Light Thickens (17 page)

“Ernest James, sir.”

“Ernest James. We won’t keep you long, I hope. This is a pretty grim business, isn’t it?”

“Bloody awful.”

“You’ve been on the staff for a long time, haven’t you?”

“Fifteen year.”

“Long as that? Sit down, why don’t you.”

“Aw. Ta,” said Ernie and sat.

“We’re trying at the moment to sort out when the crime was committed and then when the heads were changed. Macbeth’s last words are
Hold, enough
. He and Macduff then fight and a marvelous fight it was. He exits and we assume was killed at once. There’s a pause. Then pipe and drums coming nearer and nearer. Then a prolonged entry of everyone left alive in the cast. Then dialogue between Malcolm and Old Siward. Macduff comes in with Gaston Sears following him, the head on his giant weapon.”

“Was you in front, then, guv’nor?”

“Yes, as it happened.”

“Gawd, it was awful. Awful.”

“It was indeed. Tell me, Props. When did you put the dummy head on the claymore and when did you put them in the O.P. corner?”

“Me? Yeah, well. I got hold of the bloody weapon — it’s as sharp as hell — off ’is ’Igh-and-Mightiness when he came off after the Chief said,
There’d ’ave been a time for such a word
, whatever that may mean. I took it up to the props table, see, and I put the dummy on it. That took a bit of time and handling, like. What with the sharpness and the length, it was awkward. The ’ead’s stuffed full of plaster except for a narrer channel and I had to fit it into the channel and shove it home. It kind of locked. And then I doused it with ‘blood’ rahnd the neck and put it in the corner.”

“When?”

“I got faster with practice. Took me about three minutes, I’d say. Simon Morten was shouting,
Make all our trumpets speak
. Round about then.”

“And there it remained until Gaston collected it and took it on — with a different head — at the very end.”

“Correct.”

“Right. We’ll ask you to sign a statement to that effect, later on. Can you think of anything at all that could help us? Anything out of the ordinary? Superstitions, for instance?”

“Nuffink,” he said quickly.

“Sure of that?”

“Yer.”

“Thank you, Ernie.”

“Fanks, guv. Can I go home?”

“Where do you live?”

“Five Jobbins Lane. Five minutes’ walk.”

“Yes. All right.” Alleyn wrote on a card: “Ernest James. Permission to leave. R. Alleyn.”

“Here you are. Show it to the man at the door.”

“You’re a gent, guv. Fanks,” Ernie repeated and took it. But he did not go. He shuffled toward the door and stood there, looking from Alleyn to Fox, who had put on his steel-rimmed glasses and now contemplated him over the tops.

“Is there something else?” Alleyn asked.

“I don’t fink so. No.”

“Sure?”

“Yes,” said Ernie and was gone.

“There
was
something else,” Fox observed tranquilly.

“Yes. We’ll leave him to simmer.”

There was a sharp rap at the door.

“Come in,” Alleyn called. And Simon Morten came in.

He had changed, of course, into his street clothes. Alleyn wondered if he was dramatically and habitually pale or if the shock of the appalling event had whitened him out of all semblance to normality.

“Mr. Morten?” Alleyn said. “I was just going to ask if you would come in. Do sit down. This is Inspector Fox.”

“Good evening, sir. May I have your address?” asked Fox, settling his glasses and taking up his pen.

He had not expected this bland reception. He hesitated. He sat down and gave his blameless address as if it was that of an extremely disreputable brothel.

“We are trying to get some sort of pattern into the sequence of events,” Alleyn said. “I was in front tonight which may be a bit of a help but not, I’m afraid, very much. Your performance really is wonderful: that fight! I was in a cold sweat. You must be remarkably fit, if I may say so. How long did it take you both to bring it up to this form?”

“Five weeks’ hard rehearsal and we’ve still —” He stopped. “Oh, God!” he said. “I actually forgot what has happened — I mean that—” He put his hands over his face. “It’s so incredible. I mean —” He dropped his hands and said: “I’m your prime suspect, aren’t I?”

“To be that,” said Alleyn, “you would have to have pulled off the dummy head and used the claidheamh-mor to decapitate the victim.
He
would have to have waited there and suffered his own execution without raising a finger to stop you. Indeed, he would have obligingly stooped over so that you could take a fair swipe at him. You would have dragged the body to the extreme corner and put the dummy head on it. Then you would have put the real head on the end of the claidheamh-mor and placed them both in position for Gaston Sears to take them up. Without getting blood all over yourself. All in about three minutes.”

Simon stared at him. A faint color crept into his cheeks.

“I hadn’t thought of it like that,” he said.

“No? Well, I may have slipped up somewhere but that’s how it seems to me. Now,” said Alleyn, “when you’ve got over your shock, do you mind telling me exactly what did happen when you chased him off?”

“Yes. Certainly. Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Well, he screamed and fell as usual and I ran out. Then I just hung around with all the others who’d been called until I got my cue and reentered. I said my final speech ending with ‘
Hail, King of Scotland
.’ I didn’t turn to look at Seyton carrying — that thing. I just pointed my sword at it while facing upstage. I thought some of them looked and sounded — well — peculiar, but they all shouted and the curtain came down.”

“Couldn’t be clearer. What sort of man was Macdougal?”

“Macdougal? Sir Dougal? Good-looking if you like the type.”

“In himself?”

“Typical leading man, I suppose. He was very good in the part.”

“You didn’t go much for him?”

He shrugged. “He was all right.”

“A bit too much of a good thing?”

“Something like that. But, really, he
was
all right.”

“
De mortuis nil nisi bonum
?”

“Yes. Well, I didn’t know anything that was
not
good about him. Not really. He was fabulous in the fight. I never felt in danger. Even Gaston said he was good. You couldn’t fault him. God! I’m the understudy! If it’s decided we go on.”

“Will it be so decided, do you think?”

“I don’t know. I daren’t think.”

“ ‘The show must go on’?”

“Yes, I suppose,” Simon said after a pause, “it may depend on the press.”

“The
press
?”

“Yes. If they’ve got a clue as to what happened they could make such a hoo-hah we couldn’t very well go on as if Macbeth was ill or dying or dead or anything of that sort, could we? But if they only get a secondhand account of there having been an ‘accident,’ which is what Bob Masters said in his curtain speech, they may decide it’s not worth a follow-up and do nothing. Tomorrow. One thing is certain,” said Simon, “we don’t need a word of publicity.”

“No. Has it occurred to you,” said Alleyn, “that it might strike someone as a good moment to revive all the superstitious stories about
Macbeth
?”

Simon stared at him. “Good God!” he said. “No. No, it hadn’t. But you’re dead right. As a matter of fact — well, never mind about all that. But Perry, our director, had been on at us and the idiot superstitions and not to believe any of it and — and — well, all that.”

“Really? Why?”

“He doesn’t believe in any of it,” said Simon, looking extremely ill at ease.

“Has there been an outbreak of superstitious observances in the cast?”

“Well — Nina Gaythorne rather plugs it.”

“Yes?”

“Perry thinks it’s a bad idea.”

“Have there been any occurrences that seemed to bolster up the superstitions?”

“Well — sort of. If you don’t mind I’d rather not go into details.”

“Why?”

“We said we wouldn’t talk about them. We promised Perry.”

“I’ll ask him to elucidate.”

“Yes. But don’t let him think I blew the gaff, will you?”

“No.”

“If you don’t want me any more, may I go home?” Simon asked wearily.

“No more right now. But wait a bit, if you don’t mind. We can’t let the cast go just yet. Leave your dressing-room key with us. We’ll ask you to sign a typed statement later on.”

“I see. Thank you,” said Simon and got up. “You did mean what you said? About it being impossible for me to have — done it?”

“Yes. Unless some sort of crack appears, I mean it.”

“Thank God for
that
at least,” said Simon.

He went to the door, hesitated, and spoke.

“If I’d wanted to kill him,” he said, “I could have faked it at any time during the fight. Easily. And been ‘terribly sorry.’ You know?”

“Yes,” said Alleyn. “There’s that, too, isn’t there?”

When he had gone, Fox said: “That’s one we can tick off, isn’t it?”

“At this point, Fox.”

“He doesn’t seem to have liked the deceased much, does he?”

“Not madly keen, no. But very honest about it as far as it went. He was on the edge of talking about the superstitions, too.”

“That’s right. So who do you see next?”

“Obviously, Peregrine Jay.”

“He was here twenty years ago, at the time of the former case. Nice young chap he was then.”

“Yes. He’s in conference. Up in the offices,” said Alleyn.

“Shall I pluck him out?”

“Would you? Do.”

Fox removed his spectacles, put them in his breast pocket, and left the room. Alleyn walked about, muttering to himself.

“It must have been then. After the fight. Say, one minute for the pause and the pipe and drums coming nearer, two at the outside. The general entry: say a quarter of a minute, Siward’s dialogue about his son’s death. Another two minutes. Say three to four minutes all told. At the end of the fight Macbeth exited and yelled. Did Macduff say something that made him stoop? No — he
did
fall forward to give the thud. The man having removed the dummy head, decapitates him, gathers up the real head, and jams it on the claidheamh-mor. That’s what takes the time. Does he wedge the hilt against the scenery and then push the head on? He lugs the body into the darkest corner and stands the claidheamh-mor in its place ready for Gaston to grasp it. He puts the dummy head by the body. Where does he go then? What does he look like?”

He stopped short, closed his eyes, and recalled the fight. The two figures. The exchange of dialogue and Macbeth’s hoarse final curse: “
And damn’d be him that first cries, Hold enough
!”

“It
must
have been done after the fight. There’s no other way. Or is there? Is there? Nonsense.”

The door opened. Fox, Winter Meyer, and Peregrine came in.

“I’m sorry to drag you away,” said Alleyn.

“It’s all right. We’d come to a deadlock. To go on or not. He — was so
right
in the part.”

“A difficult decision.”

“Yes. It’s hard to imagine the play without him. It’s hard to imagine anything, right now,” said Peregrine.

“How will the actors feel?”

“About going on? Not very happy but they’ll do it.”

“And the new casting?”

“There’s the rub,” said Peregrine. “Simon Morten is Macbeth’s understudy and the Ross is Simon’s. We’ll have to knock up a new, very simple fight, a new Macduff can’t possible manage the present one. Simon’s good and ready. He’ll give a reasonable show, but the whole thing’s pretty dicey.”

“Yes. What sort of actor is Gaston Sears?”

Peregrine stared at him. “Gaston?
Gaston
.”

“He knows — he invented — the fight. He’s an arresting figure. It’s a very farfetched notion but I wondered.”

“It’s — it’s a frightening thought. I haven’t seen much of his acting but I’m told he was good in an unpredictable sort of way. He’s a
very
predictable person. A bit on the dotty side, some of them think. It — it certainly would solve a lot of problems. We’d only need to find a new Seyton and he’s a tiny part as far as lines go. He’s only got to look impressive. My God, I wonder… No.
No
,” he repeated. And then: “We may decide to cut our losses and rehearse a new play. Probably the best solution.”

“Yes. I think I should remind you that — it’s a dazzling glimpse of the obvious — the murderer, and who he is I’ve not the faintest notion, will turn out to be one of your actors or else a stagehand. If the latter, I suppose you can go ahead but if the former — well, the mind boggles, doesn’t it?”

“I can feel mine boggling, anyway.”

“In the meantime I’d like to know what the story is, about the Macbeth superstitions and why Props and Simon Morten go all peculiar when I ask them.”

“It doesn’t matter now. I’d asked them not to talk to each other or to anyone else about these — happenings. You’ve got to consider the general atmosphere.”

And he told Alleyn sparingly about the dummy heads and the rat’s head in Rangi’s marketing bag.

“Have you any idea who the practical joker was?”

“None. Nor do I know if there is or is not any link with the subsequent horror.”

“It sounds like an unpleasant schoolboy’s nonsense.”

“It certainly isn’t our young William’s nonsense,” said Peregrine quickly. “He was scared as hell at the head on the banquet table. He’s a very nice small boy.”

“He’d have to be an infant Goliath to lift the claidheamh-mor two inches.”

“Yes. He would, wouldn’t he?”

“Where is he?”

“Bob Masters sent him home. Straight away. He didn’t want him to see it. Gaston dropped the claidheamh-mor and head on the stage. The boy was waiting to go on for the curtain call. Bob told him there’d been a hitch and there wasn’t a call and to get into his own clothes quick and catch an early bus home.”

“Yes. William Smith, Fox. In case we want him. Has he got a telephone number?”

“Yes,” said Peregrine. “We’ve got it. Shall I —?”

“I don’t think we want it tonight. We’ll ask the King and Props to confirm that Gaston Sears stood with the boy offstage. And that Macduff came straight off. If this is so, it completely clears Macduff. And Gaston, of course.”