MASQUES OF SATAN (34 page)

Nevertheless it is now in a sorry state. An air of general neglect, indeed total surrender to the forces of decay, pervades. The roof of the dressing rooms on the top floor has caved in; there is wood rot in all parts of the building; and a deep pool of black, oily water can be seen (and smelt) in the orchestra pit, where the permanent pumping system put in by Matcham has completely failed. As a result I was unable to examine the elaborate machinery installed beneath the stage. The unusually high fly tower is now a tangle of ropes, with forgotten backdrops and cut-out flats of trees and rocks hanging at crazy angles, so that too is hard to appraise.

I was able to obtain access through the good offices of the caretaker and former stage doorman Mr Jack Pegley. Mr Pegley, something of a character, insisted that the proper designation of his role was ‘hallkeeper’, an old fashioned term. He was obviously proud of ‘his’ theatre, though saddened by its present state of dilapidation, and curiously reluctant to show me certain parts of his domain.

In spite of the decay it is still plain to see that the interior is an early Matcham masterwork. Indian motifs pervade throughout in the auditorium and foyers. The main ceiling is encrusted with fine rococo plaster scrollwork which frames cartouches on which Indian scenes have been painted: dancing
nautch
girls, a
durbar
, a tiger hunt, and, rather curiously, a scene of
suttee
in which an Indian widow is shown burning on the pyre of her dead husband. I had the opportunity to inspect this last at close quarters and can testify to the strange vividness with which the unknown artist has depicted a look of agony and despair, clearly visible though the flames and smoke, on the face of the young widow. I am quite sure, however, that very few visitors to the theatre would have given a second glance at this rather macabre insight into Indian life: the cartouche in question is only visible from the cheaper seats in the Gallery.

Indian arches support the ceiling from columns, the capitals of which are in the form of double elephants’ heads facing the stage and the back wall. The effect of these is ponderous and perhaps a little sinister, but impressive. The boxes are made to look like
howdahs
or pavilions fit for a Maharajah.

I was interested in these boxes particularly as I had discovered in my researches that one of them, the prompt side stage box, had, at the request of the original owner, been installed by Matcham with a speaking tube system by which means the box’s occupant could be in contact with the stage manager in the prompt corner at stage level. This was one of the many innovative features of the Grand Pavilion, but it is, as far as I know, the only one unique to this particular theatre. The first proprietor, The Hon. Arthur Faversham, a minor poet and keen amateur of the theatre, something of a dilettante by all accounts, is said to have kept the box permanently reserved for his personal use, and to have maintained communication with staff and even performers by means of this device. Records show, however, that debts and some aftershocks of the scandal surrounding Wilde, with whose circle Faversham was associated, forced him to flee abroad in 1896. (We also find his name mentioned in papers relating to the Cleveland Street Scandal of 1889.) I was anxious to discover whether the management which bought the theatre from Faversham, Joel Abernethy Theatres Ltd, or subsequent owners had continued to make use of this facility.

My anxiety to inspect the box was not, for reasons unexplained, matched by Mr Pegley’s eagerness to show it to me. Though he had been helpful in other respects, he point blank refused to enter the box and left me to do so by myself. I only mention this because it is indicative of the curious atmospheric hold this theatre has on people, even, I must admit, myself.

I discovered the communication system in the box almost immediately. It is situated behind a red velvet curtain about two foot square which covers a small alcove in the wall that adjoins the proscenium arch. Not only had the system remained in use but, around the late nineteen-forties or early -fifties I should guess, it had been replaced by an electric Tannoy system complete with microphone, speaker, and volume control knob. I casually switched on the speaker’s knob and, to my surprise, the thing appeared to be still operational. (Pegley had turned on the electrics for my benefit.) A barrage of static was followed by a strange whistling or whispering sound that resembled human voices. I called out to Pegley to see if he had gone down to the stage level, but he had not.

I did not stay long in the box because I found myself subjected to a strong draught of cold air. I could not quite locate its source. Obviously something connected with Matcham’s famous ‘air duct’ ventilation system had gone badly wrong; hardly surprising after ten or so years of sustained neglect.

* Ellen Terry (later Dame Ellen) was at the time Henry Irving’s leading lady. She had a cottage in nearby Winchelsea, where she was enjoying an Easter break from work at the Lyceum at the time she fulfilled this engagement. (see Joy Melville,
Ellen and Eddy
, Pandora Press 1987. p. 146) [G.V.]

From
Journal  of Paranormal Research
Vol X No. 9 (July  1975):
‘The Grand Pavilion, Seabourne: a Haunted Theatre?’
by Harrison Bews

Investigations were prompted by reports coming in about the theatre from various quarters beginning in 1972, including one detailed account from the actor Rodney D. Some scepticism was expressed about this testimony as Rodney D had described himself at various times to our researchers as a ‘psychic’ and ‘clairvoyant’, but his account, part of which we will come to later, was given in a relatively level-headed manner. Moreover it was corroborated at various crucial points by a number of other witnesses. However, general murmurs about the Grand Pavilion being a ‘jinxed theatre’ may be safely disregarded as the loose talk of a profession which by its very nature is unusually prone to superstition.

 Phenomena experienced were concentrated in two main areas, though a number of witnesses testify to sudden feelings of disquiet, sensations of cold, the feeling of being watched, etc. in other parts of the theatre.

The first main centre of psychic disturbance — henceforward referred to as Location (Loc.) A — was the stage area and the wings on what is known as ‘the prompt side’, i.e. the right hand side of the stage as the spectator views it. This is where the prompter (usually the chief stage manager) sits with the ‘book’ or script, and directs his assistants in any change of scenery or lighting. Many actors had testified to a sense of being pushed, or somehow psychically impelled, to the edge of the stage, so that there was a danger of falling into the orchestra pit, which is unusually deep and cavernous. Almost a third of those questioned on the subject say that this unpleasant sensation was accompanied by the sound, low and almost imperceptible, of growling, ‘like the growling of a dog.’ Some also heard a breathy panting, again like that of a dog. One person only thought he heard the whinnying of a horse.

The other sound most frequently heard in Loc. A was that of tapping. All those questioned were quite specific about the nature of this tapping and that it was altogether different to the usual sounds made by a theatre with antiquated heating systems, wooden structures in varying stages of decay, etc. The sound seemed to all of them to be like that of a stick, perhaps a light walking stick, being tapped on the floor. Commonly the subject would hear the tapping while engaged upon some task in Loc. A, but when he or she turned their full attention upon the noise it would cease. This could be experienced a number of times in succession. Thus the subject would turn back to the task in hand and the tapping would begin again; the subject would stop whatever he or she was doing and listen, the tapping would stop, then begin again when the subject stopped listening for it, and so on.

The second centre of psychic phenomena (henceforward referred to as Loc. B) was the prompt side stage box, i.e. the box to be found nearest to the stage on the prompt side. It may as well be stated that much superstition surrounds this box, which is known for reasons which we were unable to discover as ‘The Blind Man’s Box.’ It was hardly ever occupied, and tickets would only be sold for it in the rare event of a ‘full house’.

Many of the phenomena surrounding Loc. B have been in fact witnessed from Loc. A. A number of witnesses testify to having been on stage (in several instances during a performance) and having seen a shadowy figure watching from it when it was known that no one could possibly have been in the box. The figure has no features but is often said to have ‘eyes’, that is two points of pale light are seen emanating from the shadowy presence where eyes might reasonably be supposed to be. The clearest account of this unusual manifestation is to be found in the testimony of the aforementioned Rodney D, a twenty-five year old actor. His account, recorded by one of our researchers, dates from the year 1973:

‘It was changeover day and we were changing the set for a new production. We were clearing
Dial M for Murder
and were setting up for
How the Other Half Loves
. As you can only begin the changeover after the end of a performance these things can go on late into the night. This one was a bugger. As you know,
How the Other Half Loves
has this weird double location set and we were having trouble working it all out. Anyway, round about midnight we decided to down tools for a coffee. We were done in. I was sitting on the edge of the stage, in the dead middle where the stage bows out a little into the auditorium, with my legs dangling in the pit. I had a brew in one hand and a ciggy in the other — murder for the old voice box, I know. Anyway, you know how you suddenly get this urge to look in a certain direction — well, I do — and I felt myself almost forced to look up to my left, to the prompt side stage box. For a couple of moments I resisted; then I thought, what the hell. There was something in the box. If you’re in any way psychic like I am you’ll know what I mean: it was more a presence than an actual visual thing, but I did see something. It was the shape of a man, a sort of shadow almost dead black, and he was leaning forward, his head nearly over the edge of the box. He was not sideways on, profile; he was facing towards me with his right ear towards the stage, and it was as if he were listening, hard. And I saw what I suppose were eyes, only they were very pale and sort of luminous. In spite of the eyes I felt sure he couldn’t see me, but I think he could hear me. I’m sure he could, because when I coughed and dropped my ciggy into the pit he started and turned his head round, and it was as if he was turning his head to hear where I was. My God, it was horrible. I don’t know why but it was. I called to the others who were lounging about in the prompt corner. I said there was someone in the Blind Man’s Box. No, I’ve no idea why it’s called that, nor does anyone. At least— Anyway, they all came trooping on to the stage and of course they couldn’t see anything in the box and, to tell the truth, by that time neither could I. And that was it really, except — oh! — just as this thing was turning its head I bloody nearly fell into the pit.’

This is the clearest account of what was seen in Loc. B, though one detail is supplied by another witness, the stage designer Adrian C. He claims to have seen the figure on a number of occasions. His description is vaguer than that of Rodney D in all respects but one. In describing the ‘eyes’, he said they were luminous and described them as being of ‘a pale, bluey, greeny, milky colour, like light shining through Lalique glass.’

A strong reluctance to enter Loc. B was felt by many witnesses, though some claim to have tried to investigate and found it unaccountably locked. The few who did enter did not stay long, finding it suddenly prone to blasts of chill air and, as one witness rather cryptically put it, ‘full of little noises’.

The person who had worked in the theatre for the longest time — the ‘hallkeeper’ a Mr Jack P. — was questioned on a number of occasions but was either unable or unwilling to supply any relevant information about the theatre and its history.

Investigators were allowed in, shortly after the theatre had closed down, in 1975, but encountered nothing out of the ordinary during the daytime. During our one and only all night session — the Council, for some unknown reason, permitted us to set up our equipment for one night only — some tapping of the kind described by a number of witnesses was heard and recorded, but this could be put down to the usual odd noises to which a large building in a very poor state of repair is prone. One of our researchers was loitering along the front of the stage when she distinctly felt a hand in the small of her back impelling her towards the orchestra pit. This only occurred once and no other investigator enjoyed this sensation, so it may be put down as a questionable phenomenon. Much of the research naturally centred round Loc. B, where the main body of psychic activity had been observed in the initial reports. It has to be said that very little of a definitely paranormal nature was observed. On two occasions our equipment recorded significant localised drops in temperature within the box, but this could be ascribed to the draughts which pervaded the theatre. On several occasions in daylight and during the night investigators (myself included) felt a sudden blast of cold air on the back of the neck, but again natural causes for these can not be entirely excluded. One event may be noteworthy, and it occurred to me. At about two o’clock in the morning I was examining the equipment which had been installed in the box for communicating with the prompt corner at the side of the stage. I was endeavouring to determine whether this could be the source of the sudden localised falls in temperature which had been recorded. Suddenly I began to hear noises coming through the speaker which relayed messages from the prompt corner. They sounded like whispering, urgent and furtive, though I could distinguish no words. There appeared to be two voices, possibly a man’s and a woman’s. It was curious, because I had taken care to check that the speaker was  turned off  when I began my session in the stage box. I checked again and found that the speaker was off. I switched the knob on and off several times but this appeared to make no difference. The sounds continued intermittently for several minutes and then faded altogether. I later ascertained that during the time when this phenomenon occurred none of our researchers had been anywhere near either Loc. A or Loc. B.