‘It was Seldon. Why do you ask?’
‘And his wife’s name was Elizabeth?’
‘Perhaps. Yes, I think he called her Lizzie. But you said ‘was called’, Helen. What’s happened? What do you know?’
‘I thought so all the time but I was hoping my memory was playing tricks. A Mr and Mrs Seldon, Arthur and Elizabeth, were killed by gas poisoning in Norwood several days ago. He was a policeman. I would not have known of it except that there was an article about the safety of gas supplies in The Durham Advertiser-’
‘Which you just happened to be reading.’
‘You know me, Tom, I am a gannet for any printed matter my eye happens to fall on. What leaped out was the reference to the death of the Seldons, even if the writer mentioned it only to show the risks of piped gas and because it was a recent accident, I suppose.’
‘An accident, there you are.’
‘But it is a strange coincidence, isn’t it, that it should happen so soon after that man Smight threw himself off Waterloo Bridge.’
‘A coincidence but no more. What could be the connection?’
‘I don’t know, Tom. If I were more imaginative I’d say that Mr Smight had laid a curse on the Seldons from beyond the grave.’
‘Then it’s surprising he has more power now he’s dead than he ever did when he was alive. He cut a pretty feeble figure while he was threatened with being taken to court.’
‘Oh, I am well aware it is a ridiculous idea but, still, it has made me uneasy.’
Tom did his best to reassure Helen in the few minutes it took them to reach the theatre although what she said made him a little uncomfortable. When they arrived, they were directed to a poky room somewhere in the innards of the building. Sebastian Marmont was scrutinizing himself in a mirror, then applying dabs of extra ‘slap’ to darken his already ruddy complexion. He was wearing the trousers and waistcoat of his white tropical three-piece. A solar topi sat on the table beside him. He smiled to see Tom and Helen reflected in the glass. He stood up and raised Helen’s gloved hand to his lips.
‘Enchante, madame.’
‘I am pleased to meet you, Major Marmont,’ said Helen, sounding genuinely pleased, then looking round, she added, ‘This is a veritable Aladdin’s cave.’
It was the right thing to say. The room was jumbled with costumes and incongruous bits of equipment from a wicker basket to what looked like the trunk of a palm tree. Tom reached out an experimental finger. It felt like papier-mache.
The door to the dressing room suddenly burst open and three lads tumbled into the room. They had not realized that Marmont had visitors. One of them started to say, ‘Dad-’ and got no further. They were wearing turbans and their faces were neither pale nor dark but in between.
‘Boys!’ said the Major. ‘Manners! Let me introduce you to Mr and Mrs Ansell. Alfred, Arthur and Albert.’
The boys lined up as Sebastian Marmont pointed them out in rapid succession.
‘These are my sons, my Hindoos. They assist me in the performance in a variety of guises. The smallest one there, Albert, even dresses up as an ape — as if he wasn’t enough of a monkey already! You only have twenty minutes, you three. Go and get ready now.’
And the three tumbled out of the room again, without a word.
‘Well, Mr and Mrs Ansell,’ said Marmont, ‘you have found out one of my secrets. I employ my sons and pass them off as natives. Their mother is, alas, no more and I value their company. Having them with me, I can keep an eye on them.’
As he mentioned the loss of his wife, he looked keenly at Tom. Then he looked back at his reflection in the mirror and tugged his waistcoat down. He settled the topi on his head and gave his moustaches an extra twirl.
‘There,’ he said. ‘I am point-device the very man, even if I do say so myself.’
‘Bravo, Major Marmont,’ said Helen, giving a little clap.
Act Three
It is the climax of the evening. Major Marmont comes down to the footlights and speaks directly to the audience while behind him two of his Hindoos are wheeling on to the stage a cabinet painted in red and gold.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, you are about to see a feat which is unique. I have styled this object the Cabinet of Perseus. Let us see what it contains — or rather what it does not contain.’
He nods at the two boys who are standing on either side of the cabinet, which is about four-feet wide and deep and seven-feet high. The boys revolve the cabinet on its castors, pausing when each side is opposite to the audience. Every time, Sebastian Marmont raps the side sharply and several times over with a long stick to show that there is nothing concealed within, no hidden exits. When the cabinet is facing front again the boys open the narrow double doors. The interior walls are covered with the same red and gilt pattern as the outside but the cabinet is empty apart from a wooden post in the centre. This supports a gas lamp which casts such a bright light on the inside that it is impossible to imagine that there is the space for even a mouse to hide itself. The Major walks right up to the cabinet and waggles his stick around the front of the open space.
When the audience have had a good stare, the Major orders the doors to be closed again. He returns to the footlights and says in a confidential style, ‘I am sure that, in the presence of such learned inhabitants of so distinguished a city, I do not have to explain why I have selected the name of Perseus. But, for the benefit of any who might have forgotten, I shall inform you that Perseus was presented with the famous helmet of invisibility by the gods when he went to face the terrifying snake-headed Medusa. I hope there are no Medusas here tonight — are there, gentlemen? — but we do require a Perseus. We need a hero who will become invisible, one who will disappear before our very eyes. Will any brave gentleman step forward now?’
The Major waits. He raises his hand to his brow and scans the theatre which is full to capacity. He looks quite threatening, like a general asking for a volunteer for a dangerous mission. Not a person stirs in the house. Perhaps nobody is sure exactly what the Major wants, perhaps the men in the audience are a little nervous. Then Marmont fixes on an individual in the second row of the stalls. He points to him and in a stentorian voice says, ‘You, sir, I can detect in you a desire to show yourself capable of heroic feats. Would you be so kind as to rise from your seat next to that pretty young lady and make your way up here.’
It is as much of a command as an invitation. In any case it is the kind of invitation difficult to turn down if you don’t want to be shown up for a wet blanket or, worse, a coward. There is a bustle in the stalls as a lanky man gets up. Those sitting close by look to see if the woman next to him is indeed pretty. She is, although she must have recently suffered some accident for one of her hands is bandaged.
The man climbs a short flight of steps at the side of the stage and comes into the illuminated area. The Major reaches out his hand in a no-nonsense, manly fashion. The newcomer hesitates before taking it. It is evident that he is not pleased to be up on stage in the public eye, and the way he leans towards the Major and whispers something in his ear suggests that he is a reluctant participant. Several in the audience recognize him and a few may be aware that these two men have met before, that there is hostility between them. They are a contrast, the Major is short and deeply tanned while his guest is tall and has the pallor of a candle.
‘Now, ladies and gentlemen,’ says the Major, ‘In a moment I am going to request my friend here to step into the Perseus Cabinet behind us. I shall follow him for an instant into the cabinet and then I shall reappear and then… well, we’ll see.’
The doors are opened for a second time. Major Marmont ushers the tall gentleman into the cabinet, putting his hand in the small of the other’s back to urge him forward. He looks round at the audience briefly before stepping into the cabinet himself. The boys shut the doors without ceremony and then one produces a flute and the other a tabor, and they proceed to make a weird rhythmic sound, the steady beat of the little drum contrasting with the wandering tones of the flute.
It must be an unpleasant fit inside the Perseus Cabinet, two men packed into a little space with the gas lamp hissing above their heads. But not for more than a few seconds because, even while the drum is beating and the flute piping, the doors are opened from within by the Major and he steps out and stands well away from the
