Light Thickens

Chapter 4 FOURTH WEEK

Rehearsals went well during the first four days of the next week. The play had now been completely covered and Peregrine began to polish, dig deeper, and make discoveries. His bruises grew less painful. He had taken a high hand and talked about his “bad leg” in a vague, brief, and lofty manner and, as far as he could make out, the cast did not pay an enormous amount of attention to it. Perhaps they were too busy.

Macbeth, in particular, made a splendid advance. He gained in stature. His nightmarish descent into horror and blind, idiotic killing was exactly what Peregrine asked of him. Maggie, after they had worked at their scenes, said to him, “Dougal, you are playing like the devil possessed. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

He thought for a moment and then said: “To tell you the truth, nor did I.” And burst out laughing. “Unlucky in love, lucky in war,” he said. “Something like that, eh, Maggie?”

“Something like that,” she agreed lightly.

“I suppose,” he said, turning to Peregrine, “it is absolutely necessary to have Marley’s Ghost haunting me? What’s he meant to signify?”

“Marley’s Ghost?”

“Well — whoever he is. Seyton. Gaston Sears. What’s he meant to be, silly old fool?”

“Fate.”

“Come off it. You’re being indulgent.”

“I honestly don’t think so. I think he’s valid. He’s not intrusive, Dougal. He’s just — there.”

Sir Dougal said: “That’s what I mean,” and drew himself up, holding his claymore in front of him. “His tummy rumbles are positively deafening,” he said. “Gurgle, gurgle. Rumble. Crash. A one-man band. One can hardly hear oneself speak.”

“Nonsense,” said Peregrine and laughed. Maggie laughed with him.

“You’re very naughty,” she said to Dougal.

“You’ve heard him, Maggie. In the banquet scene. Standing up by your throne rumbling away. You do know he’s a bit off-pitch in the upper register, Perry, don’t you?” He touched his own head.

“You’re simply repeating a piece of stage gossip. Stop it.”

“Barrabell told me.”

“And who told him? And what about your fight?” Peregrine made a wide gesture and swept his notes to the floor. “Damn,” he said. “Nothing dotty about that fight, is there?”

“We’d have been just as good if we’d faked it,” Dougal muttered.

“No, you wouldn’t, and you know it.”

“Oh, well. But he does rumble. Admit.”

“I haven’t heard him.”

“Come on, Maggie. I’m wasting my time with this chap,” Dougal said cheerfully. Peregrine heard the stage door shut behind him.

He had begun painfully to pick up pages of the notes he had dropped when he heard someone come onstage and cross it. He tried to get up but the movement caught him. By the time he had hauled himself up the door had opened and closed and he did not see who had crossed the stage and gone out of the theatre.

Charlie had hung the claymore with its fellow on the back wall. Peregrine, having put his papers in order, labored up onto the stage and made his way through pieces of scenery and book wings that had been set up as temporary backing. Only the working light had been left on and it was dark enough in this no-man’s-land for him to go carefully. He was quite startled to see the figure of a small boy, its back toward him. Looking up at the claymore.

“William!” he said. William turned. His face was white but he said, “Hullo, sir,” loudly.

“What are you doing here? You weren’t called.”

“I wanted to see you, sir.”

“You did? Well, here I am.”

“You hurt yourself on the wooden claymore,” the treble voice stated.

“What makes you think that?”

“I was there. Backstage. When you jumped, I saw you.”

“You had no business to be there, William. You come only when you are called and stay in front when you are not working. What were you doing backstage?”

“Looking at my claymore. Mr. Sears said I could have one of them after we opened. I wanted to choose the one that was least knocked about.”

“I see. Come here. Where I can see you properly.”

William came at once. He stood to attention and clenched his hands.

“Go on,” said Peregrine.

“I took it down; it was very dark. I brought it into the better light. It was still pretty dark but I examined it. Before I could get back there and hang it up, the witches came and started rehearsing. Down on the main stage. I hid it under the canvas. I was very careful to hide it where I thought nobody would fall. I hid, too. I saw you fall. I heard you say you were all right.”

“You did?”

“Yes.”

After a considerable pause, William went on. “I knew you weren’t really all right because I heard you swear. But you got up. So I sneaked off and waited till there was only Charlie left and he was whistling. So I bolted.”

“And why did you want to see me today?”

“To tell you.”

“Has something else happened?”

“In a way.”

“Let’s have it, then.”

“It’s Miss Gaythorne. She keeps on about the curse.”

“The curse?”

“On the play. Now she’s on about things happening. She makes out the sword under the cover is mixed up with all the things that go wrong with Macbeth, with” — William corrected himself — “the Scots play. She reckons she wants to sprinkle holy water or something and say things. I dunno. It sounds like a lot of hogwash to me but she goes on and on, and of course the claymore’s all my doing, isn’t it? Nothing to do with this other stuff.”

“Nothing in the wide world.”

“Anyway, I’m sorry you’ve copped one, sir. I am, really.”

“So you ought to be. It’s much better. Look here, William. Have you spoken to anyone else about this?”

“No, sir.”

“Word of a gentleman?” said Peregrine and wondered if it was comically snobbish.

“No, I haven’t, not a word.”

“Then don’t. Except to me, if you want to. If they know I’m hurt because of the claymore they’ll go weaving all sorts of superstitious rotgut about the play and it’ll get about and be bad for business. Mum’s the word. Okay? But I may say something. I’m not sure.”

“Okay.”

“And you’ll get your claymore but no funny business with it.”

William looked blankly at him.

“No swiping it around. Ceremonial use only. Understood?”

“I’ve understood, all right.”

“Agreed?”

“I suppose so,” William muttered.

Peregrine reminded himself that William was certainly unable to raise the weapon more than waist-high, if that, and decided not to insist. They shook hands and paid a visit to the Junior Dolphin at a quarter to six, where William consumed an unbelievable quantity of crumpets and fizzy drink. He seemed to have recovered his sangfroid.

Peregrine drove him home to a minute house in a tidy little street in Lambeth. The curtains were not yet drawn but the room was lit and he could see a pleasant picture, a fully stocked bookcase, and a good armchair. Mrs. Smith came to the window and looked out before shutting the room away.

William invited him in.

“I’ll deliver you but I won’t come in, thank you. I’m due at home. Overdue, in fact.”

A brisk knock brought his mother to the door. A woman who was worn down to the least common denominator. She was dressed in a good but not new jacket and skirt and spoke incisively. “Yes?”

“Hullo, Mrs. Smith,” said Peregrine. “I’ve got a call to make in this part of the world so I’ve brought William home. He’s doing very well, may I add.”

“Thank you, Mr. Jay.” She smiled briefly at him and ushered William in as all three said good-bye in chorus.

Peregrine drove home in a state of some confusion. He was glad the hidden-sword mystery was solved, of course, but uncertain about how much, if anything, of the explanation should be passed on to the company. In the end he decided to say something publicly to Gaston about his promising to give the wooden sword to William and William hiding it. But what about Nina Gaythorne and the others? According to William, Nina knew about the sword. How the hell did the silly old trout find out? Peregrine asked himself. Charlie? Perhaps he let it out. No. No. I’ve got it. Banquo. He was there, probably lurking around before his entrance. He could have seen. And pretty well satisfied that this was the truth, he arrived home.

Emily heard the story of William. “Do you think he’ll keep his word?” she asked.

“Yes, I do. I’m quite persuaded he will.”

“What was it like? The house. And his mother?”

“All right. I didn’t go in. Tiny house. Their own furniture. She’s as thin as a lath and definitely upper-class. I don’t remember if her circumstances came out at the trial but my guess would be that after the legal expenses were settled there was enough to buy the house or pay the rent and furnish it from what they had. He had been a well-heeled stockbroker. Mad as a hatter.”

“And William’s at a drama school?”

“The Royal Southwark Drama School. It’s good. They get the whole works, all school subjects. Registered as a private school. There must have been enough for William’s fees. And she’s got some secretarial job, I fancy.”

“I’ve been trying to remember what it was like when I was six. What was he told and how much does he retain?”

“At a guess, I’d say he was told his father was mentally very ill and committed to an asylum. No more.”

“Poor little man,” said Emily.

“He’ll be a good actor. You’ll see.”

“Yes. How’s your bruise?”

“Better every day.”

“Good.”

“In fact, everything in the garden is —” He pulled up. Emily saw that he had crossed his first and second fingers.

The next day shone brightly. Peregrine and Emily drove happily along the river, over Blackfriars Bridge, and turned right for Wharfingers Lane and the theatre. The entire company had been called and had nearly all arrived and were assembling in the auditorium.

It was to be a complete run-through of the play, with props. This would be the last one entirely for the actors. After that would come the mechanical, effects, and lights rehearsals with endless stops, adjustments, and repositionings. And then, finally, two dress rehearsals.

Emily knew a lot of the company. Sir Dougal was delighted that she had come down to rehearsal. Why did they not see more of her in these days? Sons? How many? Three? All at school? Wonderful!

It struck her that he was excited. Keyed up. Not attending to the answers she gave him. She was relieved when he strolled away.

Maggie came up to her and gave her a squeeze. “I’ll want to know what you think,” she said. “Really. What you think and feel.”

“Perry says you’re wonderful.”

“Does he? Does he, really?”

“Really and truly. Without qualifications.”

“Too good. Too soon. I don’t know,” she muttered.

“All’s well.”

“I hope so. This play, Emmy, my dear.”

“I know.”

She wandered away and sat down, her eyes closed, her lips moving. Nina Gaythorne came in, draped in a multiplicity of hand-woven scarves. She saw Emily and waved the end of one of them, at the same time making a strange grimace and raising her faded eyes to contemplate the dome. It was impossible to interpret; some kind of despair? Emily wondered. She waved back conservatively.

The man with Nina Gaythorne was unknown to Emily. Straw-colored. Tight mouth, light eyes. She guessed he was the Banquo. Bruce Barrabell. They sat together, apart from the others. Emily had the uncomfortable feeling that Nina was telling him who she was. She found herself momentarily looking into his eyes, which startled her by their sharpness and the quick furtive withdrawal of his gaze.

Macduff, Simon Morten, she recognized from Peregrine’s description. He was physically exactly right; dark, handsome, and reckless, and, at the moment, nervous and withdrawn. A swashbuckler nevertheless.

Here came the three witches, two girls gabbling nervously and Rangi: aloof, indrawn, anxious. Then the Royals: King Duncan, magnificent, portentous, and his two sons, to whom he seemed to lend a condescending ear. Two Murderers. The Gentlewoman and the Doctor. Lennox and Ross. Menteith. Angus. Caithness. And, coming over to Nina Gaythorne, a small boy. So that’s William, she thought. Last: huge, brooding, his claymore held upright in its harness, Gaston, the sword-bearer.

I’m thinking about them as they are in the play, mused Emily. And they are behaving as they do in the play. No. Not behaving. How absurd of me. But they are keeping together in their groups.

The front curtains parted and Peregrine came through.

“This,” he said, “is an uninterrupted run-through, with props and effects. It will be timed. I’ll take notes at the end of the first half. There has been a slight tendency to drag. We’ll watch that, if you please. Right. Act One, Scene One. The Witches.”

They went up through the box.

Peregrine came down the temporary steps into the house and to his desk. His secretary was beside him and the mechanical people behind.

Emily’s heart thumped. A faint, wailing cry, a gust of moaning wind, and the curtain rose.

There are times — rare but unmistakable — in the theatre when, at rehearsal, the play flashes up into a life of its own and attains a reality so vivid that everything else fades into threadbare inconsequence. These startling transformations happen when the play is over halfway to achievement: the actors are not in costume, the staging is still in its bare bones.

Nothing intervenes between the characters and their projection into the void. This was such a day.

Emily felt she was seeing Macbeth for the first time. She was constantly taken by surprise. Perfect, Wonderful. Terrible, she thought.

Duncan arrives at the castle. The sound of wings fluttering in the evening air. Peaceful. Then the squeal of pipes, the rumble of the great doors, the opening and the assembly of servants. Seyton. Lady Macbeth a scarlet figure at the top of the stairs. Don’t go in, don’t go in.

But she welcomes him. They all go in and the doors rumble and close on them.

Afterward Emily could not remember if the sounds Shakespeare introduces actually were heard: the cricket, the owl, the usual domestic sounds that continue in an old house when the guests are all asleep in bed. Other ambiguous sounds the Macbeths think they hear…

It’s accomplished. The terrible imaginings are real, now, and they go to wash the blood from their hands.

Now comes the knocking at the south entry. Enter from below the drunken Porter with his load of obscenely shaped driftwood. He commits it to the fire, piece after piece, staggers to the entry, and admits Macduff and Lennox.

Simon Morten looked fit, his fair skin bright with the flush of health. He and Lennox brought the fresh morning air in with them, and Simon ran swiftly upstairs into Duncan’s bedroom. The door shut behind him.

Macbeth stood very still, every nerve in his body listening. Lennox went to the fire, warmed his hands, and gossiped about the wildness of the nights.

The door upstairs opened and Macduff came out.

Extraordinary! His face was totally drained of color. He whispered: “Horror. Horror. Horror.”

Now disaster broke: the alarum bell, the disordered guests, Lady Macbeth’s “fainting” when her husband’s speech threatened to get out of hand, the appearance of the two frightened sons, their decision to flee. The little front scene when Macduff, an old man, and Ross speak an ominous afterword, and the first part closes.

Peregrine finished his notes. Macbeth and Macduff waited behind. They were onstage.

“Come on,” said Peregrine. “What was the matter? You’re both good actors but you don’t turn sheet-white out of sheer artistry. What went wrong?”

Sir Dougal looked at Simon. “You went up before I did,” he said. “You saw it first.”

“Some idiot’s rigged a bloody mask in the King’s chamber. One of those Banquo things of Gaston’s. Open mouth, blood running out of it. Bulging eyes. I don’t mind telling you it shocked the pants off me.”

“You might have warned me,” said Sir Dougal.

“I tried, didn’t I? Outside the door. You and Lennox. After I said, Destroy your sight with a new Gorgon.”

“You muttered something. I didn’t know what you were on about.”

“I could hardly yell, ‘There’s a bloody head on the wall,’ could I?”

“All right, all right.”

“When you went up the first time, Sir Dougal, was it there?”

“Certainly not. Unless —”

“Unless what?”

“What’s the color of the cloak attached to it?”

“Dark gray,” said Peregrine.

“If it was covered by the cloak I might have missed it. It was dark up there.”

“Who could have uncovered it?”

“The grooms?”

“What grooms? There are no grooms,” said Simon. “Are you crazy?”

“I was making a joke,” said Sir Dougal with dignity.

“Funny sort of joke, I must say.”

“There’s some perfectly reasonable explanation,” Peregrine said. “I’ll talk to the Property Master. Don’t let a damn silly thing like this upset you. You’re going very well indeed. Keep it up.”

He slapped them both on the shoulders, waited till they had gone, and climbed the stairs to the room.

It was extremely dark: an opening off the head of the stairs with a door facing them. The audience would see only a small inside section of one wall when this door was open. The wall, which would have a stone finish, faced the audience and ran down to stage-level, and the third wall, unseen by the audience, was simply used as a brace for the other two. It was a skeleton. A ladder leading down to the stage was propped against the floor. A ceiling, painted with joists, was nailed to this structure.

And looming in the darkest corner, facing the doorway, the head of murdered Banquo.

Peregrine knew what to expect but even so he got a jolt. The bulging eyes stared into his. The mouth gaped blood. His own mouth was dry and his hands wet. He walked toward it, touched it, and it moved. It was fixed to a coat hanger. The ends of the hanger rested on the corner pieces of the walls. The gray shroud had a hole, like a poncho, for the head. He touched it again and it rocked toward him and, with a whisper, fell.

Peregrine started back with an oath, shut the door behind him, and called out, “Props!”

“Here, guv.”

“Come up, will you? Put the working light on.”

He picked the head up and returned it to its place. The working light took some of the horror out of it. Props’s head came up from below. When he arrived, he turned and saw it.

“Christ!” he said.

“Did you put that thing there?”

“What’d I do that for, Mr. Jay? Gawd, no.”

“Did you miss it?”

“Last I checked, it and its mates were all laid out in the walking gents’ room. Gawd, it’d give you the willies, woon’t it? Seeing the thing unexpected, like.”

“Take it down and put it back, and, Ernie —”

“Guv?”

“Don’t mention this. Don’t say you’ve seen it. Not to anyone.”

“Okay.”

“I mean it. Hope to die.”

“Hope to die.”

“Cross your heart, Ernie. Go on. Do it. And say it.”

“Aw, hell, guv.”

“Go on!”

“Cross me ’eart. ’Ope to die.”

“That’s the style. Now. Take this thing and put it with the other. Half a jiffy.”

Peregrine was wrapping the head in the shroud. He turned back the hem and found a thin stick about two feet long slotted into the hem. A string was knotted halfway across into another and very much longer piece. He took it to the edge of the floor and let the loose end fall. It reached to within three feet of the stage.

Peregrine detached it, coiled it up, and put it in his pocket. He pulled out the stick, snapped it into small pieces, and gave Ernie the head, neatly parceled. He looked at the place where the head had rested and, above it, saw a strut of rough wood.

“Preposterous!” he muttered. “Okay,” he said aloud. “We push on.” He went downstairs.

“Second part,” he called. “Settle down, please.”

The second part opened with Banquo alone, suspecting the truth yet not daring to cut and run. Next, Macbeth’s scene with the murderers and Seyton nearer, ever present, and then the two Macbeths together. This is perhaps the most moving scene in the play and reveals the most about them. It opens up, in extraordinary language, the nightmare of guilt, their sleeplessness, and when at last they sleep the terrifying dreams that beset them. She fights on but knows now, without any shadow of doubt, that her power over him is less than she had bargained for, while he is acting on his own, hinting at what he plans but not telling. There follows the coming of darkness and night and the release of night’s creatures. It ends with self-dedication to the dark. Now comes the murder of Banquo and the escape of Fleance. And now the great banquet.

It begins as a front scene before the curtains. Macbeth, crowned and robed, seems for the moment in command as if he actually thrives on the shedding of blood. He is a little too loud, too boisterous in his welcome. He is sending his guests through the curtains and is about to follow when he sees Seyton in the downstage entrance. He waits for the last guest to pass through and then goes to him.

Nothing is perfect: Fleance has escaped. Macbeth gives Seyton money and signals for the curtains to be opened. And they are opened, upon the opulence of the banquet. The servants are filling glasses. Lady Macbeth is on her throne. And the ghost of Banquo, hidden, waits.

It was going well. The masking of the stool. The timing. The nightmarish efforts of Macbeth to recover something of his royalty. Every cue observed. Thank God! Peregrine thought. It’s working. Yes. Yes.

The servants swept the covers off the main dishes.

The head of Banquo was in pride of place: outrageous and glaring on the main dish.

“What the bloody hell is this!” Sir Dougal demanded.

This was too much. The time for concealment was past. Strangely, Peregrine felt a sort of relief. He would no longer be obliged to offer unlikely explanations, beg people not to talk, be certain they would talk.

He said, “Stop!” and stood up. “Cover that thing.”

The servant who still had the oval dish-cover in his hand clapped it back over the head. Peregrine walked down the aisle. “You may sit if you want to but remain in your positions. Any staff who are here, onstage, please.”

The assistant stage manager, Charlie, two stagehands, and Props came on and stood in a group on the Prompt side. The entire cast drew forward, some sitting onstage, others leaning against the set.

“Somewhere among you,” said Peregrine, “there is a funny man. He has been operating intermittently throughout this rehearsal, his object, if he can be said to have one, being to support the superstitious theories that have grown up around this play. This play. Macbeth. You hear me, Macbeth! This person put a Banquo mask on the wall of Duncan’s room. He’s put another one in this serving dish. In any other context these silly tricks would be dismissed but here they are reprehensible. They’ve upset the extremely high standard of performance, and that is lamentable. I ask the perpetrator of these tricks to let me know, by whatever means he chooses, that he is the — comedian.

“For the good of the production I undertake not to reveal the trickster’s name. Nor will I sack the man or refer to the matter again. It shall be as if it had never happened. Is this understood?”

He stopped.

They stared at him rather like children, he thought, brought together for a wigging and not knowing what would come next.

It was Bruce Barrabell who came next, the silver-tongued Banquo.

“No doubt I shall be snubbed,” he said. “But I really feel I must protest. If this person is among us, I think we should all know who he is. He should be publicly exposed and dismissed. By us. As the Equity representative, I feel I should take this stand.”

Peregrine had not the faintest notion of what, if any, stand the Equity representative was entitled to take. He said grandly: “Properties belonging to the theatre have been misused. Rehearsal time interrupted. This is my affair; I propose to continue. The time for Equity to butt in may or may not arise in due course. If it does I shall advise you of it. At this stage I must ask you to sit down, Mr. Barrabell.”

If he won’t sit down, he wondered, what the hell do I do?

“Hear, hear,” said Sir Dougal helpfully.

There was an affirmative murmur. Nina was heard to say she felt faint. Peregrine said: “Props. When did you last look under the lid of that dish?”

“I never looked under it,” said Props. “It was in place on the table, which was carried on as soon as the curtains closed. The dish would ’ave a plastic boar’s head for performance, but not until the dress rehearsal.”

“Was anyone there? A scene-shifter or an actor?”

“The two scene-shifters who carried the table on. They went off on the other side. And ’im,” said Props, jerking his head at Barrabell, “and the other ghost. The double. They got down under the table just before the curtains reopened.”

“Familiar business for Banquo,” said Sir Dougal and laughed.

“What do you mean by that, may I ask?” said Barrabell.

“Oh, nothing. Nothing.”

“I insist on an explanation.”

“You won’t get one.”

“Quiet, please,” Peregrine shouted. “Go on, Props. When was the dish actually put on the table?”

Props said: “It’s stuck down. All the props not used are stuck down, aren’t they? I put the lid on it after I got it ready, like.”

“Before the rehearsal started?”

“That’s right. And if there’s anybody finks I done it with the ’ead, I never. And if there’s any doubts about that I appeal to my union.”

“There are no doubts about it,” said Peregrine hurriedly. “Where was the head? Where are all the heads? Together?”

“In the walking gents’ dressing-room. All together. Waiting for the dress rehearsal, next week.”

“Is the room unlocked?”

“Yes, it is unlocked. And if you arst ’oo ’as the key, I ’as it. The young gents arst me to unlock it and I unlocked it, din’ I?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“I got me rights like everybody else.”

“Of course you have.” Peregrine waited for a second or two and then said: “Anyone else?”

“Certainly,” said a sepulchral voice. “I was there. But very briefly. I simply informed Macbeth of the murder. I came off downstage, Prompt. Somebody was there with my claidheamh-mor. I seized it. I ran upstage, engaged it into my harness, and entered near the throne, as the curtains were reopened. The previous scene,” reminisced Gaston, “was that of the murder of Banquo. The claidheamh-mor was correctly held. It would never be used for that affair. It is too large and too sacred. An interesting point arises —”

He settled into his narrative style.

“Thank you, Gaston,” said Peregrine. “Very interesting,” and hurried on. “Now, Banquo. You were there during this scene. At what stage did you actually get under the table, do you remember?”

“When I heard Macbeth say, Thou art the best o’ the cutthroats. The curtains were shut and the scene between Macbeth and Gaston, the murderer, was played in front of them. The head and cloak were stuffy and awkward and I always delay putting them on and getting down there. They are made in one and it takes only seconds to put them on. Angus and Caithness popped the whole thing over my head. I collected the cloak around my knees and went down.”

“And the ghost double? Toby?”

A youth held up his head. “I put my head and cloak on in the dressing-room,” he said, “and I got under the table as soon as it was there. The table has no upstage side and there was lots of room, really. I waited at the rear until Bruce got under and crawled forward.”

Peregrine looked at the familiar faces of his actors and thought: This is ridiculous. He cleared his throat. “I now ask,” he said, “which of you was responsible for these tricks.”

Nobody answered.

“Very well,” Peregrine said. “I would beg you not to discuss this affair among yourselves but,” he added acidly, “I might as well beg you not to talk. One point I do put to you. If you think of linking these silly pranks with the Macbeth superstitions you will be doing precisely what the perpetrator wants. My guess is that he or she is an ardent believer. So far no ominous signs have occurred. So he or she has planted some. It’s as silly and as simple as that. Any comments?”

“One asks oneself,” announced Gaston, “when the rumors began and whether, in fact, they go back to some pre-Christian winter solstice ritual. The play being of an extremely sanguinary nature —”

“Yes, Gaston. Later, dear man.”

Gaston rumbled on.

Sir Dougal said: “Oh, for pity’s sake, will somebody tell him to forget his claddy-mor and to shut his silly old trap.”

“How dare you!” roared Gaston suddenly. “I, who have taught you a fight that is authentic in every detail except the actual shedding of blood! How dare you, sir, refer to my silly old trap?”

“I do. I do dare,” Sir Dougal announced petulantly. “I’m still in great pain from the physical strain I’ve been obliged to suffer and all for something that would be better achieved by a good fake and if you won’t shut up, by God, I’ll use your precious techniques to make you. I beg your pardon, Perry, dear boy, but really.”

Gaston had removed his claidheamh-mor from the harness and now, shouting insults in what may have been early Scots, performed some aggressive and alarming exercises with the weapon. The magnificent Duncan, who was beside him, cried out and backed away. “I say!” he protested, “don’t! No! Too much!”

Gaston stamped and rotated his formidable weapon.

“Put that damn silly thing away,” said Sir Dougal, “whatever it’s called: ‘glad-time saw.’ You’ll hurt yourself.”

“Quiet!” Perry shouted. “Gaston! Stop it. At once.”

Gaston did stop. He saluted and returned the weapon to its sheath, a leather pouch which hung by straps from his heavy belt-harness and occupied the place where a sporran would have rested. Once sheathed and the hilt in place, the monstrous blade rose in front of his body and was grasped by his gloved paws. It passed within an inch of his nose, causing him to squint. Thus armed, he retired and stood to attention, squinting hideously and rumbling industriously, by Maggie’s throne. She gave one terrified look at him and then burst out laughing.

So, after a doubtful glance, did the entire company and the people in the stalls, including Emily.

Gaston stood to attention throughout.

Peregrine wiped the tears from his face, walked up to Gaston, put his arm around his shoulders, and took the risk of his life.

“Gaston, my dear man,” he said, “you have taught us how to meet these ridiculous pranks. Thank you.”

Gaston rumbled.

“What did you say?”

“Honi soit qui mal y pense. ”

“Exactly,” agreed Peregrine and wondered if it was really an appropriate remark. “Well, everybody,” he said. “We don’t know who played these tricks and for the time being we’ll let them rest. Will you all turn your backs for a moment?”

They did so. He whipped off the lid, wrapped the head in its cloak, took it backstage, and returned.

“Right!” he said. “Places, everybody. Are you ready, Sir Dougal, or would you like to break?”

“I’ll go on.”

“Good. Thank you. From where we left off, please.”

“Our duties and the pledge,” said the prompter. And they went on to the end of the play.

When it was all over and he had taken his notes and gone through the bits that needed adjustment, Peregrine made a little speech to his cast.

“I can’t thank you enough,” he said. “You have behaved in a civilized and proper manner like the professionals you are. If, as I believe, the perpetrator of these jokes is among you, I hope he or she will realize how silly they are and we’ll have no more of them. Our play is in good heart and we go forward with confidence, my dears. Tomorrow morning. Everyone at ten, please. In the rehearsal room.”

Peregrine had a session with the effects and lighting people that lasted for an hour, at the end of which they went off, satisfied, to get their work down on paper. The stage was now patched with daylight. Sheets of painted plywood were being carried in from the workshop. Workmen shouted and whistled.

“Come on, Em,” he said. “You’ve had more entertainment than we bargained for, haven’t you?”

“I have indeed. You handled them beautifully.”

“Did I? Good. Hullo, here’s William. What are you doing, young man? Emily, this is William Smith.”

“William, I very much enjoyed your performance,” said Emily, shaking his hand.

“Did you?” said William. “I’m waiting for my mum, Mr. Jay, but” — a vivid flush mounted on his face — “but… I wanted to speak to you about — about — ” He looked at Emily.

“About what?” Peregrine asked.

“About the heads. About the person who’s done it. About everyone saying it’s the sort of thing kids do. I didn’t do it. Really, I didn’t. I think it’s silly. And frightening. Awfully frightening,” William whispered. The red receded and a white-faced little boy stared at them. His eyes filled with tears.

“William!” Emily cried out. “Don’t worry. They are only plastic mock-ups. Nothing to be afraid of. Pretend ghosts. William, never mind. Mr. Sears made them.” She held out her arms. He hung back and then walked, shamefaced, into her embrace. She felt his heart beat and his trembling.

“Thank you very much, Mrs. Jay,” he muttered and sniffed.

Emily held out her hand to Peregrine. “Hanky,” she mouthed. He gave her his handkerchief.

“Here you are. Have a blow.” William blew and caught his breath. She waggled her head at Peregrine, who said: “It’s all right, William. You didn’t do it.” And walked away.

“There you are! Now you’re in the clear, aren’t you?”

“If he means it.”

“He never, ever, says things he doesn’t mean.”

“Doesn’t he? Super,” said William and fetched a dry sob.

“So that’s that, isn’t it?” He didn’t answer. “William,” Emily said. “Are you really frightened of the heads? Quite apart from anyone thinking you did it. Just between ourselves.”

He nodded. “I can’t look at them,” he whispered. “Much less touch them. They’re awful.”

“Would they be if you’d made one? You know. It’s a long business. You make a mold in plaster of Mr. Barrabell’s face and he makes a fuss and says you’re stifling him and he won’t keep his mouth open. And at last, when you’ve got it and it’s dried, you pour a thin layer of some plastic stuff into it and wait till that dries, and then the hardest part comes,” said Emily, hoping she’d got it vaguely right. “You’ve got to separate the two and bob’s your uncle. Well — something like that. Broadly speaking.”

“Yes.”

“And you see it in all its stages and finally you’ve got to paint it and add hair and red paint for blood and so on, and it’s rather fun, and you made it frightening, but you know it’s just you being rather clever with plaster and plastic and paint.”

“That’s like the chorus of a song — ‘With plaster and plastic and paint,’ ” said William.

“ ‘I’m producing a perfect phenomenon,’ ” said Emily. “So it is. You go on.”

“ ‘I’m making things look what they ain’t,’ ” said William. “Your turn. I bet you can’t get a rhyme for ‘phenomenon,’ ” and gave another dry sob.

“You win. When’s your mama coming for you?”

“Pretty soon, I should think. She’s buying our supper. It’s her afternoon off.”

“Well. You can wait here with me. Mr. Jay’s got stuck into something up there. Have you heard how he came to restore this theatre?”

“No,” said William. “I don’t know anything about the theatre except it’s meant to be rather grand to get a job in it.”

“Well,” said Emily, “come sit down and I’ll tell you.”

And she told him how Peregrine, a struggling young author-director, came into the wrecked Dolphin and fell into a bomb hole on the stage and was rescued from it and got the job of restoring the theatre and being made a member of the board.

“Even now, it’s a bit like a fairy tale,” she said.

“A nice one.”

“Very nice.”

They sat in companionable silence, watching the men working onstage.

“You go to a drama school, don’t you?” Emily said after a pause.

“The Royal Southwark Drama School. It’s a proper school. We learn all the usual things and theatre as well.”

“How long have you been going to it?”

“Three years. I was the youngest kid there.”

“And you like it?”

“Oh, yes,” he said. “It’s okay. I’m learning karate and how to fence. I’m going to be an actor, you know.”

“Are you?”

“Of course,” he said calmly.

The door at front-of-house opened and his mother looked in. He turned and saw her. “Here’s my mum,” he said. “I’d like you to meet her if that’s all right. Would it be all right?”

“I’d like to meet her, William.”

“Super,” he said. “Excuse me.” He edged past her and ran up the aisle. Emily stood up and turned around. “It’s all right, Mum,” he said. “Mrs. Jay said it is. Come on.”

Emily said: “Hullo, Mrs. Smith. Do come in. I am so pleased to meet you,” and held out her hand. “I’m Emily Jay,” she said.

“I’m afraid my son’s rather precipitous,” said Mrs. Smith. “I’ve just called to collect him. I do know outsiders shouldn’t walk into theatres as if they were bus stops.”

“William’s your excuse. He’s our rising actor. My husband thinks he’s very promising.”

“Good. Get your overcoat, William — and what’s happened to your face?”

“I don’t know. What?” asked William unconvincingly.

“What’s the matter with all our faces!” Emily exclaimed. “One of Gaston Sears’s dummy heads for the parade of Banquo’s successors got onto the banquet table and gave us the fright of our lives. Run and get your coat, William. It’s over the back of your seat.”

He said: “I’ll get it,” and wandered down the aisle.

Emily said: “I’m afraid it frightened him and made him jump and he became a very little boy, but he’s quite recovered now. It did look very macabre.”

“I’m sure it did,” said Mrs. Smith. She had gone down the aisle and met William. She put him into his coat with her back turned to Emily.

“Your hands are cold,” he said.

“I’m sorry. It’s very chilly outdoors.” She buttoned him up and said: “Say good-night to Mrs. Jay.”

“Good-night, Mrs. Jay.”

“Good-night, old boy.”

“Good-night,” said Mrs. Smith. “Thank you for being so kind.”

They shook hands.

Emily watched them go out. A lonely little couple, she thought.

“Come along, love,” said Peregrine. He had come up behind her and put his arm around her. “All’s settled. We can go home.”

“Right.”

They went out by the front-of-house. The life-size photographs were there being put into their frames. Sir Dougal Macdougal. Margaret Mannering. Simon Morten. The Three Witches. Out they came, one after another. Only a week left.

Emily and Peregrine stood and looked at them.

“Oh, darling!” she said. “This is your big one, isn’t it? So big. So big.”

“I know.”

“Don’t let these nonsense things worry you. They’re silly.”

“Yes. I know. You’re talking to me as if I’m William.”

“Come along, then. Home.”

So they went home.

The final days were, if anything, less hectic than usual. The production crew had the use of the theatre and the actors worked in the rehearsal room on a chalked-out floor. Gaston insisted on having the stage to rehearse the fight, pointing out the necessity for the different levels and insisting on the daily routine being maintained. “As it will be,” he said, “throughout the season.”

Macbeth and Macduff made noises of protest but by this time they had become proud of their expertise and had gradually speeded up to an unbelievable pace. The great cumbersome weapons swept about within inches of their persons, sparks literally flew, muffled cries escaped them. The crew, overawed, knocked off and watched them for half an hour.

The end of the fight was a bit of a problem. Macbeth was beaten back to the O.P. exit, which was open but masked from the audience by an individual Stonehenge-like piece, firmly screwed to the floor. Macbeth backed down to it and crouched behind his shield. Macduff raised his claymore and swept it down. Macbeth caught it on his shield. A pause. Then, with an inarticulate, bestial sound, he leaped aside and backward. He was out of sight. Macduff raised his claymore high above his head and plunged offstage. There was a scream cut short by an unmistakable sound: an immense thud.

For three seconds the stage was empty and silent.

“Ratatat-ratatat-ratatat-RATATAT and bugles. Crescendo! Crescendo! And enter Malcolm et al.,” roared Gaston.

“How about it?” asked Sir Dougal. “It’s a close call, Gaston. He missed the scenery but only by a hair’s breadth, you know. These claymores are so bloody long.”

“He missed. If you both repeat where you were and what you do to a fraction of an inch, he’ll always miss. If not — not. We’ll take it again, if you please. The final six moves. Places. Er — one. Er — two. Er — three…”

“We’re at hellishly close quarters at the side, there,” said Simon when they had finished. “And it’s dark as hell, too. Or will be.”

“I’ll be there with the head on my claidheamh-mor. Don’t go hunting for me, though,” said Gaston. “Simply take up your place and I’ll fall in behind you. Macbeth will have gone straight out.”

“I’ll scream and scramble off, don’t you worry,” said Sir Dougal.

“All right.”

“Until tomorrow. Same time. I thank you, gentlemen,” said Gaston to the stagehands. He saluted and withdrew.

“Proper caution, in’t ’e?” said a stagehand.

“Well, gentlemen,” said the foreman, doing a creditable bit of mimicry, “shall we resume?”

They went about nailing the sanded and painted wallboard facing to the set. The stairs curved up to the landing and the door to Duncan’s room. The red arras was hung and dropped in above the stairway. Below the landing a tunnel pierced the wall, making a passage to the south entry.

Peregrine, on his way to the rehearsal room, saw this and found it all good. The turntables, right and left, presented outside walls. The fireplace appeared. The gallows came into view and was anchored.

It was all smooth, he thought, and moved on into the rehearsal room. He had called the scene — he thought of it as the Aleppo scene — when the witches greet Macbeth. He was a little early but most of them were there. Banquo was there.

If they had been the crew of a ship, he thought, Barrabell would have been the sea-lawyer. He knew what Barrabell had been like as a schoolboy. Always closeted with other, smaller boys who listened furtively to him, always behind the dubious plan but never answerable. Always the troublemaker but never openly so. A boy to be dreaded.

Peregrine said: “Good morning, everybody.”

“Good morning, Perry.”

Yes. There he was with two of the witches. Silly little things, listening to his nonsense, whatever it was. The first witch, Rangi, hadn’t arrived yet. He would not listen to Barrabell, Peregrine thought. He goes his own way. He too is an actor and a good one. For that I respect him.

Bruce Barrabell detached himself from the witches and made for him.

“Happy, Perry?” he asked, coming close to him. “Sorry! I shouldn’t ask, should I? It’s not done. Unlucky.”

“Very happy, Bruce.”

“We haven’t got the Boy Beautiful with us this morning?”

“Do you mean William Smith? He’ll be here.”

“He’s dropped the hyphen, of course. Poor little chap.”

Peregrine, inside himself, did what actors call a double-take. His heart skipped a beat. He looked at Barrabell, who smiled at him. Damn, Peregrine thought. He knows. Oh, damn, damn, damn.

Rangi came in and looked at the clock. Just in time.

“Second witches’ scene,” Peregrine said. “Witches on from the three points of the compass. There will be a rumble of thunder. Just a hint. You arrive at exactly the same time and at dead center. Rangi through the passage. Each with a disheveled marketing bag. Blondie, Prompt. Wendy, O.P. It wasn’t together last time. You’ll have to get a sign. Rangi’s got the farthest to walk. The other two are equal. Perhaps you should all have sticks? I don’t want any hesitation. Wait for the thunder and start when it stops. Try that. Ready? Rumble, rumble. Now.”

The three figures appeared, hobbled on, met. “Much better,” said Peregrine. “Once more. This time greet each other. Rangi center. A smacking kiss on each of his cheeks simultaneously by each of you. In front. Together. Right. Dialogue.”

They used their natural, well-contrasted voices. The rhymes were stressed. The long speech about the hapless sailor gone to Aleppo was a curse.

“Though his bark cannot be lost

Yet it shall be tempest-tos’t.

Look what I have.”

And Rangi scuffled in his market bag.

“Show me, show me,” slavered the greedy Wendy.

Rangi’s hand in his bag was stilled. He himself was still. Frozen. And then he suddenly opened the bag and peered inside. He withdrew his clenched hand.

said Rangi. He opened his hand very slightly.

“What’s wrong?” Peregrine asked. “Haven’t they given you something for the thumb?”

Rangi opened his hand. It was empty.

“I’ll speak to Props. On you go.”

“A drum! a drum!” said Wendy. “Macbeth doth come.”

And now their dance, about, about, turn and twist, bow, raise their joined hands. All very quick.

“Peace! The charm’s wound up.”

“Yes,” Peregrine said. “That speech has improved enormously. It’s really alarming now. One feels the wretched sailor in his doomed ship, tossing and turning, not dying and not living. Good. We’ll go on. Banquo and Macbeth. One moment, though. Banquo, the whole scene has been very carefully ordered so that Macbeth, the convention of the soliloquy having changed over four centuries, will not seem to be within hearing distance of his brother officers. You and Ross and Angus are talking together. Way upstage. But very quietly and with virtually no movement. Shakespeare himself seems to have felt the usual convention not really good enough. His I thank you, gentlemen is a dismissal. They bow and move as far away as they can get. The soliloquy, I needn’t tell you, is of great importance. So no loud laughter, if you please. Okay?”

“I took the point the first time you made it,” said Banquo.

“Good. That will save me the fatigue of making it a third time. Are you ready? The earth hath bubbles.”

The scene went forward. The messages of favors to come were delivered. The golden future opened out. Everything was lovely, and yet… and yet…

Presently they embarked on the cauldron scene. Peregrine developed the background of whispering. “Double, double toil and trouble —” Would it be heard? He tried a murmur; not good. “We’ll try it whispered when the whole company is here,” Peregrine said. “Six groups, each beginning after trouble. I think that’ll work.”

The witches were splendid. Clear and baleful. Their movements were explicit. They were real. But Peregrine was conscious that Rangi was troubled by something. He did not fumble a cue or muddle a movement or need a prompt, but he was unhappy. Unwell? Sickening for something? Oh, God, please not, thought Peregrine. Why is he looking at me? Am I missing something?

“And points at them for his.” Thunder and fog. Blackout, the door shut, and Lennox knocking on it. The scene ends.

“All right,” said Peregrine. “I’ve no notes specifically for you. It will need adjustments, no doubt, when we get the background noise settled. Thank you all very much.”

They all left the rehearsal room, except Rangi.

“Is something amiss? What’s the matter?”

He held out his market bag. “Will you look in it, sir?” Peregrine took the bag and opened it.

Out of it a malignant head stared up at him. Mouth open, eyes open, teeth bared. Pinkish paws stretched upward.

“Oh, God!” said Peregrine. “Here we go again. Where was this bag?”

“With the other two on the props table. Since yesterday.”

“Anyone look in it?”

“I shouldn’t think so. Only to put the rat in. There was no means of telling which bag belonged to whom. It might have been Blondie’s. She’d have fainted or gone into high-powered hysterics,” said Rangi.

“She wouldn’t have looked in. Nor would Wendy. Their bags are filled with newspaper and fastened with thongs, tightly knotted. Yours isn’t because you are meant to open it and produce the pilot’s thumb.”

“So I was meant to find it,” said Rangi.

“It wouldn’t have worked with the other two.”

“There’s an obvious man to have played all these silly tricks.”

“Props?” said Peregrine.

“Ask yourself.”

“I do and I don’t believe it. Did you hear his outcries and threats to appeal to his union over the Banquo’s head business? Was that all my eye? We’d have to say we’ve got a bloody star-actor on the books. No. We’ve had him as Props for years. I simply cannot wear him for the job.”

“Can’t you narrow down the field? Where everyone was at the different times? Who could have gone up to Duncan’s room with the head, for instance? As a matter of fact, I ran into him with it. Props. Coming down the ladder from Duncan’s chamber. Now I think of it,” said Rangi, “his manner was odd. I said: ‘What are you doing with that thing?’ and he said he was putting it where it ought to be. I’m sorry, Perry. I really think he’s your man, you know. He must have put it under the dish-cover, mustn’t he?”

“He was taking the one back to the other heads in the walking men’s room. I told him to.”

“Did you see him do it?”

“No.”

“Ask him if he did it.”

“Of course I will. But I’m sure he didn’t put it in the dish. I admit he doesn’t look too good but I’m sure of it.”

“This blasted rat. Where did it come from? Have we been using traps?”

“And who sets them? All right. Props. He put one up in a narrow passage where Henry couldn’t squeeze in.” (Henry was the theatre cat.) “Props told me so himself. He was proud of his cunning.”

Rangi said: “We’ll have to look at it.”

He opened the bag and turned it upside down. The rat’s forequarters fell with a soft plop on the floor.

“There’s the mark of the bar across its neck. It’s deep. And wet. Its neck is broken. It’s bled,” said Rangi. “It doesn’t smell. It’s been recently killed.”

“We’ll have to keep it.”

“Why?”

Peregrine was taken aback. “Why?” he said. “Upon my word I don’t know. I’m treating it like evidence for a crime and there’s no crime of that sort. Nor any sort, really. All the same… wait a bit.”

Peregrine went to a rubbish bin, found a discarded brown-paper bag, and turned it inside out. He brought it back and held it open. Rangi picked the rat up by the ear and dropped it in. Peregrine screwed up the neck of the bag tightly.

“Horrible beast,” he said.

“We’d better — ssh.”

A padded footfall and the swish of a broom sounded in the passage.

“Ernie!” Peregrine called. “Props!”

The door opened and he came in. How many years, Peregrine asked himself, had Ernie been Props at the Dolphin. Ten? Twenty? Dependable always. A cockney with an odd, quirky sense of the ridiculous and an oversensitive reaction to an imagined slight. Thin, sharp face. Quick. Sidelong grin.

“Hullo, guv,” he said. “Fought you’d of gawn by now.”

“Just going. Caught any rats?”

“I never looked. ’Old on.”

He went to the back of the room behind a packing case. A pause and then Props’s voice. “ ’Ullo! What’s this, then?” A scuffling and he appeared with a rattrap on a long string.

“Look at this,” he said. “I don’t get it. The bait’s gone. So’s the rat’s head. There’s been a rat. Fur and gore and hindquarters all over it. Killed. Somebody’s been and taken it. Must of.”

“Henry?” asked Peregrine.

“Nah! Cats don’t eat rats. Just kill ’em. And ’Enery couldn’t get up that narrer passage. Nah! It’s been a man. ’E’s pulled out the trap, lifted the bar, and taken the rat’s forequarters.”

“The caretaker?”

“Not ’im. They give ’im the willies, rats do. It ought to be ’im that sets the trap, not me, but ’e won’t.”

“When did you set it, then, Ernie?”

“Yesterday morning. They was all collected in ’ere waiting for rehearsal, wasn’t they?”

“Yes. We did the crowd scenes,” said Peregrine. He looked at Rangi. “You weren’t here,” he said.

“No. First I’ve heard of it.”

Peregrine saw an alert, doubtful look on Props’s face.

“We’ve been wondering who knew all about the trap. Pretty well the whole company seems to be the answer,” said Peregrine.

“That’s right,” Props said. He was staring at the brown-paper parcel. “What’s that?” he asked.

Peregrine said: “What’s what?”

“That parcel. Look. It’s mucky.”

He was right. A horrid wetness seeped through the paper. “It’s half your rat, Props,” said Peregrine. “Your rat’s in the parcel.”

“ ’Ere! What’s the game, eh? You’ve taken it off of the trap and made a bloody parcel of it. What for? Why didn’t you say so instead of letting me turn myself into a blooming exhibition? What’s all this about?” Props demanded.

“We didn’t remove it. It was in Mr. Western’s bag.”

Props turned and looked hard at Rangi. “Is that correct?” he asked.

“Perfectly correct. I put my hand in to get the pilot’s thumb and” — he grimaced — “I touched it.” He picked up his bag and held it out. “Look for yourself,” he said. “It’ll be marked.”

Props took the bag and opened it. He peered inside. “That’s right,” he said. “There’s marks.” He stared at Peregrine and Rangi. “It’s the same bloody bugger what did the other bloody tricks,” he said.

“Looks like it,” Peregrine agreed. And after a moment: “Personally, I’m satisfied that it wasn’t you, Ernie. You’re not capable of such a convincing display of bewilderment. Or of thinking it funny.”

“Ta, very much.” He jerked his head at Rangi. “What about him?” he asked. “Don’t ’e fink I done it?”

“I’m satisfied. Not you,” said Rangi.

There was a considerable pause before Props said: “Fair enough.”

Peregrine said: “I think we say nothing about this. Props, clear up the wet patch in the witch’s bag, would you, and return it to its place on the table with the other two. Drop the rat in the rubbish bin. We’ve overreacted, which is probably exactly what he wanted us to do. From now on, you keep a tight watch on all the props right up to the time they’re used. And not a word to anyone about this. Okay?”

“Okay,” they both said.

“Right. Go ahead then. Rangi, can I give you a lift?”

“No, thanks. I’ll take a bus.”

They went out through the stage door.

Peregrine unlocked his car and got in. Big Ben tolled four o’clock. He sat there, dog-tired suddenly. Drained. Zero hour. This time on Saturday: the opening night and the awful burden of the play. Of lifting the cast. Of hoping for the final miracle. Of being, within himself, sure, and of conveying that security somehow to the cast.

Why, why, why, thought Peregrine, do I direct plays? Why do I put myself into this hell? Above all, why Macbeth? And then: It’s too soon to be feeling like this; five days too soon. Oh, God deliver us all.

He drove home to Emily.

“Do you have to go out again tonight?” she asked.

“I’m not sure. I don’t think so.”

“How about a bath and a zizz?”

“I ought to be doing something. I can’t think.”

“I’ll answer the telephone and if it’s important I swear I’ll wake you.”

“Will you?” he said helplessly.

“Come on, silly. You haven’t slept for two nights.”

“Haven’t I?”

“Not a wink.”

She went upstairs. He heard the bath running and smelled the stuff she used in it. If I sit down, he thought, I won’t get up.

He wandered to the window. There was the Dolphin across the river, shining in the late-afternoon sun. Tomorrow they’ll put up the big poster. MACBETH! OPENING 23 APRIL! I’ll see it from here.

Emily came down. “Come on,” she said.

She helped him undress. The bath was heaven. Emily scrubbed his back. His head nodded and his mouth filled with foam.

“Blow!”

He blew and the foam floated about, a mass of iridescent bubbles.

“Stay awake for three minutes longer,” said her voice. She had evidently pulled out the plug. “Come on. Out.”

He was dried. The sensation was laughable. He woke sufficiently to fumble himself into his pajamas and then into bed.

“Sleep,” he murmured, “that knits up the ravell’d sleave of care.”

“That’s right,” said Emily, a thousand miles away.

He slept.

Across the river, not very far away as the crow flies, the theatre trembled with the rebirth of the play. The actors were gone but business manager Winter Meyer and his staff worked away in the front-of-house. Telephones rang. Bookings were made. Royalty were coming and someone from Buck House would appear the day before they opened to settle the arrangements. The police and Security people would make decisions. Chief Superintendent Alleyn and his wife were coming. The Security pundits thought it a good idea if he were to be put in the box next to the Royalty. Chief Superintendent Alleyn received the order philosophically if not jubilantly and asked for a seat later in the season when he could watch the play rather than the house.

“Of course, of course, my dear chap,” Winty gushed. “Anytime. Anywhere. Management seat. Our pleasure.”

Flower shop. Cleaners. Press. Programmes. Biographical notes. Notes on the play. Nothing about superstitions.

Winter Meyer read through the proofs and could find nothing to crack the eggshell sensitivity of any of the actors. Until he came to the piece on Banquo.

“Mr. Bruce Barrabell, too long an absentee from the West End.” He won’t relish that, thought Winty, and changed it to “… makes a welcome return to…”

He went through the whole thing again and then rang up the printers and asked if the Royal Programme was ready and when he could see a copy.

Winter Meyer’s black curls were now iron gray. He had been business manager at the Dolphin ever since it was restored and remembered the play about Shakespeare by Peregrine Jay that twenty years ago had been accompanied by a murder.

Seems a long time ago now, thought Winty. Things have gone rather smoothly since then. He touched wood with his plump white finger. Of course we’re in a nice financial position, permanently endowed by the late Mr. Conducis. Almost too secure, you might think. I don’t, he thought with a fat chuckle. He lit a cigar and returned to his work.

He had dealt with his “In” tray. There was only an advertisement left from a wine merchant. He picked it up and dropped it in his wastebasket, exposing a folded paper at the bottom of his tray.

Winty was an extremely tidy man and liked to say he knew exactly where everything lay on or in his desk and what it was about. He did not recognize this folded sheet. It was, he noted, a follow-up sheet of office letter paper. He frowned and opened it.

The typed message read: “murderers son in your co.”

Winter Meyer sat perfectly still, his cigar in his left hand and in his right this outrageous statement.

Presently he turned and observed, on a small table, the typewriter sometimes used by his secretary for taking down dictated letters. He inserted a sheet of paper and typed the statement.

This, he decided, corresponds exactly. The monstrous truth declared itself. It had been executed in his office. Somebody had come in, sat down, and infamously typed it. No apostrophe or full stop and no capital letter. Because the writer was in a hurry? Or ignorant? And the motive?

Winty put both typed messages into an envelope and wrote the date on it. He unlocked his private drawer, dropped the envelope in, and relocked it.

The son of a murderer?

Winty consulted his neatly arranged fabulous memory. Since the casting list was completed he mentally ticked off each player until he came to William Smith. He remembered his mother, her nervous manner, her hesitation, her obvious relief. And diving backward, at last he remembered the Harcourt-Smith case and its outcome. Three years ago, wasn’t it? Five victims, and all of them girls! Mutilated, beheaded. Broadmoor for life.

If that’s the answer, Winty thought, I’ve pretty well forgotten the case. But, by God, I’ll find out who wrote this message and I won’t rest till I’ve faced him with it. Now then!

He thought very carefully for some time and then rang his secretary’s room.

“Mr. Meyer?” said her voice.

“Still here, are you, Mrs. Abrams? Will you come in, please?”

“Certainly.”

Seconds later the inner door opened and a middle-aged lady came in, carrying her notebook.

“You just caught me,” she said.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right. I’m in no hurry.”

“Sit down. I want to test your memory, Mrs. Abrams.”

She sat down.

“When,” he asked, “did you last see the bottom of my ‘In’ tray?”

“Yesterday morning, Mr. Meyer. Ten-fifteen. Tea-time. I checked through the contents and added the morning’s mail.”

“You saw the bottom?”

“Certainly. I took everything out. There was a brochure from the wine people. I thought you might like to see it.”

“Quite. And nothing else?”

“Nothing.” She waited for a moment and then said incredulously: “There’s nothing lost?”

“No. There’s something found. A typed message. It’s on our follow-up paper and it’s typed on that machine over there. No envelope.”

“Oh,” she said.

“Yes. Where was I? While you were in here?”

“On the phone. Security people. First-night arrangements.”

“Ah yes. Mrs. Abrams, was this room unoccupied at any time, and unlocked, between then and now? I lunched at my club.”

“It was locked. You locked it.”

“Before that?”

“Er. I think you went out for a few minutes. At eleven.”

“I did?”

“The toilet,” she modestly said. “I heard the door open and close.”

“Oh yes. And later?”

“Let me think. No, apart from that it was never unoccupied and unlocked. Wait!”

“Yes, Mrs. Abrams?”

“I had put a sheet of our follow-up paper in the little machine here in case you should require a memo.”

“Yes?”

“You did not. It is not there now. How peculiar.”

“Yes, very.” He thought things over for a moment and then said: “Your memory, Mrs. Abrams, is exceptional. Do I understand that the only time it could have been done was when I left the room for — for at least five minutes — more? Would you not have heard the typewriter?”

“I was using my own machine in my own room, Mr. Meyer. No.”

“And the time?”

“I heard Big Ben.”

“Thank you. Thank you very much.” He hesitated. He contemplated Mrs. Abrams doubtfully. “I’m very much obliged. I — thank you, Mrs. Abrams.”

“Thank you, Mr. Meyer,” she said and withdrew.

She closed the door. I wonder, she thought, why he doesn’t tell me what was in the message.

On the other side of the door he thought: I would have liked to tell her but — no. The fewer the better.

He sat before his desk and thought carefully and calmly about this disruptive event. He was unaware of the previous occurrences: Peregrine’s accident; the head in the King’s room; the head in the meat dish; the rat in Rangi’s bag. They were not in his department. So he had nothing to relate the message to. A murderer’s son in the cast! he thought. Preposterous! What murderer? What son?

He thought again of the Harcourt-Smith case. He remembered that the sensational papers had made a great thing of the wife’s having no inkling of Harcourt-Smith’s second “personality” and, yes, of his little son, who was six years old.

It is our William, he thought. Blow me down flat but it’s our William that’s being got at. And after a further agitation: I’ll do nothing. It’s awkward, of course, but until the show’s been running for some time it’s better not to meddle. If then. I don’t know who’s typed it and I don’t want to know. Yet.

He looked at his day-to-day calendar. A red ring neatly encircled April 23. Shakespeare’s birthday. Opening night. Less than a week left, he thought.

He was not a pious man, but he caught himself wondering for the moment about the protective comfort of a phylactery and wishing he could experience it.