold of the curtain; the face; and a black, shiny object which looked like the barrel of a rifle or shotgun.
The matter looked extremely serious. I glanced at my watch. There was just ten minutes to the big scene in the finale in which Hardcastle was strangled with the wire noose. Pons and I had timed the play on so many occasions over the past weeks that I almost felt I could myself act as prompter. There was no time to lose if I were to avert a tragedy. I jumped to my feet, seized the revolver which I held close to my side and left the box.
As I ran down the corridor outside which led to the staircase connecting with the ground floor I could hear the orchestral music rising to a crescendo. The moment had almost come. I opened a wrong door at the rear of the stage and was immediately accosted by a little man in a blue serge suit who put his hand to his lips. I showed him my letter of authority signed by Hardcastle and the man's expression changed. When I had whispered my requirements he motioned me toward a small set of railed steps which evidently led up toward the stage area.
I tiptoed quietly up the ladder and as I did so the stage lights were lowered, the two spotlights emphasizing the area near the windows in which Dolly Richmond was to strangle Hardcastle. For one strange moment I wondered if the jealous, passionate actress might indeed strangle her lover in a paroxysm of rage and this thought so startled me that I stumbled and almost fell.
It was dark back here and I moved forward slowly until my eyes had adjusted to the lower intensity of the lighting, my right hand holding the revolver ready. The clear, emphatic tones of Hardcastle as he made his final speech in the supposedly empty drawing room, unaware of the hooded figure behind him, were ringing through the theatre. I estimated I had less than a minute to go. The orchestra was silent except for an insistent, high-pitched crescendo from the violins and, masked by this, I covered the last few yards to the side of the enormous stage.
I could see Hardcastle clearly, the spotlights holding him in an eerie yellow glow. Behind him were the big French doors and, uncannily realistic, the artificial "moonlight" from special lamps spilling in behind and making patterns of the window bars across the floor. The conductor of the orchestra was visible in the faint glow of the lowered footlights and there, right before me, the tense, expectant silhouette of the bearded man, so intently fixed on the drama being played to its horrific conclusion.
I paused for a moment, irresolute. The decision was a difficult one. The man in front of me might be perfectly harmless, yet I had a tremendous feeling of some impending disaster. On top of that Pons had warned me to keep alert and act if I saw anything suspicious. I could now only wait for this last minute or so until the climax of the play approached and see what this bearded stranger intended to do.
Hardcastle had paused in his soliloquy and was circling the stage, his movements tense and predatory. There was an expectant hush in the auditorium still, and I could see the pale ovals of the scattered faces of the al fresco audience in the glow of the footlights. I took my attention from the man in front of me for a moment and looked up at the boxes, but the reflected light from the stage made it difficult to pick anything out.
The orchestra violins were emitting throbbing notes of menace and Hardcastle had ceased his pacing, was slowly drawing back in front of the French windows again, the curtains of which I knew contained the figure of Dolly Richmond armed with the wire noose. My own tension was mounting too in this highly melodramatic atmosphere and I longed for the play to be over, when my responsibility should be ended.
In this novel situation where so many unexpected things could happen I was feeling a little out of my depth. I tightened my grip on the butt of the revolver at my side as Hardcastle began his last vocal musings, expressing thoughts to the audience. I moved in closer to the curtains, conscious that the man in front of me was slowly raising the black barrel of his weapon. I had not been able to see it before as his back was to me, his body blocking the view. The stage lighting shimmered on the gloss of the barrel and I slowly raised my revolver, conscious of a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach and a dry-throated nervousness which was affecting my body.