Killer Dolphin

by Ngaio Marsh

“I can just see it,” he said. “There it is. I spent the most hideous half hour of my life, so far, inside that theatre. I ought to hate the sight of it but, by God, I yearn after it as I’ve never yearned after anything ever before. You know, if Conducis does pull it down I honestly don’t believe I’ll be able to stay here and see it happen.”

  “Shall we wait upon him and crash down on our knees before him crying, ‘Oh, sir, please sir, spare The Dolphin, pray do, sir’?”

  “I can tell you exactly what the reaction would be. He’d back away as if we smelt and say in that deadpan voice of his that he knew nothing of such matters.”

  “I wonder what it would cost.”

  “To restore it? Hundreds of thousands no doubt,” Peregrine said gloomily. “I wonder if National Theatre has so much as thought of it. Or somebody. Isn’t there a society that preserves Ancient Monuments?”

  “Yes. But ‘I know nothing of such matters,’ ” mocked Jeremy. He turned back to his model. With a degree of regret to which wild horses wouldn’t have persuaded him to confess, Peregrine began packing Mr. Conducis’s suit. It was a dark charcoal tweed and had been made by a princely tailor. He had washed and ironed the socks, undergarments and shirt that he had worn for about forty minutes and had taken a box that Jeremy was hoarding to make up the parcel.

  “I’ll get a messenger to deliver it,” he said.

  “Why on earth?”

  “I don’t know. Too bloody shy to go myself.”

  “You’d only have to hand it over to the gilded lackey.”

  “I’d feel an ass.”

  “You’re mad,” said Jeremy briefly.

  “I don’t want to go back there. It was all so rum. Rather wonderful, of course, but in a way rather sinister. Like some wish-fulfillment novel.”

  “The wide-eyed young dramatist and the kindly recluse.”

  “I don’t think Conducis is kindly but I will allow and must admit I was wide-eyed over the glove. You know what?”

  “What?”

  “It’s given me an idea.”

  “Has it, now? Idea for what?”

  “A play. I don’t want to discuss it”

  “One must never discuss too soon, of course,” Jeremy agreed. “That way abortion lies.”

  “You have your points.”

  In the silence that followed they both heard the metallic clap of the letter box downstairs.

  “Post,” said Jeremy.

  “Won’t be anything for us.”

  “Bills.”

  “I don’t count them. I daren’t,” said Peregrine.

  “There might be a letter from Mr. Conducis offering to adopt you.”

  “Heh, heh, heh.”

  “Do go and see,” Jeremy said. “I find you rather oppressive when you’re clucky. The run downstairs will do you good.”

  Peregrine wandered twice round the room and absently out at the door. He went slowly down their decrepit staircase and fished in their letter box. There were three bills (two, he saw, for himself), a circular and a typed letter.

  “Peregrine Jay, Esq. By Hand”

  For some reason that he could not have defined, he didn’t open the letter. He went out-of-doors and walked along their uneventful street until he came to a gap through which one could look across the river to Southwark. He remembered afterwards that his bitch-muse as he liked to call her was winding her claws in his hair. He stared unseeing at a warehouse that from here partly obscured The Dolphin: Phipps Bros., perhaps, where the man with the oilcan—Jobbins—worked. A wind off the river whipped his hair back. Somewhere downstream a hooting set up. Why, he wondered idly, do river-craft set up gaggles of hooting all at once? His right hand was in his jacket pocket and his fingers played with the letter.

  With an odd sensation of taking some prodigious step he suddenly pulled it out of his pocket and opened it.

  Five minutes later Jeremy heard their front door slam and Peregrine come plunging up the stairs. He arrived, white-faced and apparently without the power of speech.

  “What now, for pity’s sake,” Jeremy asked. “Has Conducis tried to kidnap you?”

  Peregrine thrust a sheet of letter paper into his hand.

  “Go on,” he said. “Bloody read it, will you. Go on.” Jeremy read.

  Dear Sir,

  I am directed by Mr. V. M. G. Conducis to inform you that he has given some consideration to the matter of The Dolphin Theatre, Wharfingers Lane, which he had occasion to discuss with you this morning. Mr. Conducis would be interested to have the matter examined in greater detail. He suggests, therefore, that to this end you call at the offices of Consolidated Oils, Pty. Ltd., and speak to Mr. S. Greenslade who has been fully informed of the subject in question. I enclose for your convenience a card with the address and a note of introduction.

  I have ventured to make an appointment for you with Mr. Greenslade for 11:30 tomorrow (Wednesday). If this is not a convenient time, perhaps you will be good enough to telephone Mr. Greenslade’s secretary before 5:30 this evening.

  Mr. Conducis asks me to beg that you will not trouble yourself to return the things he was glad to be able to offer after your most disagreeable accident for which, as he no doubt explained, he feels a deep sense of responsibility. He understands that your own clothes have been irretrievably spoilt and hopes that you will allow him to make what he feels is a most inadequate gesture by way of compensation. The clothes, by the way, have not been worn. If, however, you would prefer it, he hopes that you will allow him to replace your loss in a more conventional manner.

  Mr. Conducis will not himself take a direct part in any developments that may arise in respect of The Dolphin and does not wish at any juncture to be approached in the matter. Mr. Greenslade has full authority to negotiate for him at all levels.

  With compliments, I am.

  Yours truly,

  Mr. Smythiman

  Private Secretary to Mr. Conducis

  “Not true,” Jeremy said, looking over the tops of his spectacles.

  “True. Apparently. As far as it goes.”

  Jeremy read it again. “Well,” he said, “at least he doesn’t want you to approach him. We’ve done him wrong, there.”

  “He doesn’t want to set eyes on me, thank God.”

  “Were you passionately eloquent, my poor Peregrine?”

  “It looks as if I must have been, doesn’t it? I was plastered, of course.”

  “I have a notion,” Jeremy said with inconsequence, “that he was once wrecked at sea.”

  “Who?”

  “Conducis, you dolt. Who but? In his yacht.”

  “Was his yacht called Kalliope?”

  “I rather think so. I’m sure it went down.”

  “Perhaps my predicament reminded him of the experience.”

  “You know,” Jeremy said, “I can’t really imagine why we’re making such a thing of this. After all, what’s happened? You look at a derelict theatre. You fall into a fetid well from which you are extricated by the owner who is a multi-millionaire. You urge in your simple way the graces and excellence of the theatre. He wonders if before he pulls it down, it might just be worth getting another opinion. He turns you over to one of his myrmidons. Where’s the need for all the agitation?”

  “I wonder if I should like M. Smythiman if I met him and if I shall take against S. Greenslade at first sight. Or he against me, of course.”

  “What the hell does that matter? You place far too much importance upon personal relationships. Look at the fatuous way you go on about your women. And then suspecting poor Mr. Conducis of improper intentions when he never wants to look upon your like again!”

  “Do you suggest that I accept his gorgeous apparel?” Peregrine asked on an incredulous note.

  “Certainly, I do. It would be rude and ungenerous and rather vulgar to return it with a po-faced note. The old boy wants to give you his brand new clobber because you mucked up your own in his dirty great well. You should take it and not slap him back as if he’
d tried to tip you.”

  “If you had seen him you would not call him an old boy. He is the uncosiest human being I have ever encountered.”

  “Be that as it may, you’d better posh yourself up and wait upon S. Greenslade on the stroke of eleven-thirty.”

  Peregrine said, after a pause, “I shall do so, of course. He says nothing about the letter and glove, you observe.”

  “Nothing.”

  “I shall urge S. Greenslade to get it vetted at the V. and A.”

  “You jolly well do.”

  “Yes, I will. Well, Jer, as you say, why make a thing? If by some wild, rapturous falling-out of chance, I could do anything to save the life of The Dolphin, I would count myself amply rewarded. But it will, of course, only be a rum little interlude and in the meantime, here’s the latest batch of bills.”

  “At least,” Jeremy said, “There won’t be a new one from your tailors for some time to come.”

  Mr. S. Greenslade was bald, pale, well-dressed and unremarkable. His office was quietly sumptuous and he was reached through a hinterland of equally conservative but impressive approaches. He now sat, with a file under his hand, a distinguished painting behind him, and before him, Peregrine, summoning all the techniques of the theatre in order to achieve relaxation.

  “Mr. Jay,” Mr. Greenslade said, “you appreciate, of course, the fact that your meeting yesterday with Mr. Conducis has led to this appointment.”

  “I suppose so. Yes.”

  “Quite. I have here a digest, as it were, of a—shall I say a suggestion you made to Mr. Conducis as he recollects it. Here it is.”

  Mr. Greenslade put on his spectacles and read from the paper before him.

  “Mr. Jay proposed that The Dolphin Theatre should be restored to its former condition and that a company should be established there performing Shakespeare and other plays of a high cultural quality. Mr. Jay suggested that The Dolphin is a building of some cultural worth and that, historically speaking, it is of considerable interest.”

  Mr. Greenslade looked up at Peregrine. “That was, in fact, your suggestion?”

  “Yes. Yes. It was. Except that I hate the word culture.”

  “Mr. Jay, I don’t know if you are at all informed about Mr. Conducis’s interests.”

  “I—no—I only know he’s—he’s—”

  “Extremely wealthy and something of a recluse?” Mr. Greenslade suggested with a slight, practiced smile.

  “Yes.”

  “Yes.” Mr. Greenslade removed his spectacles and placed them delicately in the centre of his writing pad.

  Peregrine thought he must be going to make some profound revelation about his principal. Instead he merely said “Quite” again and after a dignified silence asked Peregrine if he would be good enough to tell him something about himself. His schooling, for example, and later career. He was extremely calm in making this request.

  Peregrine said he had been born and educated in New Zealand, had come to England on a drama bursary and had remained there.

  “I am aware, of course, of your success in the theatrical field,” said Mr. Greenslade and Peregrine supposed that he had been making some kind of confidential inquiries.

  “Mr. Jay,” said Mr. Greenslade, “I am instructed to make you an offer. It is, you may think, a little precipitant: Mr. Conducis is a man of quick decisions. It is this. Mr. Conducis is prepared to consider the rehabilitation of the theatre, subject, of course, to favourable opinions from an architect and from building authorities and to the granting of necessary permits. He will finance this undertaking. On one condition.” Mr. Greenslade paused.

  “On one condition?” Peregrine repeated in a voice that cracked like an adolescent’s.

  “Exactly. It is this. That you yourself will undertake the working management of The Dolphin. Mr. Conducis offers you, upon terms to be arrived at, the post of organizing the running of the theatre, planning its artistic policy, engaging the company and directing the productions. You would be given a free hand to do this within certain limits ot expenditure which would be set down in this contract I shall be glad to hear what your reactions are to this, at its present stage, necessarily tentative proposal.”

  Peregrine suppressed a frightening inclination towards giving himself over to manic laughter. He looked for a moment into Mr. Greenslade’s shrewd and well-insulated face and he said: “It would be ridiculous of me to pretend that I am anything but astonished and delighted.”

  “Are you?” Mr. Greenslade rejoined. “Good. In that case I shall proceed with the preliminary investigations. I, by the way, am the solicitor for a number of Mr. Conducis’s interests. If and when it comes to drawing up contracts I presume I should negotiate with your agents?”

  “Yes. They are—”

  “Thank you,” said Mr. Greenslade. “Messrs. Slade and Oppinger, I believe?”

  “Yes,” said Peregrine, wondering if at any stage of his tipsy rhapsody he had mentioned them to Mr. Conducis and rather concluding that he hadn’t.

  “There is one other matter.” Mr. Greenslade opened a drawer in his desk and with an uncanny re-enacting of his principal’s gestures on the previous morning, withdrew from it the small Victorian writing-desk. “You are already familiar with the contents, I understand, and expressed some anxiety about their authenticity.”

  “I said I wished they could be shown to an expert.”

  “Quite. Mr. Conducis has taken your point, Mr. Jay, and wonders if you yourself would be so obliging as to act for him in this respect.”

  Peregrine, in a kind of trance, said: “Are the glove and documents insured?”

  “They are covered by a general policy, but they have not been specifically insured since their value is unknown.”

  “I feel the responsibility would be—”

  “I appreciate your hesitation and I may say I put the point to Mr. Conducis. He still wishes me to ask you to undertake this mission.”

  There was a short silence.

  “Sir,” said Peregrine, “why is Mr. Conducis doing all this? Why is he giving me at least the chance of undertaking such fantastically responsible jobs? What possible motive can he have? I hope,” Peregrine continued with a forthrightness that became him very well, “that I’m not such an ass as to suppose I can have made an impression in the least degree commensurable with the proposals you’ve put before me and I—I—” He felt himself reddening and ran out of words.

  Mr. Greenslade had watched him, he thought with renewed attention. He now lifted his spectacles with both hands, held them poised daintily over his blotter and said, apparently to them: “A reasonable query.”

  “Well—I hope so.”

  “And one which I am unable to answer.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. I will,” said Mr. Greenslade, evenly, “be frank with you, Mr. Jay. I am at a loss to know why Mr. Conducis is taking this action. If, however, I have interpreted your misgivings correctly I can assure you they are misplaced.” Suddenly, almost dramatically, Mr. Greenslade became human, good-tempered and coarse. “He’s not that way inclined,” he said and laid down his spectacles.

  “I’m extremely glad to hear it.”

  “You will undertake the commission?”

  “Yes, I will.”

  “Splendid.”

  The expert folded his hands and leaned back in his chair.

  “Well,” he said, “I think we may say with certainty this is a glove of late sixteenth- or early seventeenth-century workmanship. It has, at some time, been exposed to salt-water but not extensively. One might surmise that it was protected. The little desk is very much stained. Upon the letters H.S. inside the gauntlet I am unable to give an authoritative opinion but could, of course, obtain one. As for these two really rather startling documents: they can be examined and submitted to a number of tests—Infra-red, spectrography and so on—not in my province, you know. If they’ve been concocted it will certainly be discovered.”

  “Would you tell me how I can ge
t the full treatment for them?”

  “Oh, I think we could arrange that, you know. But we would want written permission from the owner, full insurance and so on. You’ve told me nothing, so far, of the history, have you?”

  “No,” Peregrine said. “But I will. With this proviso, if you don’t mind: the owner, or rather his solicitor on his behalf, has given me permission to disclose his name to you on your undertaking to keep it to yourself until you have come to a conclusion about these things. He has a—an almost morbid dread of publicity which you’ll understand, I think, when you learn who he is.”

  The expert looked very steadily at Peregrine. After a considerable silence he said: “Very well. I am prepared to treat the matter confidentially as far as your principal’s name is concerned.”

  “He is Mr. Vassily Conducis.”

  “Good God.”

  “Quite,” said Peregrine, doing a Greenslade. “I shall now tell you as much as is known of the history. Here goes.”

  And he did in considerable detail.

  The expert listened in a startled manner.

  “Really, very odd,” he said when Peregrine had finished.

  “I assure you I’m not making it up.”

  “No, no. I’m sure. I’ve heard of Conducis, of course. Who hasn’t? You do realize what a—what a really flabbergasting thing this would be if it turned out to be genuine?”

  “I can think of nothing else. I mean: there they lie—a child’s glove and a letter asking one to suppose that on a summer’s morning in the year 1596 a master-craftsman of Stratford made a pair of gloves and gave them to his grandson, who wore them for a day and then—”

  “Grief filled the room up of an absent child?”

  “Yes. And a long time afterwards—twenty years—the father made his will—I wonder he didn’t chuck in a ghastly pun—Will’s Will—don’t you? And he left his apparel to his sister Joan Hart. And for her information wrote that note there. I mean—his hand moved across that bit of paper. If it’s genuine. And then two centuries go by and somebody called M.E. puts the glove and paper in a Victorian desk with the information that her great-great-grandmother had them from J. Hart and her grandmother insisted they were the Poet’s. It could have been Joan Hart. She died in 1664.”