Light Thickens (19 page)

“Our case in a nutshell, Br’er Fox.”

“Yerse.”

“And now, if you will, let us examine what may or may not be the side-kicks in evidence. Where’s Peregrine Jay? Has he gone with the others?”

“No,” said Peregrine, “I’ve been here all the time.” And he came down the center aisle into the light. “Here I am,” he said. “Not as bright as a button, I fear, but here.”

“Sit down. Did you hear what I said?”

“Yes. I’m glad you said it. I’m going to break my own rule and tell you more fully of what may be, as you’ve hinted, side-kicks.”

“I’ll be glad to hear you.”

Peregrine went on. He described the unsettling effect of the tales of ill luck that had grown up around the play of
Macbeth
and his own stern injunctions to the company that they ignore them.

“The ones most committed, of course, like Nina Gaythorne, didn’t obey me but I think, though I can’t be sure, that on the whole they more or less obeyed. For a time, at any rate. And then it began. With the Banquo mask in the King’s room.”

He described it. “It was extraordinarily — well, effective. Glaring there in the shadow. It’s like all Gaston’s work, extremely macabre. You remember the procession of Banquo’s in the witches’ scene?”

“I do indeed.”

“Well, to come upon one suddenly! I was warned, but even then — horrid!”

“Yes.”

“I examined it and I found an arrangement of string connected with the slate-colored poncho. The head itself was fixed on a coat hanger and the poncho hung from that. The long end of string reached down to the stage. There is a strut in the wall above the head. The string passed over it and down, to stage-level. Now it seemed to me, it still seems to me, that if I’m on the right track this meant that the cloak was pulled up to cover the head and the cord fastened down below. I’ve had a look and there’s a cross-piece in the back of the scenery in exactly the right place.”

“It could be lowered from stage-level?”

“Yes. The intention being that it remained hidden until Macduff went in. Macduff saw it first. He tried to warn Macbeth.”

“What did you do with it?”

“I called Props and wrapped it up in its cloak and told him to put it with its mates on the property table.”

“And then?”

“The next thing that happened was a servant at the banquet swept off the dish-cover and there, underneath was the man’s head again. Grinning at Macbeth. It was — well,
awful
. You know?”

“What did you do?”

“I addressed the actors. All of them. I said — the expected things, I suppose. That these were rather disgusting tricks but as none of them was prepared to own up to being the perpetrator I thought the best thing we could do was to ignore them. Something like that.”

“Yes. It must have thrown a spanner in your work, didn’t it?”

“Of course. But we rose above. Actors are resilient, you know. They react to something with violence and they talk a great deal but they go on. Nobody walked out on us but there was a nasty feeling in the air. But I really think Rangi’s rat’s head was the worst.”

“Rangi’s rat’s head?” Alleyn repeated.

“Well, it was the head that mattered. In his marketing bag. That’s what we called their bags — a sort of joke. For the things they collected for their spell, you know. Some of them off the corpse on the gallows. Did you know the items they enumerate are really authentic?”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Well, they are.
For a charm of powerful trouble
. There’s no mention of a rat’s head, though.”

“Have you got your own ideas about the author of these tricks?”

“I have, yes. But they are not supported by any firm evidence. Merely unsecured ideas. They couldn’t be vaguer. They arise from a personal distaste.”

“Can we hear them? We won’t attach too much importance to them. I promise.”

Peregrine hesitated. Mr. Fox completed his notes and looked benevolently at him, his vast hand poised over the notebook.

“Have you spoken to Barrabell? The Banquo?”

“Not really,” said Alleyn. “Only to get his name and address and a very few bits of information about the other people’s positions.”

“He’s a strange one. Beautiful voice, well managed. A mischief-maker. He belongs to some way-out society, the Red Fellowship, I think it’s called. He enjoys making sneaky little underhand jokes about other actors. I find myself thinking of him as a ‘sea-lawyer.’ He’s always making objections to ‘business’ in the play which doesn’t endear him to me, of course.”

“Of course not.”

“I think he knows about young William.”

Alleyn took the folded paper from his pocket, opened it, and showed it to Peregrine.

“This was left in Winter Meyer’s office and typed on the machine there?”

Peregrine looked at it. “Yes,” he said. “Winty told me.”

“Did you guess who did it?”

“Yes. I thought so. Barrabell. It was only a guess but he was about. In the theatre at that time. The sort of thing he’d do, I thought.”

“Did you say so to Meyer?”

“I did, yes. Winty says he went to the loo. It was the only time the room was free. About eight minutes. There’s a window into the foyer. Anybody there could look in, see it was empty, and — do it.”

“One of the Harcourt-Smith victims was called Barrabell. Muriel Barrabell. A bank clerk. She was beheaded.”

“Do you think —?”

“We’ll have to find out,” Alleyn said. “Even so, it doesn’t give him a motive to kill Macbeth.”

“And there’s absolutely no connection that we know of with poor Sir Dougal.”

“No.”

“Whereas with Simon Morten —” Perry stopped.

“Yes?”

“Nothing. That sounds as if I was hiding something. I was only going to say Simon’s got a hot temper and he suspected Dougal of making passes at the Lady. She put that right with him.”

“He hadn’t got the opportunity to do it. He must have chased Macbeth off with his own blunt weapon raised. He’d have to change his weapon for the claidheamh-mor from which he’d have to remove the dummy head while his victim looked on, did nothing, and then obligingly stooped over to receive the stroke.”

“And Gaston?”

“First of all, time. I’ve just done it in dumb show myself, all out and way over the time. And what’s even more convincing, Gaston was seen by the King and Nina Gaythorne by people going on for the call. He actually spoke to them. This was while the murder was taking place. He went into the O.P. corner and collected the claidheamh-mor at the last moment when Macduff came around and he followed him on.”

Peregrine raised his arms and let them drop. “Exit Gaston Sears,” he said. “I don’t think I ever really thought he’d done it but I’m glad to have it confirmed. Who’s left?”

“Without an alibi? Barrabell. The stagehands. Various thanes. Lady Macbeth. Old Uncle Tom Cobbleigh and all.”

“I’d better go back to the boys in the office. They’re trying to make up their minds.”

Alleyn looked at his watch. “It’s ten past two,” he said. “If they haven’t made up their minds I suggest they sleep on it. Are the actors called?”

“For four o’clock this afternoon, poor dears.”

“It’s none of my business, of course, but I don’t think you should go on with
Macbeth
.”

“No?”

“It’s only a matter of time before the truth is known. A very short time probably. You’ll get a sort of horror-reaction, a great deal of morbid speculation, and, I should think, the kind of publicity that will be an insult to a beautiful production.”

“Oh.”

“There will be a trial. We hope. Your actors will be pestered by the press. Quite possibly the Harcourt-Smith case will be revived and young William cornered by the
News of the World
and awful remarks put into his reactions. He and his mother will be hunted remorselessly.”

“This may happen whatever we do,” said Peregrine unhappily.

“Certainly. But to nothing like the same extent if you don’t do this play.”

“No. No, nothing like.” Peregrine got up and walked to the door.

“I’ll speak to them,” he said. “Along those lines. Goodnight, Alleyn.”

“Good-night, my dear chap.”

The stage door closed behind him.

“Br’er Fox, what’s emerged definitely from it all?” Alleyn asked.

They opened their notebooks. Alleyn also opened his programme.

“We can wipe out most of the smaller parts,” he said. “They were too active. All the fighting men. When they were offstage they were yelling and bashing away at each other like nobody’s business.”

“I stood over by the dark corner and I’ll take my oath none of them got within cooee of it,” Fox said.

“Yes. They were very well drilled and supposing one of them got out of step on purpose, the others would have known and been down on him at once. It may have looked like an Irishman’s picnic but they were worked out in inches.”

“You can scratch the lot,” said Fox.

“Gladly,” said Alleyn and did so. “And who’s left?” he asked.

“Speaking parts. It’s easier than it looks. The old Colonel Blimpish chap and his son. Never had a chance. The son was ‘dead’ and lying on the stage, hidden from the audience, and the old boy was stiff-upper-lipping on the stairs while the murder was done.”

“So much for the Siwards. And Malcolm was onstage and speaking. Now I’m going to reiterate. Not for the first and, I’m afraid, not for the last time. Gaston Sears was offstage of the crucial moment and talking in a whisper to the King and Miss Gaythorne. Young William was with them.

“The witches had come on for the curtain call and were waiting upstage on the rostrum. Now, Macduff,” said Alleyn. “Let’s look a bit closer at Macduff. He’s a man with a temper and now we know there’s been some sort of trouble between him and Macbeth. He ended the fight by chasing Macbeth off. His story is that Macbeth screamed and fell down as usual and he went straight off and was seen to do so by various actors. Confirmed by the actors. By which time Macbeth was dead. I tried it out with you, Br’er Fox, and I was four and a third minutes. We played the scene with Gaston as Macbeth and the cast and it was three. Moreover, Morton — Macduff — would have had to get the dummy head off the claidheamh-mor before killing Macbeth with it while Macbeth — I’ve said this ad nauseam — stood or lay there waiting to be beheaded. It does
not
, Br’er Fox, make sense. Moreover, as Macduff himself pointed out, it would have been a whole lot easier for him to have done a Lizzie Borden on Macbeth during their fight and afterward say he didn’t know how he’d gone wrong.”

“His weapon’s as blunt as old boots.”

“It weighs enough for a whack on the head to fix Macbeth.”

“Yerse. But it didn’t.”

“No. We’ll move on. Banquo. Banquo, we find, is a very rum fellow. He’s devious, is Banquo, and he was ‘dead’ all this long time and free, up to the second curtain call to go wherever he liked. He could have gone into the O.P. corner and waited there in the dark with the claidheamh-mor when Gaston left it there for the stagehand to put the dummy head on it. The stagehand did put it there. Banquo removed it and did the deed. There’s no motive that I can see but he’s a possibility.”

“And are you going to tell me that Banquo is the perpetrator of the funny business with the dummy heads? And the typed message?”

“I rather think so. I’m far from happy with the idea, all the same.”

“Humph,” said Fox.

“We’ll knock off now for a while.” He looked into the dark house. “It was a wonderful production, Fox,” he said. “The best I’ve seen. Almost too good. I don’t think they can carry on.”

“What do you suppose they’ll do in its place?”

“Lord knows. Something quite different.
Getting Gertie’s Garter
,” said Alleyn angrily.

It was a quarter past three when Peregrine let himself into his house and gave himself a drink. A very stiff whiskey and a sandwich and then upstairs softly to bed.

“Hullo,” said Emily. “You needn’t creep about. I waked when you opened the front door.”

He turned on his bedside lamp.

“What’s happened?” she said when she saw his face.

“Didn’t Cip tell you?”

“Only that there’d been an accident. He said, privately, that Robin didn’t understand. Not properly and he wasn’t sure that
he
did.”

“Is Robin upset?”

“You know what he’s like.”

“Has he gone silent?”

“Yes.”

“I’d better tell you,” said Peregrine. And did.

“Oh, Perry,” she whispered. “How
awful
.”

“Isn’t it?”

“What will you do? Go on?”

“I think not. It’s not decided. Alleyn pointed out what would happen.”

“Not the same Mr. Alleyn?” she exclaimed.

“Yes. The very same. He was in front last night. He’s a Chief Superintendent now. Very grand.”

“Nice?”

“Yes. There’s nobody arrested or anything like that. Shall I take a look at the boys?”

“They were both asleep an hour ago. Have a look.”

Peregrine crept along the landing and opened their doors. Steady regular breathing in each room.

He came back to his wife and got into bed.

“Sound asleep,” he said.

“Good.”

“God, I’m tired,” he said. He kissed her and fell asleep.

Maggie Mannering with Nanny had ridden home in her hired car. She was in a state of bewilderment. She had heard the cast go by on their way for the curtain call, the usual storm of applause, and the rest of the company’s movement forward when everyone except herself and Macbeth went on. She had heard Gaston cry out: “No! For God’s sake, no!” and Masters: “Hold it! Hold everything.” There had been a sudden silence and then his voice: “Ladies and gentlemen, I regret to tell you there has been an accident —”

And then the confused sound of the audience leaving and Masters again, saying, “Clear, please. Everybody off and to their dressing-rooms. Please.” And hurrying figures stumbling past her and asking each other, “What accident? What’s happened?” and Malcolm and the soldiers: “It’s him. Did you see? Christ Almighty.”

There was a muddle of human beings, Nanny taking her to her dressing-room, and she removing her makeup and Nanny getting her into her street clothes.

“Nanny, what’s
happened
? Is it Sir Dougal?
What
accident?”

“Never you mind, dear. We’ll be told. All in good time.”

“Go out, Nanny. Ask somebody. Ask Mr. Masters. Say I want to
know
.”

Nanny went out. She ran into somebody, another woman, in the passage and there was a gabble of voices. There was no mistaking the high-pitched, nicely articulated wail.

“Nina!” Maggie had called. “Come in. Come in, darling.”

Nina was in disarray but had changed and had put on her scarves and a tam-o’-shanter of the kind that needs careful adjustment and had not received it. There were traces of mascara under her eyes.

“Maggie!” she cried. “Oh, Maggie, isn’t it awful?”

“Isn’t
what
awful? Here. Sit down and pull yourself together, for pity’s sake and tell me. Is somebody dead?”

Nina nodded her head a great many times.

“
Who
”? Is it Dougal? Yes? For the love of Mike, pull yourself together. Has everybody lost their heads?”

Nina produced a shrill cackle of laughter. “What is it?” Maggie demanded.

“He has,” shrieked Nina. “Dougal has.”

“Has
what
?”

“Lost his head. I’m telling you.
Lost his head
.”

And while Maggie took in the full enormity of this, Nina broke into an extraordinary diatribe.

“I told you. I told lots of you. You wouldn’t listen. It’s the
Macbeth
curse, I said. If you make nonsense of it it’ll strike back. If Perry had listened to me, this wouldn’t have happened. You ask Brucie Barrabell, he’ll tell you. He knows. Those tricks with heads. They were warnings. And now — look.”

Maggie went to her little drinks cupboard. She was an abstemious woman and it was stocked for visitors rather than for herself, but she felt she now needed something, actually to prevent her fainting. The room was unsteady. She poured out two large brandies and gave one to Nina. Both their hands were shaking horridly.

They drank quickly and shuddered and drank again.

Nanny returned. She took a look at them and said: “I see you know.”

“Sort of,” said Maggie. “Only what happened. Not how, or why or anything else.”

“I saw Mr. Masters. The first anybody knew was the head carried on by Mr. Sears. Mr. Masters said that was absolutely all and he’s coming to see you as soon as he can. While we were talking a very distinguished-looking gent came up who said he was the Yard. And that’s all
I
know,” said Nanny. “Except that Mr. Masters said I could give them your telephone number and after a word with Mr. Masters the gentleman said I could take you home. So we’ll go home, love, shan’t we?”

“Yes. What about you, Nina? You could ask to go and I could take you.”

“I said I’d go with Bruce. I’m on his way and he’ll drop me. I’ve finished my drink, thank you all the same, dear Maggie, and I feel better.”

“Come on, then. So do I. I think,” said Maggie. “Lock up, Nanny. We’ll go home. They want our keys, don’t they?”

They left their keys with Mr. Fox. Masters was in deep conference with Alleyn but he saw her and hurried toward her.

“Miss Mannering, I am
so
sorry. I
was
coming. Did Nanny explain? Is your car here? This is appalling, isn’t it?”

They fled. Their car was waiting and there was still a small crowd in the alleyway. Maggie turned up her collar but was recognized.

“It’s Margaret Mannering,” shouted a man. “What’s happened? What was the accident? Hi!”

“I don’t know,” she said. Nanny scrambled in beside her and the driver sounded his horn.

The car began to back down the alleyway. Greedy faces at the windows. Impudent faces. Curious, grinning faces. A prolonged hooting and they were in Wharfingers Lane and picking up speed.

“Horrible people,” she said. “And I thought I loved them.”

She began, helplessly, to cry.

Gaston Sears walked up the path to his front door and let himself in. He was, by habit, a night owl and a lonely bird, too. Would it have been pleasant to have been welcomed home by a tender little woman who would ask him how the day, or rather, the night, had gone? And would it have been a natural and admirable thing to have told her? He went into his workroom and switched on the light. The armed Japanese warrior, grimacing savagely, leaped up, menacing him, but he was not alarmed. He found, as he expected, the supper tray left by his Chinese housekeeper. Crab salad and a bottle of a good white wine.

He switched on his heater and sat down to it.

He was hungry but worried. What would be done to his claidheamh-mor? The distinguished-looking policeman had assured him that great care would be taken of it but although he called it by its correct name he did not, he could not, understand. After all, he himself did not fully understand. As things had turned out it had fulfilled its true function but there was no telling, really, if it was satisfied.

He had enjoyed playing Macbeth for the police. He had a most phenomenal memory and years ago had understudied the part. And of course, once memorized, it was never forgotten. It struck him, not for the first time, that if they decided to go on they would ask him to play the part. He would have played it well.

By Heaven! he thought. They will offer it to me! It would be a good solution. I could wear my own basic Macbeth clothes for the garments. Any personable extra can go on for Seyton. And I invented and know the fight. It went well in their reconstruction. I would have been a success. But it would not be a gracious thing to do. It would be an error in taste. I shall tell them so.

He fell to with an appetite on his crab salad and filled his Waterford glass to the brim.

Simon Morten lived in Fulham on the borders of Chelsea. He thought he would walk to St. James’s and on by way of Westminster where he would probably pick up a cab.

Mentally he went over the fight. Gaston played it all-out and backed into the O.P. He yelled and fell with a plop. I couldn’t have done it, thought Simon. Not in the time. Found the claid-something. Removed the dummy head. Placed it by the body. Two-handed grip on the pommel. Swing it up and what’s he doing all the time? Gaston was gone. He walked off and found him standing with Nina Gaythorne and the King and William. He waited for his reentrance. Gaston came down and followed him on.

There was the repeat and then the Yard men with their notes and inaudible discussions and then they were told they could all go home.

In a way Simon was actually sorry. There hadn’t been time to think coherently. He went to Maggie’s dressing-room but she was gone. He went to his own room and found Bruce Barrabell there, putting on his dreary coat.

“We have to suppose these Yard people think they know what they’re doing,” he said, “I take leave to doubt it.”

Simon got his own coat and put it on. He pulled his brown scarf out of a pocket, wound it about his neck and tucked the ends in.

“Our Mr. Sears had himself a marvelous party, didn’t he?”

“I thought he was very good.”

“Oh yes. Marvelous. If you were in the mood.”

“Of course. Good-night.”

“Good-night, Morten,” said Barrabell and Simon took himself off.

He was deadly tired. He had thought the fresh air would revive him but he was beyond that point. He walked quickly but his legs were like logs and each stride took an intense mental effort. Not a soul about and St. James’s a thousand miles away. Big Ben tolled three. The Thames slapped against the Embankment. A taxi came out of a side street.

“Taxi! Taxi!”

It wasn’t going to stop. “
Taxi
!” cried Simon in despair.

He forced himself to run. It pulled into the curb.

“Oh, thank God,” he said. He got into it and gave the address. “I’m stone-cold sober,” he said, “but, my God, I’m tired.”

Bruce Barrabell fastened his awful coat and pulled on his black beret. He was going to drop Nina on his way home. She was coming to the Red Fellowship meeting next Sunday and would probably become a member. Not much of a catch but he supposed it was something to have a person from the Dolphin company. He must try to keep her off her wretched superstitious rigmaroles, poor girl.

He lit a cigarette and thought of the killing of Dougal Macdougal. Just how good was this Alleyn? A hangover from the old school tie days, of course, but probably efficient in his own way.

We shall see, thought Barrabell. He went along to Nina’s dressing-room.

The sun was high and reflected from the river.

“I wonder,” said Emily, “what the Smiths are doing.”

“The
Smiths
?” asked Crispin. “What Smiths? Oh, you mean William and his mum,” he said and returned to his book.

“Yes. He was sent home as soon as they realized what had happened. I think he was just told there’d been an accident. They may have said, to Sir Dougal. There’s nothing they could have read in the Sunday papers. It’ll be an awful shock for them.”

“How old is he?” asked Robin, who lay on his back on the windowseat, vaguely kicking his feet in the air.

“Who? William?”

“Yes.”

“Nine.”

“Same as me.”

“Yes.”

“Is he silly and wet?”

“He’s certainly not silly and I don’t know what you mean by ‘wet.’ ”

“Behind the ears. Like a baby.”

“Not at all like that. He can fight. He’s learning karate and he’s a good gymnast.”

“Does he swear?”

“I haven’t heard him but I daresay he does.”

“I suppose,” said Robin, bicycling madly, “he’s very busy on Sundays.”

“I’ve no information. Shall I ask him to come to lunch? You could go over in a taxi to Lambeth where he lives and fetch him. Only an idea,” said Emily very casually.

“Oh, yes. You could do that, I suppose. Do that,” shouted Robin and leaped to his feet. “Ask him. Please,” he added. “Thrice three and double three. Two for you and three for me. Please.”

“Right you are.”

Emily consulted the cast list that Peregrine kept pinned up by the telephone and dialed a number.

“Mrs. Smith? It’s Emily Jay. I’ve got two sons home for half-term and we wondered if by any chance William would like to pay us a visit today. Robin, who’s William’s age, could come and collect him for luncheon and we’d promise to return him after an early supper here. Yes. Yes, would you?”

She heard Mrs. Smith’s cool voice repeating the invitation: “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” she added and William’s voice: “I think so. Yes. Thank you.”

“Yes, he’d like to come, thank you
very
much.”

“Robin will be there in about half an hour depending on a cab. Lovely. Mrs. Smith, I suppose William told you what happened last night at the theatre? Yes, I see… I’m afraid they were all in a great state. It’s Sir Dougal. He’s died… Yes, a fearful blow to us all… I don’t know. They’ll tell the company at four this afternoon what’s been decided. I don’t think William need go down. He’ll be here and we’ll tell him. Tragic. It’s hard to believe, isn’t it?… Yes. Good-bye.”

She hung up and said to Robin: “Go and get ready,” and to Crispin: “Do you want to go, Cip? Not if you don’t.”

“I think I’d like to.”

“Sure?”

“Yes. I can see the infant’s on his best behavior, can’t I?” Robin from the doorway gave a complicated derisory noise and left the room.

“There’s always that,” said their mother. “There’s just one thing, Cip. Do you know what happened last night? Sir Dougal died — yes. But how? What happened? Did you see? Have you thought?”

“I’m not sure. I saw — it. The head. Full-face but only for a split second.”