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.
From: The Daily Telegraph November 30th 1971, Obituaries page:
Sir Kenneth Marlesford C.B.E., Industrialist and Philanthropist known as ‘The Blind Billionaire’ (1885–1971)
Sir Kenneth Marlesford, who died at the age of 86, was one of the last of the old school of great industrial magnates. Born in the palmy days of the British Empire, he represented the sturdy values of that era, its overwhelming sense of patriotic duty, and also, perhaps, a certain inflexibility in the unquestioning conviction of the justice of its own cause. As an arms manufacturer he played a key role in both world wars, a role which made him powerful, influential, and phenomenally rich. The sobriquet ‘The Blind Billionaire’ may well have been first coined by the press with alliteration rather than accuracy in mind, but it probably reflects the state of his finances towards the end of his long life. He was born in Salford in 1885, the son of Ezekiel Marlesford, a manufacturer of moderately priced sporting guns. Kenneth Marlesford is said to have been to have been educated at the Manchester Grammar School, though there is no record of his attendance there. Certainly he began working for his father’s firm, the Marlesford Gun Company, at a comparatively early age, and was very soon demonstrating remarkable energy and business acumen. By the time he was in his twenties he had, due to his own abilities and his father’s ailing health, taken over the direction of the firm, which in 1911 became the Marlesford Light Arms Company. By this time the firm had already secured contracts to supply the military with small arms and light field artillery. With the advent of the First World War came a further expansion and another change of name, to Imperial Armaments Ltd. It was the war that made Marlesford a millionaire, but the advent of peace saw no dwindling of the business. The subsequent expansion of Imperial Armaments throughout the ’20s and ’30s was at the expense of other firms, many of which Marlesford took over or bought up, employing business tactics that are more familiar today than they were then. It was in 1935, however, that he suffered his first setback, though this was more on a personal than a business level. Accounts of how he was blinded differ, but on certain facts there is general agreement. There had been some unrest at one of his factories in Sunderland, owing to the lack of safety precautions provided for the men who were working on the manufacture of a new kind of incendiary shell. Marlesford went in person to investigate the cause of unease and settle the dispute. It while he was inspecting arrangements that the accident occurred: there was an explosion, and he received the full force of some virulent chemical compound in his eyes. Rumours that the event was not accidental, but the deliberate contrivance of disaffected workers, have persisted; however, nothing was ever proved. Within the year the Sunderland plant closed down, resulting in many people being thrown out of work. Marlesford did not let his blindness affect his energies and ambitions, and the fact that he remained in full command of a powerful and ever-expanding industrial concern in spite of his visual impairment is testimony to a character of extraordinary tenacity and fortitude. During the Second World War his position as one of Britain’s key arms manufacturers secured him a place in the secret councils of the war office, and he formed close alliances with Lord Beaverbrook (Minister for Procurement) and others of Churchill’s inner circle. Despite his handicap he had the ear of Churchill himself, who referred to him in private, affectionately enough it is thought, as ‘Blind Pew’. In 1943 he married a twenty-six-year-old actress, Jane Selway, to the surprise of many who thought him a confirmed bachelor, but the couple appeared, in the early years of their marriage at least, to be devoted, and he did much to promote his wife’s theatrical career. The differing climate of the post-war years brought changes in the industry, but no diminution of Marlesford’s energies. In recognition of Britain’s new role in the world, Marlesford changed the name of his firm again, from Imperial Armaments to Advance Systems International. After the tragic suicide in 1953 of his wife, Marlesford became something of a recluse and put his business concerns in the hands of a management consortium, of which he remained chairman until his death. Notwithstanding this withdrawal from the world, he began to give generously to various charitable and political causes, and it was these numerous benefactions which earned him a knighthood in 1967. (He had been awarded the C.B.E in 1945 for his wartime services.) He had no children and has left the bulk of his fortune to the Actor’s Benevolent Fund.
From: The Seabourne Mercury, Monday August 18th 1952
ACTOR IN TRAGIC DEATH FALL
Horrific Discovery by Stage Doorman
At some time during the night of August 16th or the early hours of the 17th a tragedy occurred at the Grand Pavilion Theatre, Seabourne which has police baffled. On the morning of the 17th of August Mr Jack Pegley, stage doorman and caretaker of the Grand Pavilion, had opened up the theatre and was doing his customary round of inspection when he noticed that something was amiss in the orchestra pit. There he discovered to his horror the body of a man who had evidently fallen from the stage into the pit and broken his neck, though precisely how or why remains a mystery.
The body was quickly identified as that of actor, Roland Payne (31), who only the night before had been appearing at the theatre as Bruce Lovell opposite Jane Selway in a revival of Frank Vosper’s tense drama Love From a Stranger. Mr Payne, a popular figure both in the town and among his colleagues, had been playing leading roles at the theatre this summer, and had scored notable successes as Gregory Black in The Late Edwina Black and Thomas Mendip in The Lady’s Not For Burning.
Whether foul play was involved or whether this was simply a tragic accident, police are unable to say at this moment, but the case has certain puzzling features. Mr Pegley has told the police that the theatre, to the best of his knowledge, was empty when he locked the stage door the previous night, and that it was still locked when he opened it the following morning.
Police investigations continue. Leading actress Jane Selway and her husband, the owner of the theatre, Mr Kenneth Marlesford are said to be deeply shocked and distressed by the event.
From: The Diary and Notebook of George Vilier.
Friday 6 July 2006:
Train to Seabourne this afternoon. The town seemed to be full, but fortunately I had booked into ‘Sunnydene Guest House’ on the front for the week.
I’d better state why I’m here, and why I have begun to keep this journal. I had been interested in ‘the Seabourne Tragedy’, as it was known in our family, for a long time because Roland Payne was my Uncle. As I was a month old when he died I never me
t him, and it was only recently that I had the leisure to investigate the case. My parents also died when I was comparatively young and were, in any case, reticent about the affair. A clipping from the Seabourne Mercury found in a drawer was all I had to go on.
Monday 9 July 2006:
Until today I have found very few people who knew anything about the events of August 1952, let alone remembered them personally. It was quite by luck that I was put in touch with someone who was able to help me. Something had gone wrong with the exhaust of my Renault and, on enquiring after repair garages in the area with Renault dealerships, I was referred to Pegley’s Garage on the Folkestone Road. Of course, the name Pegley was familiar to me from the press cutting about my uncle. It turned out that the proprietor, Tom Pegley, was the son of Jack Pegley, who had died in 1991 aged 85.
Tom Pegley is a friendly man. He was intrigued by my interest, but could tell me nothing of relevance beyond the fact that his father, despite having been little more than a humble theatre caretaker, died a comparatively wealthy man. But, he said, there was a box of papers and other items belonging to his father, which he had never troubled to look through. Would I care to see them?
The lack of curiosity that some people have about themselves and their origins always surprises, even shocks me, but I was glad to be allowed an uncensored look at this virgin material. Among the miscellaneous memorabilia of a life spent in theatrical environs there was one item which looked promising. It was a large brown manilla envelope containing something flat and cylindrical. The flap had been secured with sealing wax, and on it was written words to the effect that it was only to be opened on Pegley’s death, or before on his express instructions. Tom told me that it had been sent to him on his father’s death by a firm of Seabourne solicitors who had been keeping it for him. No, he had never thought of opening it. No, he didn’t mind if I did.
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