Light Thickens

Chapter 7 THE YOUNGER ELEMENT

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.”

“Yes?”

“Lots of people in the audience saw it but I think they just thought it was an awfully good dummy, and lots didn’t. It was so quick.”

“Did Robin?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t think he’s sure either but he doesn’t say. He doesn’t want to talk about it.”

“The thing is, young William didn’t see anything. He was waiting offstage. He only knows Sir Dougal is dead. So don’t say anything to upset that, will you? If you can, keep right off the whole subject. Right?”

“Yes.”

“That’s fine. Here he comes.”

Crispin went out to the hall and Emily thought: He’s a nice boy. Old for his years but that’s rather nice too. She went up to the ex-nursery and hunted out a game of Chinese Checkers, one of Monopoly, a couple of memo pads.

Then she went downstairs and looked out of the window. No sign of her sons so they must have picked up a cab. She went to the kitchen and found her part-time cook making a horseradish sauce. There was a good smell of beef in the air.

“Richard’s spending the day with friends but we’ve got an extra small boy for lunch, Annie.”

“That’s okay,” said Annie, whose manner was of a free and easy sort.

“I’ll lay the table.”

“Will the boss be in?” asked Annie.

“If he can make it. We’re not to wait.”

“Okeydoke,” said Annie. “All serene.”

Emily couldn’t settle to anything. She wandered downstairs and into the living room. Across the river the Dolphin stood out brightly from its setting in the riverside slums. Peregrine was there now, and all the important people in the Dolphin, trying to reach a conclusion on the immediate future.

I hope they decide against carrying on, she thought. It would be horrible. And, remembering a halfhearted remark of Peregrine’s to the effect that Gaston would be good: It wouldn’t be the same. I hope they won’t do it.

She tried to think of a revival. There was Peregrine’s own play about the Dark Lady and the delicate little Hamnet and his glove. The original glove was now in the Victoria and Albert Museum. They had discussed a revival, and it seemed to fill the bill. The child they had used in the original production had been, as far as she recollected, an odious little monster. But William would play Hamnet well. She began to cast it from the present company in her mind, leaving herself out. She became excited and got a pencil and paper to write it all down.

It being Sunday, there was very little traffic in their part of the world. The boys decided to walk to the main street. They set out and almost at once a cruising taxi came their way. Crispin held up his first finger as his father always did and Robin pranced, waved his arms and imitated a seagull’s cry.

Crispin gave the driver the address and Robin leaped into the taxi.

“Takin ’im to the naughty boys’ ’ome” asked the driver, “or is ’e the Bishop of London?”

Crispin laughed and Robin piped down and was quietly thoughtful. They drove through a maze of small streets, coming finally into Lambeth. Robin broke his silence to start an argument about where the Palace could be and was taken aback when they stopped in a narrow lane off Stangate Street in front of a tidy little house.

“Will you wait for us, please?” said Crispin to the driver. “You wait in the car, Rob.”

Crispin got out of the taxi and went up the flight of three steps to the front door. Before he could ring, the door opened and William came out.

“I’m Crispin Jay,” said Crispin. “That’s Robin halfway out of the cab.”

“I’m William Smith. Hullo. Hullo, Robin.”

“Hullo,” Robin muttered.

“Get in, William,” Crispin said. And to the driver: “Back to Bank-side, please.”

They set off. Robin said he bet he knew all the streets they would go through before they got to Bankside. Crispin said he wouldn’t and won. William laughed infectiously and got a number of the early ones right. “I walk down them every day when I go to school,” he said, “so it’s not fair.”

“I go to the Blue Caps,” said Robin. “When I’m the right age I’ll go to Winchester if I pass the entrance exam.”

“I went to the Blue Caps when I was six but only for a term. I wanted to be an actor so I got a scholarship to the Royal Southwark Drama School. It’s a special school for actors.”

“Do you like it?”

“Yes,” said William. “I do like it, very much.”

“Do you like being in the play?”

“Gosh, yes.”

The taxi made a sharp turn to the right. Crispin took the opportunity to kick his brother, who said: “Hi! Watch your great feet where you put them. Oh! Sorry.”

“There’s the river,” said Crispin. “We’re nearly home.”

“Gosh, I’m starving. Are you starving, William?” Robin inquired.

“You bet,” said William.

They drew up and stopped.

The two little boys tumbled out and ran up the steps. Crispin paid the taxi and gave the driver a fifteen percent tip.

“Much obliged, your reverence,” said the driver.

“There’s our car,” said Crispin. “Pop’s come home. Good.”

Emily opened the door and the boys went in, Robin loudly asking if it was time for lunch and saying that he and William were rattling-empty. William shook hands and was not talkative. Peregrine came out to the hall and ran his fingers over William’s hair. “Hullo, young fellow,” he said. “Nice to see you.”

“Hullo, sir.”

“I’m afraid I’ve got disturbing news for you. You know Sir Dougal died very unexpectedly last night, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Yes. Well, we’ve been trying to decide what to do: whether to continue with someone else in the part or close down for a week and then rehearse and reopen with a revival. We have almost decided on the latter policy, in which case the play will have to be chosen. There are signs of a return to popularity of the sophisticated romantic drama. Christopher Fry, for instance. Your immediate future depends, of course, on our choice, which will have to be made tonight. There has been one suggestion of a play we used years ago for the gala opening of this theatre. It’s a small cast and one of the characters is a boy. I wrote it. If it’s the play, we will suggest you read for the part. You die at the end of Act One but it is an extremely important part while you’re with us.”

William said: “Could I do it?”

“I think so. But we’d have to try you, of course. You may not suit.”

“Of course.”

“The character is Hamnet Shakespeare, Shakespeare’s son. I thought I might as well tell you what we’re thinking about. You’re a sensible chap.”

“Well,” said William dubiously, “I hope I am.”

“Luncheon,” cried Emily.

Peregrine found in his place at table a sheet of paper and on it in her handwriting a new casting for The Glove by Peregrine Jay. He looked from it to her. “Extraordinary,” he said. “ ‘Two minds with but a single thought.’ Or something like that. Thank you, darling.”

“Do you like the idea? Or have you grown out of your play?”

“We’re in such a state I don’t know what I think. I’ve been reading it, and I fancy I still quite like it.”

“It wouldn’t matter that it was running years ago at the Dolphin, at the same time as that other messy business?”

“Only you and I and Jeremy and Winty would know. It was a long run, which is all the management considers.”

“Yes.”

Peregrine looked at her notes. “Maggie: The Dark Lady. Yes. Shakespeare — Simon Morten? Do you think?”

“Yes, I do. He’s got a highly strung manner, a very quick temper, and a sense of humor. And with a Shakespeare wig he’d look marvelous.”

“Better than Barrabell?”

“I think so, but then I don’t like Barrabell. What little I’ve seen of him.”

“He’d succumb to the Voice Beautiful, I fear. He doesn’t as Banquo but the Bard himself would be too much for him. He’d begin to sing.”

“He’s a meany.”

“Yes.”

“I’ve got a riddle,” Robin shouted.

“I’m no good at riddles,” William said doubtfully.

“Look —” Crispin began.

“Shut up, Cip. Your mother and I are talking. Pipe down. Who wants more beef? Anybody? All right, clear away the plates and tell Annie we’re ready for her delicious pudding.”

“Annie! Pud!” Robin yelled.

“That’s really rude,” said Emily. “Crispin, go into the kitchen and ask her properly. And if she doesn’t throw a pot at you it’s because she’s got much nicer manners than any of us. Honestly, Perry, I sometimes wonder where these boys were lugged up.”

“William, will you have a look at this part and I’ll get you to read it for me before I go down to the theatre?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You can read it in my study. The boys are not allowed in there.”

And so, for about an hour after lunch William read the first act. There were passages he did not understand and other passages which, though clear enough as far as the words went, seemed to convey another meaning from the one that was usually attached to them. But the boy, Hamnet, was plain sailing. He was ill, he was lonely; his mother was too much occupied with a personal resentment to do more than attend impersonally to him, and his father was a star-like, marvelous creature who came and went and was adored and vilified.

He began to read the boy’s lines, trying them one way and another until the sound of them seemed right or nearly so.

Peregrine came in, so quietly that William did not hear him. He sat down and listened to the treble voice. Presently he opened his copy of the play and began to feed out the lines. William looked up at him and then returned to his task and they finished the act together.

“Well,” said Peregrine, “that was a good beginning. It’s three o’clock. Let’s go up to the nursery and see what the others are doing.”

So they went to the ex-nursery and found Emily and Robin playing with Robin’s train and Crispin, oblivious to the noise, deep in his book. It was all about the play of Macbeth and the various productions through the past four centuries. There was a chapter on the superstitions.

“You’re not going on with this play, are you?” asked Crispin.

“No,” said his father. “It’s tempting, but I don’t think we are.”

“Why tempting?”

“I think Gaston would be exciting as Macbeth.”

“Yes?”

“But terribly risky.”

“Ah.”

The telephone rang.

“I’ll answer it, Mummy. May I?” asked Robin.

“If you’re polite.”

“Of course.” He ran out of the room, leaving the door open. They all waited to hear what he would say.

“Hello?” said the treble voice. “This is Mr. Peregrine Jay’s house… Yes… If you don’t mind waiting for a moment, I’ll find out if he can speak to you. Hold on, please. Thank you.”

He reappeared. “It’s Mr. Gaston Sears, Pop,” he said. “And he sounds very sonky-polly-lobby.”

“I’ll speak to him,” said Peregrine and went out to the telephone, shutting the door behind him.

Crispin said: “I daresay, William, you are wondering what ‘sonky-polly-lobby’ means. It’s a family thing and it means ‘happy with yourself.’ And a bit self-conscious, too.”

“Oh.”

The little boys returned to their train. Emily and Crispin waited. When he came back Peregrine looked disturbed.

“Gaston,” he said, “has had the same idea as we have. He thinks that if we did decide to go on with Macbeth, he would be good in the name part, but would have to decline, out of feelings of delicacy. He said it would be an error in taste if he accepted. He said he knew we all thought him a heartless kind of fellow, but he was not. He felt we should be told at once of this decision.”

“He — oh, dear! He took it as a matter of course he would be cast?”

“Yes. And he was perfectly right. He would have been.”

“What did you say?”

“That we have for many reasons almost decided against it but that, had the many reasons not existed, I agreed. I thought he would have been good. So did the management. With reservations that I didn’t mention.”

“And he took it?”

“He said, ‘So be it,’ in a grand voice and hung up. Poor old boy. He would be good, I do believe, but an awful nuisance nevertheless.”

“I’m sure you’re right, Perry.”

“Hoo, hoo,” shouted William. “Clear the line. The midnight express is coming straight through.”

Emily looked at him and then at Peregrine, who gave her a thumbs-up signal. “Very much so,” he said.

“Really? That’s quite something.”

“All aboard. All aboard,” said Robin. “All seats, please.”

He blew a piercing blast on a tin whistle. William rang the minute station bell and pressed a button. The toy train lit up and moved out of the station.

“Now, I take over till we reach Crewe,” said Robin. He and William changed places. The train increased its speed. William answered a toy telephone.

“Midnight express. Urgent call. Yes?” He panted and blew. “Gaston Sears speaks,” he gasped. “Stop the train at Crewe. He’s hurt and he’s due at the theatre at seven.”

“Hooooo. Clackity-bang. Coming into Crewe. Clear the line.”

William produced a white van with a red cross and placed it on a sideline. “Ready for Mr. Sears,” he said.

“Where’s Sears?”

William emptied out a box of toy soldiers: army, navy, Highlanders, crusaders. He cried out triumphantly and displayed a battered crusader with an enormous sword and full mask and black cloak. “Look! Perfect,” he cried. “In every detail.”

“Hooray. Put him in the van.”

The game proceeded with the preposterous ill-logic of a child’s dream and several changes of plot. The train arrived conveniently at Waterloo Station. “Gaston Sears” was pushed onto a battered car and, remarking that he’d got his “second wind,” was sent to the Dolphin Theatre. End of game.

“That was fun,” said Robin, “wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” his father agreed. “Why did you have Gaston Sears in it?”

“Why not?” Robin replied with a shrug. He walked away, no longer interested.

“Because he was breathless?” William suggested vaguely. “He said it was asthma but he pretends it isn’t now he’s an actor again.”

“I see,” Peregrine lied. “Show it to me. The toy Sears.”

William took the battered little figure out of the car. A shrewd whack in some past contest had disposed of the cross on its cloak. The sword bent but intact, was raised above its shrouded head in gloved hands. It was completely black and in its disreputable way, quite baleful.

“Thank you,” said Peregrine. He put it in his pocket.

“Have you finished with the train?” asked Emily.

“We might want it later,” said Robin quickly.

“I don’t think you will. It’s ‘The Duke’ on telly in a quarter of an hour and then tea-time.”

“Oh, Mummy!”

The train was carefully put away and the toy soldiers swept into their box pell-mell, all except the “Mr. Sears,” which was still in Peregrine’s pocket when he looked at his watch and prepared to leave.

“I must be off,” he said. “I don’t know when I’ll get home, my love. Cip says he’ll come down with me and walk back so I’ll leave you to take William home. Okay? Good evening, William. Come again soon, won’t you? We’ve enjoyed having you here.”

“Thank you, sir,” said William, shaking hands. “It’s been a lovely day. The nicest day I’ve ever had.”

“Good. Cip! Ready?”

“Coming.”

They banged the front door and ran down the steps to the car.

“Pop,” said Crispin when they got going, “that book you paid for last night. About Macbeth.”

“Yes?”

“It’s jolly good. It’s got quite a lot about the superstitions. If you don’t mind I would like just to ask if you totally dismiss that aspect of the play.”

“I think,” said Peregrine very carefully, “that the people that do so put the cart before the horse. Call a play ‘unlucky’ and take any mishap that befalls the rehearsals or performances, onstage or in the dressing-rooms or offices, and immediately everyone says: ‘There you are. Unlucky play.’ If the same sort of troubles occur with other plays nobody counts them up or says anything about them. Until, perhaps, there are rather more misfortunes than with other contemporary shows and someone like poor maddening Nina says: ‘It’s an unlucky piece, you know,’ and it’s got the label tied round its neck for keeps.”

“Yes, I see that. But in this instance — I mean that business with the heads. It’s a bit thick, isn’t it?”

“There you go! Cart before the horse. They may have been planted to make us believe in the unlucky play story.”

“I see what you mean, of course. But you can’t say it applies to this final tragedy. Nobody in his right senses is going to cut off a harmless actor’s head — that’s what happened, Pop, isn’t it? — just to support the unlucky play theory?”

“Of course not. No. And the only person who might be described as being a bit dotty, apart from Nina, is old Gaston, who was chatting away to the King and William and Nina and several others at the time the murder was committed.”

There was a longish silence. “I see,” said Crispin at last.

“I don’t want you to — to —”

“Get involved?”

“Certainly not.”

“Well, I won’t. But I can’t help wondering,” said Crispin. “Seeing you’re my father and seeing the book I’m reading. Can I?”

“I suppose not.”

“Are you going on with Macbeth?”

“I don’t think so. I think it’ll probably be a revival of my own play.”

“The Glove?”

“Yes.”

“That will be fun. With William, of course?”

“He gave a very promising reading.”

“A talented child,” said Crispin.

They crossed Blackfriars Bridge and turned left and left again into Wharfingers Lane. There were three cars ahead of them.

“Winty’s car and two of the board. As usual I don’t know when I’ll be home. Good-bye, old boy.”

“ ’Bye, Pop.”

Peregrine watched him walk away up Wharfingers Lane. He went in by the stage door.

Most of the cast were there in groups of three or four. The stage had been scrubbed down and looked the same as usual. He wondered what would be its future. The skeleton hung from the gallows and swung in the draft. Bob Masters and Charlie greeted him and so did a number of the actors. They gathered around him.

He said at once: “No absolute news but it will, I imagine, be out before long. The pundits are gathering in front-of-house. I think, my dears, it’s going to be the end of Macbeth. I hope the new play will be announced tonight. I’d like to say now that it will almost certainly be a much, much smaller cast, which means that for a number of you the prospect of a long season comes to an abrupt end. I’d like to thank you from a very full heart for your work and say that, no matter what may befall in the years to come, you will be known — every bit-part of you — for having played in, to quote several of the reviews, the ‘Flawless Macbeth.’ ”

“Under flawless direction, Perry,” said Maggie and the others, after a murmured agreement, clapped him: a desultory sound in the empty Dolphin. It died away. A throat was cleared. Gaston stepped forward.

Somebody said: “Oh, no.”

“I may not,” Gaston proclaimed with an air of infinite conceit, “be considered the appropriate figure to voice our corporate approval of the style in which the play has been presented. However, as no one else has come forward, I shall attempt to do so.” He spread his feet and grasped his lapels. “I have been glad to offer my assistance in matters of production and to have been able to provide the replicas for the weapons used by Macbeth and Macduff. I made them,” he said, with a modest cough. “I do, however, now frankly deplore the use of the actual, historical claidheamh-mor. At the time I felt that since no hands but my own would touch it, there would be no desecration. I was utterly mistaken and take this opportunity of admitting as much. The claidheamh-mor is possessed of a power —”

“For God’s sake, somebody, stop him,” muttered Simon.

“— it moves in its own appointed way —”

The doors at the back of the stalls opened and Alleyn came into the house and walked down the center aisle.

Gaston paused, his mouth open. Peregrine said: “Excuse me, Gaston. I think Mr. Alleyn wants to speak to me.” The actors, intensely relieved, set up a buzz of affirmation.

“It’s to say that we’ve just about finished our work in the theatre,” Alleyn said, “and the dressing-rooms are now open for use. I must ask you all to remain at your present addresses or, if any of you change your address, to let us know. If this is inconvenient for any of you I am very sorry. It will not, I hope, be for very long.”

He turned to Peregrine. “I think the management would like a word with you,” he said.

Bruce Barrabell said importantly, “I am the union’s representative in this production. I will have to ask for a ruling on the situation.”

“No doubt,” said Alleyn politely, “they will be glad to advise you. There is a telephone in the Prompt corner.” And to the company: “Mr. Fox has the keys. He’s in the greenroom.”

“I suppose,” said Barrabell, “you’ve been through our private possessions like the proverbial fine-tooth comb.”

“I’m not sure how proverbial fine-tooth combs work but I expect you’re right.”

“And retired to your virtuous bed to sleep the sleep of the just, no doubt?”

“I didn’t go to bed last night,” said Alleyn mildly. He surveyed the company. “The typescripts of your statements are ready,” he said. “We’d be grateful if you’d be kind enough to read them and if they’re correct, sign them before you go. Thank you all, very much.”

In the boardroom, Peregrine faced his fellow guardians and Winter Meyer. Mrs. Abrams was secretary.

“In the appalling situation in which we find ourselves,” he said, “the immediate problem is how we conduct our policy. We’ve been given twenty-four hours in which to decide. One: we can go dark and advertise that money for advance bookings will be refunded at the box office. Two: we can continue with the presentation. Simon Morten would take the lead and his understudy play Macduff. The fight at the end will be replaced by a much simpler routine. Or, and this is an unorthodox suggestion, Gaston Sears would play the lead. He tells me he is in a fair way to being word-perfect and of course he knows the fight, but he adds that he feels he would have to decline.

“Three: we can take a fortnight off and reopen with the revival of one of our past successes. The Glove has been mentioned. As the author I feel I can’t speak for or against the play. I can, however, say that I have heard William Smith read the very important part of the young Hamnet Shakespeare and he promised extremely well. We can cast it from the present company. Maggie would be splendid as the Dark Lady and I fancy Simon as the Bard and Nina as Ann.”

He was silent for a second or two and then said: “This is a terrible thing that has happened. One would have said that our dear Sir Dougal had no enemies — I still can’t get myself around to — to — to facing it and I daresay you can’t either. Of one thing we may all be sure, he would have wanted us to do what is best for the Dolphin.”

He sat down.

For a time nobody spoke. Then one bald and stout guardian whispered to another and a little pantomime of nodding and portentous frowns passed around the table. The senior guardian, who was thin and had a gentle air, stood up.

“I move,” he said, “that we leave the decision in Mr. Peregrine Jay’s hands and do so with our complete trust in his decision.”

“Second that,” said another guardian.

“Those in favor? Unanimous,” said the chairman.