by Ngaio Marsh
The laughter ran up to a falsetto climax and somewhere in the shadows Harry Grove said delightedly: ‘Oh dear me, dear me, how very entertaining. The King Dolphin in a rage.’
‘Harry,’ Peregrine said turning his back on the stage and vainly trying to discern the offender. ‘You are a professional actor. You know perfectly well that you are behaving inexcusably. I must ask you to apologize to the company.’
‘To the whole company, Perry dear? Or just to Gertie for laughing about her not being a woman scorned?’
Before Peregrine could reply, Gertrude re-entered, looking wildly about the house. Having at last distinguished Grove in the back stalls, she pointed to him and screamed out with a virtuosity that she had hitherto denied herself: ‘This is a deliberate insult.’ She then burst into tears.
There followed a phenomenon that would have been incomprehensible to anybody who was not intimately concerned with the professional theatre. Knight and Miss Bracey were suddenly allied. Insults of the immediate past were as if they had never been. They both began acting beautifully for each other: Gertrude making big eloquent piteous gestures and Marcus responding with massive understanding. She wept. He kissed her hand. They turned with the precision of variety artists to the auditorium and simultaneously shaded their eyes like comic sailors. Grove came gaily down the aisle saying: ‘I apologize. Marcus and Gerts. Everybody. I really do apologize. In seventeen plastic and entirely different positions. I shall go and be devoured backstage by the worm of contrition. What more can I do? I cannot say with even marginal accuracy that it’s all a mistake and you’re not at all funny. But anything else. Anything else.’
‘Be quiet,’ Peregrine said, forcing a note of domineering authority which was entirely foreign to him. ‘You will certainly go back-stage since you are needed. I will see you after we break. In the meantime I wish neither to see nor hear from you until you make your entrance. Is that understood?’
‘I’m sorry,’ Grove said quietly. ‘I really am.’ And he went back-stage by the pass-door that Mr Conducis used when he pulled Peregrine out of the well.
‘Marco and Gertie,’ Peregrine said and they turned blackly upon him. ‘I hope you’ll be very generous and do something nobody has a right to ask you. I hope you’ll dismiss the lamentable incident as if it had never happened.’
‘It is either that person or me. Never in the entire course of my professional experience – ’
The Knight temperament raged on. Gertrude listened with gloomy approval and repaired face. The rest of the company were still as mice. At last Peregrine managed to bring about a truce and eventually they began again at: ‘Who is this comes hopping up the lane?’
The row had had one startling and most desirable effect. Gertrude, perhaps by some process of emotive transference, now gave out her offstage line with all the venom of a fish-wife.
‘But darling,’ reasoned Destiny Meade, a few minutes later, devouring Peregrine with her great black lamps. ‘Hopping. Me? On my first entrance? I mean – actually what an entrance! Hopping!’
‘Destiny, love, it’s like I said. He had a thing about it.’
‘Who did?’
‘Shakespeare, darling. About a breathless, panting, jigging, hopping woman with a white face and pitchball eyes and blue veins.’
‘How peculiar of him.’
‘The thing is, for him it was all an expression of sexual attraction.’
‘I don’t see how I can do a sexy thing if I come on playing hopscotch and puffing and blowing like a whale. Truly.’
‘Destiny: listen to what he wrote. Listen.
“I saw her once
Hop forty paces through the public street;
And having lost her breath, she spoke, and panted,
That she did make defect perfection, And, breathless, power breathe forth.”
‘That’s why I’ve made her fall off her horse and come hopping up the lane.’
‘Was he sort of kinky?’
‘Certainly not,’ Marcus interrupted.
‘Well, I only wondered. Gloves and everything.’
‘Listen, darling. Here you are. Laughing and out of breath –’
‘And hopping. Honestly!’
‘All right,’ said Marcus. ‘We know what you mean but listen. You’re marvellous. Your colour’s coming and going and your bosom’s heaving. He has an entirely normal reaction, Destiny darling. You send him. You do see, don’t you? You send me.’
‘With my hopping?’
‘Yes,’ he said irritably. ‘That and all the rest of it. Come on, darling, do. Make your entrance to me.’
‘Yes, Destiny,’ Peregrine said. ‘Destiny, listen. You’re in a velvet habit with your bosom exposed, a little plumed hat and soft little boots and you’re lovely, lovely, lovely. And young Dr Hall has gone out to help you and is supporting you. Charles – come and support her. Yes: like that. Leave her as free as possible. Now: the door opens and we see you. Fabulous. You’re in a shaft of sunlight. And he sees you. Shakespeare does. And you speak. Right? Right, Destiny? You say – Go on, dear.’
‘Here I come upon your privacy, Master Shakespeare, hopping over your doorstep like a starling.’
‘Yes, and at once, at that very moment you know you’ve limed him.’
‘Limed?’
‘Caught.’
‘Am I keen?’
‘Yes. You’re pleased. You know he’s famous. And you want to show him off to W. H. You come forward, Marco, under compulsion, and offer your help. Staring at her. And you go to him, Destiny, and skip and half-fall and fetch up laughing and clinging to him. He’s terribly, terribly still. Oh, yes, Marco, yes. Dead right. Wonderful. And Destiny, darling, that’s right. You know? It’s right. It’s what we want.’
‘Can I sit down or do I keep going indefinitely panting away on his chest?’
‘Look into his face. Give him the whole job. Laugh. No, not that sort of laugh, dear. Not loud. Deep down in your throat!’
‘More sexy?’
‘Yes,’ Peregrine said and ran his hands through his hair. ‘That’s right. More sexy.’
‘And then I sit down?’
‘Yes. He helps you down. Centre. Hall pushes the chair forward. Charles?’
‘Could it,’ Marcus intervened, ‘be left-of-centre, dear boy? I mean I only suggest it because it’ll be easier for Dessy and I think it’ll make a better picture,’ Marcus said. ‘I can then put her down. Like this.’ He did so with infinite grace and himself occupied the centre stage.
‘I think I like it better the other way, Marco, darling. Could we try it the other way, Perry? This feels false, a bit, to me.’
They jockeyed about for star positions. Peregrine made the final decision in Knight’s favour. It really was better that way. Gertrude came on and then Emily: very nice as Joan Hart, and finally Harry Grove, behaving himself and giving a bright, glancing indication of Mr W. H. Peregrine began to feel that perhaps he had not written a bad play and that, given a bit of luck, he might, after all, hold the company together.
He was aware, in the back of his consciousness, that someone had come into the stalls. The actors were all on stage and he supposed it must be Winter Morris or perhaps Jeremy who often looked in, particularly when Destiny was rehearsing.
They ran the whole scene without interruption and followed it with an earlier one between Emily, Marcus and the ineffable Trevor in which the boy Hamnet, on his eleventh birthday, received and wore his grandfather’s present of a pair of embroidered cheverel gloves.
Marcus and Peregrine had succeeded in cowing the more offensive exhibitionisms of Trevor and the scene went quite well. They broke for luncheon. Peregrine kept Harry Grove back and gave him a wigging which he took so cheerfully that it lost half its sting. He then left and Peregrine saw with concern that Destiny had waited for him. Where then was Marcus Knight and what had become of his proprietary interest in his leading lady? As if in explanation, Peregrine heard Destiny say: ‘Darling, the King Dolphin’s got
a pompous feast with someone at the Garrick. Where shall we go?’
The new curtain was half-lowered, the working lights went out, the stage-manager left and the stage-door banged distantly.
Peregrine turned to go out by front-of-house.
He came face to face with Mr Conducis.
II
It was exactly as if the clock had been set back a year and three weeks and he again dripped fetid water along the aisle of a bombed theatre. Mr Conducis seemed to wear the same impeccable clothes and to be seized with the same indefinable step backwards, almost as if Peregrine was going to accuse him of something.
‘I have watched your practice,’ he said as if Peregrine was learning the piano. ‘If you have a moment to spare there is a matter I want to discuss with you. Perhaps in your office?’
‘Of course, sir,’ Peregrine said. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t see you had come in.’
Mr Conducis paid no attention to this. He was looking, without evidence of any kind of reaction, at the now resplendent auditorium: at the crimson curtain, the chandeliers, the freshly-gilt scrollwork, the shrouded and expectant stalls.
‘The restoration is satisfactory?’ he asked.
‘Entirely so. We shall be ready on time, sir.’
‘Will you lead the way?’
Peregrine remembered that on their former encounter Mr Conducis had seemed to dislike being followed. He led the way upstairs to the office, opened the door and found Winter Morris in residence, dictating letters. Peregrine made a complicated but apparently eloquent face and Morris got to his feet in a hurry.
Mr Conducis walked in looking at nothing and nobody.
‘This is our manager, sir. Mr Winter Morris, Mr Conducis.’
‘Oh, yes. Good morning,’ said Mr Conducis. Without giving an impression of discourtesy he turned away. ‘Really, old boy,’ as Mr Morris afterwards remarked. ‘He might have been giving me the chance to follow my own big nose instead of backing out of The Presence.’
In a matter of seconds Mr Morris and the secretary had gone to lunch.
‘Will you sit down, sir?’
‘No, thank you. I shall not be long. In reference to the glove and documents: I am told that their authenticity is established.’
‘Yes.’
‘You have based your piece upon these objects?’
‘Yes.’
‘I have gone into the matter of promotion with Greenslade and with two persons of my acquaintance who are conversant with this type of enterprise.’ He mentioned two colossi of the theatre. ‘And have given some thought to preliminary treatment. It occurs to me that, properly manipulated, the glove and its discovery and so on, might be introduced as a major theme in promotion.’
‘Indeed it might,’ Peregrine said fervently.
‘You agree with me? I have thought that perhaps some consideration should be given to the possibility of timing the release of the glove-story with the opening of the theatre and of displaying the glove and documents, suitably protected and housed, in the foyer.’
Peregrine said with what he hoped was a show of dispassionate judgement that surely, as a piece of pre-production advertising, this gesture would be unique. Mr Conducis looked quickly at him and away again. Peregrine asked him if he felt happy about the security of the treasure. Mr Conducis replied with a short exegesis upon wall safes of a certain type in which, or so Peregrine confusedly gathered, he held a controlling interest.
‘Your public relations and press executive,’ Mr Conducis stated in his dead fish voice, is a Mr Conway Boome.’
‘Yes. It’s his own name,’ Peregrine ventured wondering for a moment if he had caught a glint of something that might be sardonic humour but Mr Conducis merely said: ‘I daresay. I understand,’ he added, ‘that he is experienced in theatrical promotion but I have suggested to Greenslade that having regard for the somewhat unusual character of the type of material we propose to use, it might be as well if Mr Boome were to be associated with Maitland Advertising which is one of my subsidiaries. He is agreeable.’
‘I’ll be bound he is,’ Peregrine thought.
‘I am also taking advice on the security aspect from an acquaintance at Scotland Yard, a Superintendent Alleyn.’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Yes. The matter of insurance is somewhat involved, the commercial worth of the objects being impossible to define. I am informed that as soon as their existence is made known there is likely to be an unprecedented response. Particularly from the United States of America.’
There followed a short silence.
‘Mr Conducis,’ Peregrine said, ‘I can’t help asking this. I know it’s no business of mine but I really can’t help it. Are you – have you – I mean, would you feel at all concerned about whether the letters and gloves stay in the country of their owner or not?’
‘In my country?’ Mr Conducis asked as if he wasn’t sure that he had one.
‘I’m sorry – no. I meant the original owner.’
Peregrine hesitated for a moment and then found himself embarked upon an excitable plea for retention of the document and gloves. He felt he was making no impression whatever and wished he could stop. There was some indefinable and faintly disgusting taint in the situation.
With a closed face Mr Conducis waited for Peregrine to stop and then said: ‘That is a sentimental approach to what is at this juncture a matter for financial consideration. I cannot speak under any other heading: historical, romantic, nationalistic or sentimental. I know,’ Mr Conducis predictably added, ‘nothing of such matters.’
He then startled Peregrine quite shockingly by saying with an indefinable change in his voice: ‘I dislike pale gloves. Intensely.’
For one moment Peregrine thought he saw something like anguish in this extraordinary man’s face and at the next that he had been mad to suppose anything of the sort. Mr Conducis made a slight movement indicating the interview was at an end. Peregrine opened the door, changed his mind and shut it again.
‘Sir,’ he said. ‘One other question. May I tell the company about the letters and glove? The gloves that we use on the stage will be made by the designer, Jeremy Jones – who is an expert in such matters. If we are to show the original in the front of house he should copy it as accurately as possible. He should go to the museum and examine it. And he will be so very much excited by the whole thing that I can’t guarantee his keeping quiet about it. In any case, sir, I myself spoke to him about the glove on the day you showed it to me. You will remember you did not impose secrecy at that time. Since the report came through I have not spoken of it to anyone except Morris and Jones.’
Mr Conducis said: ‘A certain amount of leakage at this stage is probably inevitable and if correctly handled may do no harm. You may inform your company of all the circumstances. With a strong warning that the information is, for the time being, confidential and with this proviso: I wish to remain completely untroubled by the entire business. I realize that my ownership may well become known: is known in fact, already, to a certain number of people. This is inavoidable. But under no circumstances will I give statements, submit to interviews or be quoted. My staff will see to this at my end. I hope you will observe the same care, here. Mr Boome will be instructed. Good morning. Will you – ?’
He made that slight gesture for Peregrine to precede him. Peregrine did so.
He went out on the circle landing and ran straight into Harry Grove.
‘Hall-lo, dear boy,’ said Harry, beaming at him. ‘I just darted back to use the telephone. Destiny and I – ’ He stopped short, bobbed playfully round Peregrine at Mr Conducis and said: ‘Now, see what I’ve done! A genius for getting myself in wrong. My only talent.’
Mr Conducis said: ‘Good morning to you, Grove.’ He stood in the doorway looking straight in front of him.
‘And to you, wonderful fairy godfather, patron, guiding light and all those things,’ Harry said. ‘Have you come to see your latest offspring, your very own performing Dolphins?’
‘Look at dear Perry!’ Harry said. ‘He’s stricken dumb at my misplaced familiarity. Aren’t you, Perry?’
‘Not for the first time,’ Peregrine said and felt himself to be the victim of a situation he should have controlled.
‘Well!’ Harry said, glancing with evident amusement from one to the other of his hearers. ‘I mustn’t double-blot my copybook, must I? Nor must I keep lovely ladies waiting.’ He turned to Mr Conducis with an air of rueful deference. ‘I do hope you’ll be pleased with us, sir,’ he said. ‘It must be wonderful to be the sort of man who uses his power to rescue a drowning theatre instead of slapping it under. All the more wonderful since you have no personal interest in our disreputable trade, have you?’
‘I have little knowledge of it.’
‘No. Like vinegar, it doesn’t readily mix with Oil,’ Harry said. ‘Or is it Shipping? I always forget. Doing any yachting lately? But I mustn’t go on being a nuisance. Goodbye, sir. Do remember me to Mrs G. See you later, Perry, dear boy.’
He ran downstairs and out of the main door. Mr Conducis said: ‘I am late. Shall we – ?’ They went downstairs and crossed the foyer to the portico. There was the Daimler and, at its door, Peregrine’s friend the chauffeur. It gave him quite a shock to see them again and he wondered, for a dotty moment, if he would be hailed away once more to Drury Place.
‘Good morning,’ Mr Conducis said again. He was driven away and Peregrine joined Jeremy Jones at their habitual chop-house on the Surrey Side.
III
He told the company and Jeremy Jones about the glove before afternoon rehearsal. They all made interested noises. Destiny Meade became very excited and confused on learning that the glove was ‘historic’ and persisted in thinking they would use it as a prop in the production. Marcus Knight was clearly too angry to pay more than token attention. He had seen Destiny return, five minutes late and in hilarious company with W. Hartly Grove. Gertrude Bracey was equally disgruntled by the same phenomenon.
