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  “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.