The quiet remorseless police process going on at Beauport was certainly in marked contrast to the furore which had by now developed inside the Watchtower. Jim Blagge too was doubtless meeting with the traditional guarded politeness of the police, whereas there was precious little politeness left inside the cinnamon-coloured auditorium of the theatre.
The costume parade which had begun the morning gave way to a short rehearsal of the last act and then a run-through of the play. In the third act of The Seagull Christabel dried twice. Boy Greville ran his hands through his long greying hair in despair, like some ageing wizard whose spell was failing to work. Emily Jones's voice, when it was not trembling, rose higher and higher. Tobs's impersonation of a hunchback Dr Dorn failed to please despite his protests: 'But I spent the day at an old folks' home studying them,' he exclaimed indignantly. Finally Vic Marcovich decided off his own bat to deliver all his lines in a completely new manner reminiscent of George Sanders in All About Eve. It gave a very odd twist to Trigorin's famous speech about the creative process of a writer and made it sound as if he was talking about a gossip column.
The last phenomenon reduced Boy to the verge of collapse, and he had to be helped from his seat to take some special herbal remedy for when things went really wrong.
Megalith, in the shape of Guthrie as director and Jemima as presenter, had agreed in advance that at least one day would be spent in filming 'work in progress' - in order to contrast the unfinished rehearsal with the final achievement of the First Night. The trouble was, as Guthrie groaned to Jemima, there was altogether too much work and too little progress about this particular rehearsal. Boy's official attitude to the run-through of the last act was that since the first three had gone so abysmally, by the law of averages, the fourth act must go better.
It went much worse. The famous scene between Emily Jones as the fallen Nina and Ollie Summertown as the despairing Konstantin shortly preceding his suicide had about as much tension in it - as Vic Marcovich whispered to Anna Maria - as the reunion of a rice pudding and a treacle tart. Vic was still smarting at the rejection of his George Sanders turn and in no mood for generosity; all the same the comment elicited an embarrassed snigger from those members of the company who overheard it.
'All this should make a wonderful contrast with the First Night,' Cherry observed brightly to Jemima, who wondered not for the first time whether Cherry's gift for stating the obvious was all good.
Just as Vic Marcovich was getting into his stride, his George Sanders manner forgotten or at any rate held over, Boy Greville got a sudden frightful new kind of headache - possibly the onset of his first migraine, but who could be sure? Anyway, he said it was quite different from the nagging low-grade headache he generally endured. His anguished cry and the startling way in which he clapped his hands to his head was, Guthrie and Jemima decided, the most effective bit of acting they had seen all day. They had it on camera, of course. They might even decide to leave it in. Anna Maria cut an interesting figure too, tripping over Old Nicola's knitting as she rushed wildly into the auditorium with a sachet and a glass of water.
The television crew, who had elected to behave angelically all day - even the sound engineer ceased to hear both buses and seagulls through his head-set - suddenly chose the last act to turn into the proverbial work-to-rule demons. Guthrie had been contrasting their behaviour most favourably with that of his disaffected Greek crew: now this fit of patriotic fervour gave way to something more like nostalgia for the vanished glories of the Parthenon programme. The crew would not agree, for example, to run over their supper break by even one minute. Thus it was by no means sure that Megalith would be able to complete the filming of the final scene, the vital moment at which Christabel would react to the noise of Konstantin shooting himself off-stage. For this a dramatic close-up was planned.
It was a case of the whole crew agreeing to this extension or none. Spike raised Mephistophelean black eyebrows to Jemima across the auditorium, smiled ruefully, and put his thumbs down. Jemima suspected the lighting-men of obduracy, as part of their enjoyable guerrilla warfare with the Watchtower stagehands. However there was never any point in suffering additional frustration over these matters; it was all part of the interesting tapestry of English television and had to be accepted as such, along with weather which washed out summer harvest filming in Constable country or played gentle sunshine on the Brontes' moors just when you wanted a Heathcliffian thunderstorm. The actors, most of whom had worked in television and were used to the phenomenon, were equally philosophic.
'We'll just have to take a chance.' Whatever his private thoughts, Guthrie sounded equally resigned.
Emily successfully — well, more or less - declaimed Nina's last speech: 'When you see Trigorin don't tell him anything ... I love him. I love him even more than before . . .' Her voice did evince its unfortunate little wailing note from time to time, but at least she looked suitably wan and very pretty, still wearing the navy-blue dress with a sailor collar which Boy Greville had substituted for her mermaid's outfit.
Now Christabel was seated on her plastic rock; she had changed from her white muslin into her own clothes - a pale-blue shirt and navy-blue pleated skirt which showed her excellent legs in their narrow-thonged white sandals. Jemima thought that she had the legs at least of a young girl (although Emily Jones, who was a young girl, had rather thick legs, not entirely hidden by her long skirt).
Trigorin gazed at the stuffed seagull before him. Just as planned, a loud noise was heard off-stage. Jemima just had time to think that it did not sound very like a shot, when two things happened.
The supper break was officially reached, so the plugs were pulled and the crew stopped filming. And Blanche Cartwright rushed on to the stage. It was, in its way, a splendidly timed entrance, except for the fact that the camera was no longer turning.
Otherwise Blanche had everyone's fullest attention, from her mother, who gave the most perfectly startled look of any Madame Arkadina reacting to her son's shot off-stage, right down to Old Nicola, who awoke very startled from a little snooze in her seat and started to scrabble frenziedly for her knitting.
Blanche was crying: 'They've got him, they've arrested him. The police have arrested Mr Blagge. Mummy, they're saying it was Mr Blagge killed Nat. Mummy, you've got to do something, it's all your fault, Mummy, you should never have come back.'
12
Weak Flesh
The arrest of James Roy Blagge, 63, chauffeur, of Stable Cottage, Lark Manor, Bridset, for murder created a major sensation in Larminster. In a way it was an even more shattering - and thus exciting - event for the local inhabitants than the crime itself. Something about Nat's shady theatrical career, it had been vaguely felt as the weeks passed, must have contributed to his fate: his departure from Larminster to university had already marked him out as different and, on his return as Festival Director, he had made no effort to ingratiate himself with Larminster society other than that section of it represented by the Festival Committee.
Jim Blagge was different. They all knew Jim, and they all knew Rose Blagge too, as they had known Rose Kettering, and still claimed to know Katherine Kettering, for all her grand airs up at the Manor. Father O'Brien, the Larminster parish priest, went up to Stable Cottage to comfort Rose Blagge. He reported that she had collapsed totally when the police arrived with a warrant for Jim's arrest. It had been in one way fortunate that Rose's sister had been visiting her at the time, and could succour her, although less fortunate that Ketty was accompanied by Blanche Cartwright, so highly strung at the best of times; before anyone could stop her, Blanche had run screaming from Stable Cottage, grabbed her father's Land-Rover and driven to Larminster and the theatre, where she had broken the news of the arrest in dramatic terms now known to the whole of Larminster.
Ketty was praying with her sister when Father O'Brien arrived; he had subsequently asked to see Mrs Cartwright but had been told by Mr Julian Cartwright that she was unavailable. Father O'Brien added that Mr
Julian Cartwright himself had been extremely kind and promised to do everything in his power to help the unfortunate Jim Blagge: give support in the magistrate's court, stand bail if there was any chance of that, and all the rest of it.
'Of course I know Blagge's innocent, Father,' Julian exclaimed testily in his loud voice which penetrated, had he but known it, the darkened bedroom upstairs where Christabel lay resting and thus rather removed the point of his next remark: 'All the same, my wife mustn't be disturbed: we don't want to bring her into this, any more than is absolutely necessary. She's got her performance to think of, two of them. It's not as if she was involved personally in any way in this ghastly business.' Julian Cartwright glared at Father O'Brien as if defying him to contradict this assumption, and for one moment looked remarkably like his uncle the Major.
Father O'Brien tried to conceal his disappointment. He had much looked forward to a good talk with Christabel Cartwright, consoling or at least condoling. But for Jim Blagge's sake, and because he was a tactful man, at any rate where Protestants were concerned, he murmured something non-committally soft and Irish.
Secretly, Father O'Brien cherished a very different attitude to Christabel from that of the Blagges and Ketty. In theory, of course, he deplored the flagrant adultery which had led to her disappearance with the Blagges' son - although he had never actually met young Barry, having arrived in the parish a few months after their departure. But Father O'Brien was also a dedicated admirer of television, a medium which he was convinced was directly guided by the Holy Ghost in view of the vast benevolent influence it exercised in the world. Old people comforted, the lonely solaced - but these were minor benefits. Above all, in Father O'Brien's opinion, high moral values were upheld on television: look how the evil were punished nightly for their sins on the television news, while at the same time you could learn to recognize the devil and all his works, with a choice of channels, in the safety of your own home. Even Cy Fredericks, in his wildest fit of euphoria, would not have advanced for Megalith Television alone some of the claims which Father O'Brien, in his study at St Bede's presbytery, took for granted about the whole medium.
Christabel Cartwright was the nearest that Father O'Brien had ever come to the baleful world of the enchanter. He had greeted the news of her return to Lark Manor, broken to him in accents of horror by Rose Blagge, with public gravity but private excitement. Father O'Brien was one of those who dropped by the Watchtower Theatre box office at an early stage and enquired after a seat on the night that the television cameras would be present. Poll, encased in the darkened glass booth, had been quite shocked by a priest wanting to come to the theatre in the first place, let alone on the First Night: she assuaged her feelings by making him pay for his own seat, and the top price too. This in turn rather shocked Father O'Brien who thought that the performance of his parish duties - in this case witnessing the public penitence of Christabel Cartwright - should come free.
The advent of Megalith Television to Larminster, followed by Christabel's resumption of the stage, he regarded in general as a striking example of the power of prayer; Father O'Brien having offered up Mass for Christabel and her family and in the course of it mentioned something of the sort to the Almighty: 'For her own good, and the good of her darling girls, and the good of the whole community. Let the sinner be seen to repent in public, preferably not on BBC2, which Thou knowest O Lord is not too clearly received in the presbytery ... Acknowledge her sin like the publican in the Bible,' added Father O'Brien hastily, lest God, at the sound of his familiar complaint about the presbytery television set, should lose interest in Christabel Cartwright's artistic future.
Julian Cartwright, unaware of the maelstrom of yearnings in the priest's breast, simply repeated to Father O'Brien that he would do his best for Blagge. As for Mrs Blagge, she was of course excused any further duties in the house until she saw fit to return. Ketty too might stay with her as long as she liked.
'Though God knows the girls need her too,' he concluded wearily. Father O'Brien, in a rush of sympathy quite at odds with his usual romantic appreciation of the situation at Lark Manor, realized that Julian Cartwright had come to look quite a lot older and sadder since his wife's return to the stage.
'All the same, Mrs Blagge comes first, I insist on that,' Julian finished. Father O'Brien then wondered whether perhaps Blanche .. . perhaps a word or two from him ... he was not of course her parish priest, no wish to poach on the Vicar's preserves, but if he could be of any help, since he was right here at Lark...
'There's nothing for a priest to do. Of any persuasion.' Julian Cartwright sounded crisp. Soon Father O'Brien found himself being escorted out of the beautiful light drawing-room where Julian had received him, with its blues and greens, and its view of the sea, in the direction of the front door. But as they passed the open door of Julian's study - a glimpse of manly dark reds and browns was to be seen through it - Julian appeared to think better of his decision.
'A quick whisky, Father, before you go?' His tone, if forced, was suddenly much more friendly.
The priest and Julian had actually just had tea, which had been brought them by Regina Cartwright, in the absence of Mrs Blagge, Ketty, and of course Christabel. Father O'Brien said that the pretty curly-handled Rockingham cups reminded him of the china his mother had had when he was a boy in Ireland; diplomatically, he ignored the stained cloth where Regina, carrying the tray and looking rather magnificent as she did so, like some kind of dark-haired caryatid, had nevertheless managed to slop tea everywhere.
'The cups that cheer but not inebriate, wait on each...' Regina had murmured as she deposited the tray. Father O'Brien, unaware that she was quoting Cowper, was nonetheless quite willing to follow the cheering cup with an inebriating glass. Julian ushered him into the study and splashed a good deal of whisky into the heavy-bottomed Waterford glasses.
At Julian's request Father O'Brien then dutifully admired an enormous portrait of Julian's mother, Lady May, as a young girl, in riding-costume, whip at the ready, dog at her feet, some enormous louring white stately home in the background, painted by Sir John Lavery. But as an Irishman, Father O'Brien had never been able to see the British aristocracy as part of the divine plan: he was busy looking round for portraits of Julian's wife, not his mother. He was rewarded immediately by one glamorous photograph and one family group including the girls as well as Christabel (if Father O'Brien had been on calling terms with Gregory Rowan, he might have been surprised to discover exactly the same photographs abutting Gregory's own desk, in the rather less grandly decorated surroundings of Old Keeper's Lodge).
Julian Cartwright leant back easily in his large tobacco-brown leather chair: the heavy velvet curtains of the study, their colour matching the whisky in his hand, partly shrouded the view and ensured that very little of the summer light filtered through into the handsomely sombre room. What Julian Cartwright wanted to explain to Father O'Brien was this: when Blanche had burst out in her dramatic denunciation of her mother at the end of the Watchtower rehearsal, she was above all not to be taken seriously. Julian supposed that Blanche's words might have caused some shock and alarm in Larminster - Father O'Brien, he was sure, never gossiped, nor did he, Julian, but it had to be faced that there were many 'less heavily employed people than us, shall we say, Father', who did little else.
The fact was, Blanche was absolutely devoted to her mother, Julian continued in the kind of voice he used for reading the lesson in church (not Father O'Brien's church). But it happened that she was just at the age when she took things very much to heart, and Blanche had this silly childish habit of speaking her mind, or what appeared to be her mind. The arrest of Mr Blagge, whom she had known and loved since babyhood, more or less in front of her eyes, had quite upset her balance. Whereas her sister had many more resources with which to deal with the situation.
'Rina is more the dreamy type, you know, reads a book and rides her horse, has even been known to do both at the same time, read a book on a horse—' J
ulian laughed rather more loudly perhaps than the joke warranted, but Father O'Brien hastened to add his own polite soft chuckle. 'The trouble with Blanche is that she has not yet found her own niche. With Rina being so much more bookish, intelligent one might even say, Blanche needs to develop her own interests—'
'The theatre maybe, I believe she has talent, like her mother? Television—' The moment he had spoken, Father O'Brien realized that he had made an error. It was too late. Julian Cartwright had already drained his whisky and ignoring the fact that Father O'Brien had barely begun his, was jumping to his feet.
'Hardly the theatre, I think, Father.' He sounded both cold and furious at the same time. 'It was somebody's mischievous suggestion that poor little Blanche should read for a part at the Watchtower which upset her balance in the first place. Sheer trouble making. My wife was very upset about it too. We were united on the subject. Neither of us feels that Blanche is suited in any way to a life in the theatre.'
Julian was now walking so fast on his long legs, out of the front door in the direction of the priest's old black Rover, that Father O'Brien, much shorter and quite a bit stouter, could hardly keep up with him.
'Oh, I hardly think Miss Kettering meant to make trouble,' Father O'Brien managed to pant out, just as they were reaching the car. 'She only wanted her dear little girl to have her own chance - just as her mother had done. So she sent a little message. That nice old Miss Nicola Wain helped her. All quite harmless.'
Once again Julian stopped. His resemblance to Major Cartwright this time as he fixed Father O'Brien with a ferocious look was so marked as to cause the priest to take a nervous step back. He had never cared for Major Cartwright, ever since it had come to his ears - via the intelligence service of Mrs Blagge handing round the food - that the Major had described him over lunch as 'that confounded Holy Roman busybody.' The Major's daunting expression persisted in Julian as he repeated several times: