Light Thickens (21 page)

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.

“I suppose I ought to be feeling all glowing and grateful,” said Peregrine, “but I’m afraid I don’t. They are nice old boys, all of them, but they’re dab hands at passing the buck and making it look like a compliment.”

“You’ve been given a completely free hand and if it turns out a dead failure you’ll find yourself out on a limb and all of them saying, ever so delicately, that they felt at the time the decision was a mistaken one,” Alleyn observed.

“That’s right.”

“If it’s any comfort, which it isn’t, I’m familiar with these tactics.”

“Why don’t we leave them to make the decision? Why don’t I say I feel it would be better, under the circumstances, for somebody less intimately concerned with the Dolphin to produce the next show? God knows it’d be true.”

“Yes?”

“But I’d feel I was ratting.” He dug his hands into his pockets. “I’m fond of them. We’ve taken a journey together and come out on the golden sands. We’ve found
Macbeth
. It’s a marvelous feeling. Or was. Are
you
any further on?”

“A little, I think. Not enough, not anything like enough to even think of an arrest.”

Peregrine’s fingers had been playing with something in his pocket. They closed around it and fetched it out, a dilapidated little figure, jet black, flourishing a bent weapon.

“Where did you find that?” Alleyn asked.

“It’s one of my boy’s toy soldiers — a crusader. William found it.”

“William?”

“Smith. He spent the day with us. He’s the same age as young Robin. They got on like a house on fire playing with the boys’ electric train. This thing was a passenger, picked up at Crewe. He said he was hurt but he had to get to the theatre at seven. It gave me quite a shock — all black and with a claymorish thing — like Sir Dougal. Only they called him Sears. Extraordinary, how children behave. You know? William didn’t know what had happened in the theatre, only that Sir Dougal was dead. Robin didn’t know or wasn’t certain about the decapitation, but he’d been very much upset when it happened. I’d realized that, but he didn’t ask any questions and now there he was, making a sort of game of it.”

“Extraordinary,” said Alleyn. “May I have it? The crusader? I’ll take great care of him.”

“All right,” said Peregrine and handed it over. “It might be Sir Dougal or Barrabell or Sears or nobody,” he said. “It doesn’t look tall enough for Simon Morten. It’s masked, of course.”

“
He
wasn’t masked. And in any case —”

“No. In any case the whole thing’s a muddle and a coincidence. William fished this thing out of a box full of battered toys.”

“And called it — what? Sears?”

“Not exactly. I mean, it became Sears. They picked him up at Crewe. Before that, William — being Sears at the moment when he used the telephone — rang up the station for an emergency stop. He said — what the hell
did
he say? That he was hurt and had to get to the Dolphin by seven. That’s when William took this thing from the box and they put it in the train. It was a muddle. They hooted and whistled and shouted and changed the plot. William gasped and panted a lot.”

“Panted? As if he’d been running?” Alleyn asked.

“Yes. Sort of. I think he said something about trying not to. I’m not sure. He said it was asthma but Sears wouldn’t let on because he was an actor. One thing I am sure about, though.”

“What’s that?”

“They got rid of whatever feelings they had about the real event by turning it all into a game.”

“That sounds like good psychology to me,” said Alleyn. “But then I’m not a psychologist. I can understand Robin calling this thing Sears, though.”

“Why?”

“He was here, wasn’t he? In the theatre. He saw the real Sears carry the head on. Associated images.”

“I
think
I see what you mean,” said Peregrine doubtfully. “Well. I had better go back to the offices and tell them my decision and get audition notices typed out. What about you?”

“We’ll see them out of here,” said Alleyn.

“Good luck to you,” said Peregrine. He vaulted down into the orchestra well and walked away up the center aisle. The doors opened and shut behind him.

Alleyn went over his notes.

“Is there a connection or isn’t there?” he asked himself. “Did the perpetrator of these nasty practical jokes have anything to do with the beheading of an apparently harmless star actor or was he practicing along his own beastly self-indulgent lines? Who is he? Bruce Barrabell? Why are his fellow actors and — well, Peregrine Jay — so sure he’s the trickster? Simply because they don’t like him and he seems to be the only person in the company capable of such murky actions? But
why
would he do it? I’d better take a potshot and try to find out.” He looked at his notes. “Red Fellowship. Hmm. Silly little outfit, but they’re on the lists and so’s he. Here goes.”

He walked down the dressing-room corridor until he came to the one shared by Barrabell and Morten. He paused and listened. Not a sound. He knocked and a splendid voice said, “Come.” They always make such a histrionic thing of it when they leave out the “in,” Alleyn thought.

Bruce Barrabell was seated in front of his looking-glass. The lights were switched on and provided an unmotivated brilliance to the dead room. The makeup had all been laid by in an old cigar box fastened by two rubber bands. The dirty grease-cloths were neatly rolled up in a paper bag, which was next to a battered suitcase with Russian labels stuck on it. On the top of his belongings was a programme, several review pages, and a small collection of cards and telegrams. Crumpled tissues lay about the dressing-table.

Simon Morten’s possessions were all packed away in his heavily labeled suitcase, which was shut and waited on the floor, inside the door. The indescribable smell of greasepaint still hung on the air and the room was desolate.

“Ah. Mr. Alleyn!” said Barrabell expansively. “Good evening to you. Can I be of any help? I’m just tidying up, as you see.” He waved his hand at the disconsolate room. “Do sit down,” he invited.

“Thank you,” said Alleyn. He took the other chair and opened his file. “I’m checking all your statements,” he said.

“Ah yes. Mine is quite in order, I hope?”

“I hope so, too,” Alleyn said. He turned the papers slowly until he came to Mr. Barrabell’s statement. He looked at his man and saw two men. The silver-voiced Banquo saying, so beautifully: “
There’s husbandry in Heaven; their candles are all out
,” and the unnaturally pale actor, with light eyes, whose hands trembled a little as he lit a cigarette.

“I’m sorry. Do you?” Barrabell asked winningly and offered his cigarettes.

“No, thank you. I don’t. About these tricks that have been played during the rehearsal period. I see you called them ‘schoolboy hoaxes’ when we asked you about them.”

“Did I? I don’t remember. It’s what they were, I suppose. Isn’t it?”

“Two extremely realistic severed heads? A pretty case-hardened schoolboy. Had you one in mind?”

“Oh no. No.”

“Not the one in Mr. Winter Meyer’s ‘co,’ for instance?”

There was a pause. Barrabell’s lips moved, repeating the words, but no sound came from them. He slightly shook his head. “There was somebody,” Alleyn went on, “a victim, in the Harcourt-Smith case. Her name was Muriel Barrabell, a bank clerk.” He waited. Somewhere along the corridor a door banged and man’s voice called out. “In the greenroom, dear.”

“Was she your sister?”

Silence.

“Your wife?”

“No comment.”

“Did you want the boy to get the sack?”

“No comment.”

“He was supposed to have perpetrated these tricks. And all to do with severed heads. Like his father’s crimes. Even the rat’s head. A mad boy, we were meant to think. Like his father. Get rid of him, he’s mad, like his father. It’s inherited.”

There was another long silence.

“She was my wife,” said Barrabell. “I never knew at the time what happened. I didn’t get their letter. He was charged with another woman’s murder. Caught red-handed. I was doing a long tour of Russia with the Leftist Players. It was all over when I got back. She was so beautiful, you can’t think. And he did that to her. I made them tell me. They didn’t want to but I kept on and on until they did.”

“And you took it out on this perfectly sane small boy?”

“How do you know he’s perfectly sane? Could you expect me to be in the same company with him? I wanted this part. I wanted to work for the Dolphin. But do you imagine I could do so with that murderer’s brat in the cast? Not bloody likely,” said Barrabell and contrived a sort of laugh.

“So you came to the crisis. All the elaborate attempts to incriminate young William came to nothing. And then, suddenly, inexplicably, there is the real, the horrible crime of Sir Dougal’s decapitation. How do you explain that?”

“I don’t,” he said at once. “I know nothing about it. Nothing. Apart from his vanity and his accepting that silly title, he was harmless enough. A typical bourgeois hero, which maybe is why he excelled as Macbeth.”

“You see the play as an antiheroic exposure of the bourgeois way of life, do you? Is that it?
Can
that be it?”

“Certainly. If you choose to put it like that. It’s the Macbeths’ motive. Their final desperate gesture. And they both break under the strain.”

“You really believe that, don’t you?”

“Certainly,” he repeated. “Of course, our reading was, as usual, idiotic. Take the ending:
Hail, King of Scotland
! In other words, ‘Hail to the old acceptable standards. The old rewards and the old dishing out of cash and titles.’ We cut all that, of course. And the bloody head of Macbeth stared the young Malcolm in the face. Curtain,” said Barrabell.

“Have you discussed the play with your political chums at the Red Fellowship meetings?”

“Yes. Not in detail. More as a joke, really.”

“
A joke
,” Alleyn exclaimed. “Did you say a
joke
?”

“A bit on the macabre side, certainly. There’s a meeting every Sunday morning. You ought to come. I’ll bring you in on my ticket.”

“Did you talk about the murder?”

“Oh yes. Whodunit talk. You know.”

“Who
did
do it?”

“Don’t ask me.
I
don’t know, do I?”

Alleyn thought: He’s not so frightened, now. He’s being impudent.

“Have you thought about the future, Mr. Barrabell? What do you think of doing?”

“I haven’t considered it. There’s talk of another Leftist Players tour but of course I thought I was settled for a long season here.”

“Of course. Would you read this statement and if it’s correct, sign it? Pay particular attention to this point, will you?”

The forefinger pointed to the typescript.

“You were asked where you were between Macbeth’s last speech and Old Siward’s epitaph for his son. It just says, ‘Dressing-room and O.P. center waiting for a call.’ Could you be a little more specific?”Alleyn asked.

“I really don’t see quite how.”

“When did you leave the dressing-room?”

“Oh. We were called on the tannoy. They’ll give you the time. I pulled on my ghost’s head and the cloak and went out.”

“Did you meet anybody in the passage?‘

“
Meet
anyone? Not precisely. I followed the old King and the Macduffs, mother and son, I remember. I don’t know if anyone followed me. Any of the other ‘corpses.’ ”

“And you were alone in the dressing-room?”

“Yes, my dear Chief Superintendent. Absolutely alone.”

“Thank you.” Alleyn made an addition and offered his own pen. “Will you read and sign it, please? There.”

Barrabell read it. Alleyn had written: “Corroborative evidence. None.”

He signed it.

“Thank you,” Alleyn said and left him.

In the passage he ran into Rangi. “Hullo,” he said, “I’m getting statements signed. Would it suit you to do yours now?”

“Good as gold.”

“Where’s your room?”

“Along here.”

He led the way to where the passage turned left and the rooms were larger.

“I’ve got Ross and Lennox and Angus in with me,” Rangi said. He came to the correct door and opened it. “Nobody here. It’s a bit of a muddle, I’m afraid,” he said.

“Doesn’t matter. You’ve packed up, I see.”

He cleared a chair for Alleyn and took one himself.

“Yours was a wonderful performance,” said Alleyn. “It was a brilliant decision to use those antipodean postures: the whole body working evil.”

“I’ve been wondering if I should have done it. I don’t know what my elders would say: the strict ones. It seemed to be right for the play. Mr. Sears approved of it. I thought maybe he would think it all nonsense but he said there are strong links throughout the world in esoteric beliefs. He said all or anyway most of the ingredients in the spell are correct.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” Alleyn said. He saw that around his neck on a flax cord Rangi wore a
tiki
, a greenstone effigy of a human fetus. “Is that a protection?” Alleyn asked.

“In my family for generations.” The brown fingers caressed it.

“Really? You’re a Christian, aren’t you? Forgive me; it’s rather confusing —”

“It is, really. Yes. I suppose I am. The Mormon Church. It’s very popular with my people. They don’t ‘mormonize,’ you know, only one wife at a time, and they’re not all that fussy about our old beliefs. I suppose I’m more
pakeha
than Maori in ordinary day-to-day things. But when it comes to this — what’s happened here — it — well, it all comes rolling in, like the Pacific, in huge waves, and I’m Maori, through and through.”

“That I understand. Well, all I want is your signature to this statement. You weren’t asked many questions but I wonder if you can give me any help over this one. The actual killing took place between Macbeth’s exit fighting and Malcolm’s entrance. Those of you who were not onstage came out of your dressing-rooms. There were you three witches and the dead Macduffs and the King and the Banquo under his ghost mask and cloak. Is that correct?”

Rangi shut his large eyes. “Yes,” he said. “That’s right. And Mr. Sears. He was with the rest of us but as the cue got nearer he moved away into the O.P. corner with Macduff, ready for their final entrance.”