REHEARSAL
By
Brian Sands
Broadway, HtF. (This is a great German
site, one of the few didcap/vidcap sites remaining).
Chapter 8 The Playwright
Laura listened intently to the argument going on in
the next room. At first she thought it was taking place between Alison and that
bastard Clive aka Ronald. But after a while she identified the deep imploring
tones as not those of a man at all but of Alison herself, in her cups, slurring
her responses to a lowered but angry voice that was clearly that of another
woman. Laura could not identify the accents as those of the Director. Was it
the Playwright, Delia Biancoflore?
But if that was the case, then where was Ronald? Was
the man in hiding somewhere, listening in on the argument between the two
women? Laura had a quirky mental image of the man squeezing himself into the
closet where she had been lying only a short while ago. Or had he made a
prudent getaway, intending to return later to collect her? The latter seemed a
more likely strategy for a man who, under the surface, was a coward.
And by now it must be Monday morning, thought Laura.
Doesn’t anyone ever sleep? But the truth was, Laura had no idea what time of
day or night it was, after lying tied up in that closet for so long.
If Ronald was out of the picture for now, thought
Laura, there was a chance she might be rescued. If only she could make her
whereabouts known to the two squabbling women on the other side of the very
thick and sound-resistant door.
Laura looked down at her wrist bonds. Being tied
into a chair was a very different matter from being trussed and squeezed into
the shelf of a closet. A chair allowed more movement. Limited movement it was
true, but Laura thought about what she had seen in movies where the heroine
often succeeded in upsetting her chair onto the floor and managing to reach a
phone - although calling for help into the mouth-piece was usually impossible
with a gag in place - or making sufficient noise to gain attention. That seemed
a more likely option.
She looked around her. The darkness of the room
meant that she could not see where the dangerous, pointy bits of furniture lay.
It was a hazardous business, falling in a dark room packed with lumber. But
maybe there was a way of finding out where the safest patch of floor was.
Slowly, Laura shifted her chair, bouncing in it at just the right motion to
cause it to move, then using that small momentum to make the chair slide a
little. There was no carpet on the floor, only bare floorboards, and that
assisted the chair’s progress.
In a relatively short time, Laura had managed to
work herself closer to the wall, just to one side of the door. The sound of
arguing continued, but its forcefulness had abated. With her heart in her mouth
lest Alison and her unidentified visitor should leave the basement suite, Laura
leaned across as far as she could and tentatively banged her head against the
wall.
Striking one’s head against a wall is not to be
recommended at the best of times, but thin ply board was all that appeared to
separate the two rooms from each other, reinforced at intervals of a yard or so
by thicker wooden supports. The wood panels were resilient, so Laura did not
brain herself as she began to bump her head more energetically against it.
Her efforts were rewarded. There was a sharp
exclamation, and the voices in the other room ceased. Time stood still. Then
Laura heard the handle on the other side of the door being tried. It appeared
to be stiff, but the door was unlocked and in a moment it swung wide open.
Laura found herself looking into the blue eyes of a
beautiful blonde-haired stranger.
The woman was tall, her hair swept up in a chignon
with wisps of gold that fell round button earrings and framed her face. She
wore a black see-through organza top that must have cost the earth and a narrow
black satin skirt whose cost must be even more preposterous, thought Laura.
Laura was surprised that in spite of her misery one corner of her mind could
still appraise another woman by her clothes sense and adornments. But then, the
Playwright was nothing other than a most striking figure. More intimidating
than the Director, and that was saying a lot!
Laura bounced in the chair and mmphed for all she
was worth, shaking her head from side to side to indicate in no uncertain terms
that she wanted her gag removed right away. But her mouth was so immobilised by
the gag that she found to her frustration that she could make very little noise
even when confronting imminent rescue face to face.
But there was no move to relieve her of her bonds
and gag. Instead, the tall blonde stepped back and regarded Laura quizzically.
Over the playwright’s shoulder Laura could see Alison hanging back, her mouth
open in astonishment. It would have appeared ludicrous in a different and less
frightening situation but Laura scarcely noticed. Her eyes were fixed on the
large blue eyes that looked down at her.
In calm, modulated tones the woman addressed Laura’s
friend over her shoulder. ‘Alison, what on earth have you done? Elly told me
that you and our leading lady were rehearsing the play in your spare time. But
you could have said you were still practising. I’m interrupting you.’
‘N- No, Mizz Biancoflore. It’s like this ...’ Alison
began.
‘Think nothing of it,’ replied the woman, who was
now in Laura’s mind clearly identified as Delia Biancoflore the Playwright. She
waved her hand airily. ‘I must say that’s a stroke of genius to use the old
storage space. It’s more in keeping with the secret room of my play than this
very well appointed living area.’
Alison swelled with evident pride and made a deprecating
gesture. The show of modesty was spoiled a little when she stepped back and
fell into the sofa. While Alison floundered in the depths of the cushions,
Delia Biancoflore turned again to Laura and carried on her one-sided
conversation.
‘I must admit that I had my doubts when Elly told me
you were a neophyte to live theatre. But now that I see for myself it’s
obvious, the touch of professionalism. In one so young too. You wear those
ropes exceedingly well. No wonder Elly sounded proud of you over the phone.’
‘Mmmmf!’
‘Yes, and you should be proud too. You’re doing a
great job. Now ...’ the playwright turned to Alison who meanwhile had managed
to sit up and was smoothing her skirt over her thighs red faced. ‘I want to
tell you about some additional little changes I’ve made to the play, but Elly
should be here.’
‘Sh- She rang just before you came,’ Alison
stammered.
‘Oh why on earth didn’t you tell me? If I had known
in time I could have picked her up from her apartment on the way here.’
Alison shrugged. The Playwright walked past her and
took up a place in one of the easy chairs that gave a commanding view of the
steps and the door to the basement suite. Alison glanced guiltily towards
Laura, then turned her head away and gave every appearance of listening keenly
to the older woman. Delia Biancoflore riffled through a set of well worn pages
that were obviously her copy of the play, talking under her breath to Alison
and to no-one in particular at the same time as she made notations in the
margins.
Laura was forgotten. She couldn’t believe it. She
had spent half the night in real helpless confinement. She desperately wanted
fresh clean water to drink, and a warm shower would not go amiss. The
playwright obviously thought they were still rehearsing, and Alison had not
made her any wiser about the real situation.
What was the real situation? Well, thought Laura,
bloody Clive tied me up and intended for me to stay hidden till he could
collect me and hide me away somewhere. But now I’ve been found. But I’ve not
been rescued. The playwright doesn’t know what’s going on. Alison hasn’t told
her. And I can’t say a word because of this horrible gag.
Laura had a sudden frightening insight into Alison’s
possible role in the drama that was slowly being played out under the nose of
the playwright. Laura was almost sure the voices she had heard when lying
gagged and trussed in the closet had been those of Clive and Alison. That could
mean that Alison was cooperating with Clive aka Ronald or vice versa. (She was
beginning to get mixed up over the man’s identity).
But for what reason? Alison was the one who was
going to be swindled, if Ronald had his way. Why would Alison participate
knowingly in something that would in the end harm her financially? The answer
had to be that Alison did not know Clive’s real motives. Or was there something
else? Were they somehow in it together, for different motives?
But again, had Clive spun Alison some sort of line?
Such as? Laura racked her brains. Well, Alison was her understudy. If she fell
sick - or if she disappeared - Alison would take over the part of leading lady.
Was that the carrot Clive was dangling in front of Alison’s nose? But Alison
was trustworthy. She was a friend. Laura was reluctant to think the worst of
her. And why would Ronald bother himself over getting involved in the play
anyway?
Laura’s hopeless speculations were cut short by a
confident rap at the door at the top of the stairway. Alison bounded up the
steps - still a little unsteadily Laura noted - and opened the door. Eloise
Mordaza entered., brushed past Alison in her excitement, and ran down the steps
to greet Delia Biancoflore with open arms. The other woman had risen from her
chair, placing the script to one side on the sofa where Alison had been
sitting.
‘Delly, Darling!’
‘Elly, Pumpkin.’
‘Mwa!’
‘Mwa!’
Each woman kissed the other while barely touching
lips to cheek.
Eloise Mordaza looked across at Laura. ‘I see you
and dear Lalla are still rehearsing.’
‘Um, yes’m.’ replied Alison uncomfortably as she
descended the last step to stand before the two immaculately dressed women.
The Director this time wore a smart trouser suit:
pink silk blouse teamed with light bone slacks contrasted beneath a red jacket.
A crisp blue silk kerchief was tucked flamboyantly into the left breast pocket.
Her dark hair and bright clothes complemented the Playwright’s golden hair and
translucent black top. The two elegant women turned as one and surveyed Laura,
who in her state of semi-undress fought mentally against her embarrassment and
the real urgency to be free of ropes and gag.
The Playwright’s demeanour became stern as she took
several paces forward and appraised Laura through narrowed eyes, the set of her
jaw suggesting disapproval. Involuntarily, Laura bit into her gag under the
steady gaze.
‘Rehearsing? If you are indeed rehearsing, how is it
that your blouse is undone?’
‘We - We were improvising. Weren’t we Lalla?’ said
Alison in barely a whisper.
Laura, who could not even whisper, nodded her head
vigorously in agreement. She was somewhat in awe of the Playwright and had
forgotten momentarily that what she wanted most of all was to let these people
understand that she had been gagged and bound against her will and wanted
desperately to be freed.
‘Ah, a gentle mocking of the genre perhaps,’ said
the Playwright, her face creasing into a mischievous grin. ‘I’m hoping to get
away with the sight of a beautiful woman bound and gagged on stage for almost
the entire performance. It’s quintessential melodrama. But I think that that
touch of deshabille - stunningly effective though it is for you my dear - is
going a little too far for our bourgeois audience. However,’ she stepped from
one side to the other comparing angles of vision, ‘it is rather appealing, I
must say. What do you think, Elly?’
‘It does make our heroine so much more vulnerable, I
grant you that,’ replied the Director, ‘But I agree it’s somewhat risque, and
therefore it’s risky.’
The Playwright chuckled at the Director’s intentional
pun. ‘Nevertheless, I think we shall keep it in mind, and at least try out the
idea in an "undress rehearsal." By the way, my dear, is that your day
to day bra? It’s beautiful lace. Or did you select it purposely for this
rehearsal? Oh, but of course you’re literally tongue-tied.’
‘Perhaps we should ungag the dear girl before she
chokes,’ suggested the Director.
‘By all means, Lisa,’ replied the Playwright. ‘We
need Laura’s input into what I’m going to present to you this morning.’
The Director walked across to Laura and moved behind
her. Laura bent her head forward and felt the older woman’s slender fingers
working on the thick knot of the gag at the back of her neck.
‘My, Alison’s gagged you really tight this time. I
don’t suppose there’s a smidgen of jealousy between you two is there?’ asked
Eloise Mordaza as she gently eased the gag from Laura’s mouth.
Laura let her head fall back. The relief of the
gag’s removal was almost unbearable in itself. She worked her jaw and mouth.
She tried to speak but all that came out was a faint croak.
Hours of wearing the gag had robbed her of her
voice. Her throat was parched. Water was coming - Delia Biancoflore was at the
kitchen sink filling a glass from the tap - and soon she would be able to speak
and tell the world about Clive’s perfidy, and Alison’s betrayal.
But even as these thoughts raced through her head,
Laura saw Alison frantically mouthing signals, requests not to tell the two
older women what had happened. As the Playwright approached with a glass of
precious liquid in her hands, Laura wrestled with her conscience.
A wrong had been done. Tying up and gagging a woman
and holding her prisoner in a closet and then in a junk room was crime enough.
Clive/Ronald must be somewhere in the vicinity. Or had the coward simply fled?
Was it fair to drag the Director and the Playwright into this sordid business?
And, what Laura felt totally undecided about, was
Alison trustworthy? Laura had a dreadful suspicion that Alison and Ronald were
in something criminal together. If she remained quiet and went along with the
rehearsal plans that the Playwright and the Director were bent on, would she be
able to get to the bottom of it all, just she and Alison alone, and work
something out, perhaps ally themselves against Ronald? Laura was still
undecided as the lip of the glass was raised gently to her mouth.
*
ACT THREE, SCENE 4
THE DRAWING ROOM
The curtain reveals an empty room. As the background
music fades, a door opens upper stage right and the figure of a woman appears.
She walks cautiously across to centre stage where we see that it is GERTRUDE. She is wearing the
same dark mannish suit with tie that she wore during the reading of the Will.
She pauses, then moves to left centre stage and comes to a halt in front of the
large open fireplace. GERTRUDE looks around, obviously straining to hear
whether anyone is approaching. She then taps on one of the wooden panels beside
the stone fireplace: three short sharp taps followed by two slower taps. She
waits several seconds then repeats the signal. After a pause, there comes an
answering series of knocks in the same order. GERTRUDE sighs audibly,
turns, and walks to the sofa down left centre where she arranges herself
casually, legs crossed. She is in half profile to the audience, her face in
partial shadow. Another door opens down right stage. The butler enters. He is
carrying a tray that holds seven glasses. He is halfway to the coffee table
down centre stage before he notices GERTRUDE.
THE BUTLER: (Stopping suddenly and coming to
attention). Sorry Madam. I did not see you.
GERTRUDE: That’s all right James. Are we to have
drinkies?
THE BUTLER: Indeed Madam. It is by special request
of Detective Inspector Rex Barker.
GERTRUDE: What on earth for? This is hardly a time
for being light hearted.
THE BUTLER: I remarked upon that, Madam, and he said
that there is nothing as good at oiling social relationships than alcohol taken
in judicious measure.
GERTRUDE: Very strange. I thought the man was a fool
the moment I set eyes on him.
THE BUTLER: Quite possibly Madam. If you will excuse
me Madam ... (THE BUTLER sets the tray on the coffee table, walks to the
liquor cabinet right centre stage, and returns with two bottles in one hand -
apparently whisky and brandy respectively - and a soda fountain in the other.
He sets down the soda fountain and the two bottles on the coffee table. He
carries out these movements slowly and methodically. GERTRUDE begins to
tap nervously with the fingers of one hand on the armrest of the sofa).
GERTRUDE: I do wish you had done this earlier. It’s
distracting.
THE BUTLER: Sorry Madam, but the preparations had to
be made in a hurry. The others are coming soon. (As he speaks, we
hear the indistinct sounds of people’s voices approaching). I must procure
the rest of the drinks ... Madam. (THE BUTLER bows stiffly and exits down
right stage).
GERTRUDE: (Testily). Of course.
As the door closes behind THE BUTLER, the door at right
centre stage opens and the DETECTIVE INSPECTOR enters. He stands aside
and ushers in the SOCIETY GIRL who is wearing a blue chiffon
off-the-shoulder gown with a flowing skirt that comes to her feet. She is
followed by the MILITARY OFFICER who is dressed as on the previous
occasion in kilt and tunic. After a pause THE COOK enters, still in
kitchen whites with a flat-topped cap on her head.
DETECTIVE INSPECTOR: Please make yourselves
comfortable. I see that not all of our company have arrived yet.
The SOCIETY GIRL sits in the sofa at the end from
GERTRUDE. The MILITARY man takes a chair at down right centre stage
facing the sofa. THE COOK stands back uncomfortably until the
DETECTIVE INSPECTOR indicates the chair next to that of the MILITARY
MAN. She sits. There is an awkward silence of about fifteen seconds. Then
the SOCIETY GIRL and GERTRUDE speak, at the same time.
SOCIETY GIRL: Have there been any ...
GERTRUDE: I don’t think we ...
(They break off and look at each other with obvious
dislike. At that point THE BUTLER re-enters down right stage. He is carrying another tray
on which is a decanter of sherry, a bottle of gin, tonic water, dry ginger ale,
and several more glasses of varying sizes to match the drinks. He places the
tray on the coffee table next to the other drinks and steps back to stand near
the door, his arms at his side).
DETECTIVE INSPECTOR: (Addressing THE BUTLER).
Won’t you be seated?
THE BUTLER: It is above my station sir.
DETECTIVE INSPECTOR: Very well. (He turns to face
the others but addresses the SOCIETY GIRL). What was it you wished to say
my dear Miss Blanche White?
SOCIETY GIRL: I wanted to ask whether there has been
any break-through in the case?
DETECTIVE INSPECTOR: There may have been. (He turns
to GERTRUDE). And your query, Madam Black?
GERTRUDE: I was going to say that we do not have to
wait for the others to arrive. It’s quite clear that the girl Dolores Beaucoeur
is in it up to her neck. I for one do not expect her to make any sort of
appearance.
DETECTIVE INSPECTOR: Hmm. Then how are we to explain
the fact that the young woman’s handbag was found in her room? No woman
intentionally leaves her bag when she goes out, especially if she doesn’t plan
to return.
GERTRUDE: (Shrugging). I can’t explain everything.
That’s your job.
DETECTIVE INSPECTOR: (Drily). Quite right.
Some seconds into the awkward pause that follows
this exchange, the door opens at right centre stage and ROD PIERCE THE ADVENTURER enters
hurriedly. His hair is awry and the overcoat he is wearing is grime-stained and
buttoned incorrectly so that the bottom flaps of the overcoat are not matching.
THE ADVENTURER: Sorry I’m late everyone. Car played
up. Gave no end of trouble.
DETECTIVE INSPECTOR: I’m glad you could make it.
Please. (He indicates the one remaining empty chair next to the sofa where
the SOCIETY GIRL is sitting. THE ADVENTURER sits, combs his hair
with his fingers with little success but re-buttons his overcoat more
successfully).
DETECTIVE INSPECTOR: To continue from where I left
off, I must put together the few clues that are presently apparent. The young
woman was among you earlier at the reading of the Will. Then your company broke
up to your separate rooms and interests. When you reconvened for dinner she was
not among you, and a search was made of the house and around the grounds. Then
I was called in once more. Now there is the clue of the handbag. The suddenness
of Miss Beaucoeur’s disappearance to my mind does not suggest deceit on her
part. On the contrary, it suggests that the young woman may have been detained
against her will by a party or parties unknown. She is the beneficiary of the
old woman’s Will. That supplies a motive that makes her a suspect in the lady’s
death. But it may explain her disappearance equally well, especially if someone
else and not Miss Beaucoeur is responsible for the death of the old lady.
GERTRUDE: (Waving her hand in dismissal). If
you ask me, that’s very flimsy argument. It won’t stand up in a court of law.
And anyway, you have not found the identity of the murderer, have you?
DETECTIVE INSPECTOR: That is correct Madam Black.
And that is why I have called you all together once more.
THE COOK: Then you still think that one of us did
the foul deed? Lawks!
MILITARY MAN: I say, dash it fellow, we can’t all
remain cooped up in this ramshackle mansion. I have my hounds to attend to, and
the badger sets require culling.
DETECTIVE INSPECTOR: (Regarding COLONEL
KILLEM with obvious distaste). Nevertheless, I have to ask you to remain
here until the case is solved.
THE COOK: (Sotto voce). Poor little badgers!
There follows an awkward silence. The suspects look
warily at one another. THE ADVENTURER shifts uncomfortably in his chair. GERTRUDE crosses
and uncrosses her legs and recommences drumming softly on the armrest of the
sofa with the fingers of one hand. The DETECTIVE INSPECTOR withdraws
a meerschaum pipe from his pocket, inspects the bowl and pokes vaguely at its
contents with a twisted pipe cleaner. He shrugs and replaces the pipe in his
pocket without lighting it. THE BUTLER stands impassively by the door at
down right stage. THE COOK wrings her hands in her lap. The
MILITARY MAN sighs and slumps back in his chair.
DETECTIVE INSPECTOR: (Placing his hands in the
pockets of his overcoat and pacing up and down between the two opposite rows of
suspects from stage centre to down centre stage). Let me recapitulate. (Muttering
comes from various members of the group).
GERTRUDE: (In exasperation). Not again!
DETECTIVE INSPECTOR: Yes, again. There’s something
I’ve missed. (He pauses suddenly and raises his hand for silence).
What’s that?
The group falls into an uneasy silence. A faint
scratching or scrabbling sound can be heard from somewhere behind the large
fireplace. The DETECTIVE
INSPECTOR walks towards it and begins to examine the wall on either side of
the fireplace.
GERTRUDE: (Raising her voice a little shrilly).
It can’t be anything important. I’ve been hearing it all day. Nothing but mice.
DETECTIVE INSPECTOR: Be quiet, Madam! (He
continues to examine the walls, probing different sections of paneling with his
fingers. The scrabbling sounds continue. Then, after a pause, a faint thumping
sound is heard). There’s something, or someone, behind this wall. I do
believe it’s hollow!
He continues to apply pressure to various panels,
then turns to the stone fireplace. One flat stone just below the end of the
mantel appears to move when he presses against it. Then there is a loud click
and a wide section of the wall beside the fireplace opens to reveal a narrow
doorway.
DETECTIVE INSPECTOR: What have we here? My god! (He
recoils).
DOLORES BEAUCOEUR rolls from the secret doorway
onto the floor of the drawing room. Her arms are bound behind her and her legs
are tied together. The lower half of her face is hidden by the large white gag.
She is wearing an overcoat ...
Detail from a Jerry Cotton film book illustration,
in Bondage Life #34, 1988, p. 39.
To be Continued ...
ã Brian Sands February 2003