Gwenda sat in the middle of the row between Raymond and the barrister.
The lights went down and the play began.
It was superbly acted and Gwenda enjoyed it very much. She had not seen very many first-rate theatrical productions.
The play drew to a close, came to that supreme moment of horror. The actor’s voice came over the footlights filled with `z` the tragedy of a warped and perverted mentality.
“Cover her face. Mine eyes dazzle, she died young…” Gwenda screamed.
She sprang up from her seat, pushed blindly past the others out into the aisle, through the exit and up the stairs and so to the street. She did not stop, even then, but half walked, half ran, in a blind panic up the Haymarket.
It was not until she had reached Piccadilly that she noticed a free taxi cruising along, hailed it and, getting in, gave the address of the Chelsea house. With fumbling fingers she got out money, paid the taxi and went up the steps. The servant who let her in glanced at her in surprise.
“You’ve come back early, miss. Didn’t you feel well?” “I — no, yes — I — I felt faint.” “Would you like anything, miss? Some brandy?” “No, nothing. I’ll go straight up to bed.” She ran up the stairs to avoid further questions.
She pulled off her clothes, left them on the floor in a heap and got into bed.
She lay there shivering, her heart pounding, her eyes staring at the ceiling.
She did not hear the sound of fresh arrivals downstairs, but after about five minutes the door opened and Miss Marple came in. She had two hot-water bottles tucked under her arm and a cup in her hand.
Gwenda sat up in bed, trying to stop her shivering.
“Oh, Miss Marple, I’m frightfully sorry.
I don’t know what — it was awful of me.
Are they very annoyed with me?” “Now don’t worry, my dear child,5′ said Miss Marple. “Just tuck yourself up warmly with these hot-water bottles.” “I don’t really need a hot-water bottle.” “Oh yes, you do. That’s right. And now drink this cup of tea…” It was hot and strong and far too full of sugar, but Gwenda drank it obediently.
The shivering was less acute now.
“Just lie down now and go to sleep,” said Miss Marple. “You’ve had a shock, you know. We’ll talk about it in the morning. Don’t worry about anything.
Just go to sleep.” She drew the covers up, smiled, patted Gwenda and went out.
Downstairs Raymond was saying irritably to Joan: “What on earth was the matter with the girl? Did she feel ill, or what?” “My dear Raymond, I don’t know, she just screamed! I suppose the play was a bit too macabre for her.” “Well, of course Webster is a bit grisly.
But I shouldn’t have thought — ” He broke off as Miss Marple came into the room. “Is she all right?” “Yes, I think so. She’d had a bad shock, you know.” “Shock? Just seeing a Jacobean drama?” “I think there must be a little more to it than that,” said Miss Marple thoughtfully.
Gwenda’s breakfast was sent up to her.
She drank some coffee and nibbled a little piece of toast. When she got up and came downstairs, Joan had gone to her studio, Raymond was shut up in his workroom and only Miss Marple was sitting by the window, which had a view over the river, she was busily engaged in knitting.
She looked up with a placid smile as Gwenda entered.
“Good-morning, my dear. You’re feeling better, I hope.” “Oh yes, I’m quite all right. How I could make such an utter idiot of myself last night, I don’t know. Are they — are they very mad with me?” “Oh no, my dear. They quite understand.”
“Understand what?” Miss Marple glanced up over her knitting.
“That you had a bad shock last night.” She added gently: “Hadn’t you better tell me all about it?” Gwenda walked restlessly up and down.
“I think I’d better go and see a psychiatrist or someone.” “There are excellent mental specialists in London, of course. But are you sure it is necessary?” “Well — I think I’m going mad.. s I must be going mad.” An elderly parlourmaid entered the room with a telegram on a salver which she handed to Gwenda.