Light Thickens ra-32 Page 14

  “Come on,” said Simon. “Let’s press on with it. We’ve got a matinee, remember.”

  Wearily, they took their places and fought.

  “You are dragging. Dragging!” Gaston shouted. “Stop. It is worse than not doing it at all. Again, from the beginning.”

  “Have a heart, Gaston. It’s a deadly day for these capers,” said Simon.

  “I am merciless. Come. Begin. A tempo. Er — one —”

  “No!” Dougal said in an access of irritability. “It’s too hot and this is needless and I will — not — do — it.” He flung down his claymore and stomped off.

  Gaston, for once silent, picked up the claymore.

  “Now see what your damn gods have rumbled,” said Simon crossly and went off after Dougal.

  Peregrine was taking Crispin and Robin, aged fifteen and nine, to the evening performance. Richard, being thought a little young, at seven, for Macbeth, was going to a farce with his mother.

  “Is it bloody?” Richard asked ruefully.

  “Very,” Peregrine replied firmly.

  “Extra special bloody?”

  “It is.”

  “I’d like that. Is it going to run a long time?”

  “Yes.”

  “Perhaps I’ll grow up into it.”

  “Perhaps you will.”

  Emily took a taxi and she and Richard sailed off together, looking excited. Peregrine and the two older boys took their car. Crispin’s form at school was working on Macbeth and he asked a great many questions that Peregrine supposed were necessary and that he answered to the best of his ability. Presently, Crispin said: “Old Perky says you ought to feel a great weight’s been shifted off your shoulders at the end. When Macduff sort of actually lifts Macbeth’s head off and young Malcolm comes in for king.”

  “I hope you’ll feel like that.”

  “Does the lights man have to allow an exact time lag be-tween cue and performance?” asked Robin, who at the moment wanted to become an electrical engineer.

  “Yes.”

  “How long?”

  “I’ve forgotten. About one second, I think.”

  “Cripes.”

  “I’m not sure. We can go round after the play and you can ask our lighting man.”

  “Right!” said Robin happily.

  Peregrine turned into the theatre private car park and they got out and locked the car. The foyer was crowded and the House Full notice displayed.

  “We’re in a box,” said Peregrine. “Come on. Up the stairs.”

  “Super,” said the boys. The usher at the door into the circle said: “Good evening, sir,” and smiled at them. He wagged his head. Peregrine and the boys left the queue and slipped behind him into the circle.

  They passed around the back of the circle into the middle box. Peregrine bought them a programme each. The programme girl smiled upon them. The house was almost full. A tall man, alone, came down the center aisle and made for a management seat in the stalls. He looked up, saw Peregrine, and waved his programme. Peregrine answered.

  “Who are you waving to, Pop?”

  “Do you see that very tall man just sitting down, in the third row?”

  “Yes. He looks super,” said Crispin. “Who is he?”

  “Chief Superintendent Alleyn. C.I.D. He was here on our opening night.”

  “Why’s he come again?” asked Robin.

  “Presumably because he likes the play.”

  “Oh.”

  “Actually he didn’t get an uninterrupted view on the first night. There were Royals. He was helping the police look after them.”

  “So he had to sit watching the audience and not the actors?”

  “Yes.”

  A persistent buzzer began sounding in the foyer. Peregrine looked at his watch. “We’re ten minutes over time,” he said. “Give them five minutes more and then the latecomers’ll have to wait until Scene Two. No. It’s okay. Here we go.”

  The house lights dimmed very slowly and the audience was silent. Now it was dark. The flash of lightning, the distant roll of thunder, the faint sound of wind. The curtain went up and the witches were at their unholy work on the gallows.

  The play flowed on. Peregrine, sitting between his sons, glanced at them and wondered what was going on in their heads. He had been careful not to rub their noses into the plays and had left it to them whether or not they would read them. As far as he could make out, Mr. Perkins was not sickening Crispin with overinsistence on notes and disputed passages but had interested him first in the play itself and in the magic and strength of its language.

  Robin at six years old had seen a performance of Midsummer Night’s Dream and enjoyed it for all the wrong reasons. The chief comic character, in his opinion, was Hippolyta, and he laughed very heartily at all her entrances. When Emily asked why, he said: “At her legs.” He thought Bottom a very good actor and the “audience” extremely rude to laugh at him. At nine years old he would be less surprising in his judgments.

  Now, they were both very still and attentive. When Banquo and Fleance came in for their little night scene, Robin turned and looked at Peregrine. He bent down. “Nice,” Robin whispered and they nodded to each other. But later, when Macbeth began to climb the stairs, Robin’s hand felt for his father’s. Peregrine held it tightly until the end of the scene when the Porter came on. Both the boys laughed loudly at the bawdy-looking pieces of driftwood and the Porter’s description of the aggravating effects of drinking too much.

  Peregrine had not seen the play for almost a week, having been in Manchester on business with the touring company. He thought the Thane had begun to cherish his lines and slow up a bit, and reminded himself to speak to him. Otherwise all was well.

  In the interval, Robin visited the lavatories. Crispin said he might as well stay with him while their father had a drink with the management. They arranged to meet in the foyer, under the photo of Macbeth.

  Winter Meyer came out to welcome him. They went into his office. “Still goes on,” Winty said. “Booked solid for the next six months.”

  “Odd,” said Peregrine, “when you think of the superstitions. There’s a record of good business and catastrophe going back hand in hand for literally centuries.”

  “Not for us, old boy.”

  “Touch wood.”

  “You too?” asked Winty, giving him his drink.

  “No. No way. But it’s rife in the company.”

  “Really?”

  “Old Nina’s got the bug very badly. Her dressing-table’s like a secondhand charm shop.”

  “No signs of catastrophe, though,” Winty said. “Are there?” And when Peregrine didn’t answer at once, he said sharply: “Are there?”

  “There have been signs of some halfwit planting them. Whoever it is hasn’t got the results he may have hoped for. But it’s very annoying for all that. Or was. They seem to have died out.”

  Winty said, after a moment: “Something rather odd happened in our office, too. It was a week before we opened. I haven’t mentioned it to anybody. Except Mrs. Abrams. And she doesn’t know what was typed and anyway she’s a clam of clams. But since you’ve brought it up —”

  There was a knock at the door and at the same time the warning buzzer sounded.

  “I’m sorry,” said Peregrine. “I’ll have to go. I promised my younger son. He’ll be having kittens. Thank you, Winty. I’ll come in tomorrow morning. I think we’d better have a talk about this and the other things.”

  “So do I. Tomorrow. Thank you, Perry.” Peregrine opened the door, sidestepped Mrs. Abrams, and went back to the foyer.

  There he found Robin under the photograph of Macbeth. “Oh, hullo,” he said casually when Peregrine reached him. “There’s the second buzz.”

  “Where’s Cip?”

  Crispin was in the crowd by the bookstall. He was searching his pockets. Peregrine, closely followed by Robin, worked his way over to him.

  “I’ve got it all but twenty p.,” said Crispin. He clutched
a book called Macbeth Through Four Centuries.

  Peregrine produced a five-pound note, and handed it to the clerk. “For the book,” he said. “Come on, boys,” and they returned to their box. The interval ended, the house darkened, and the curtain rose.

  On Banquo. Alone and suspicious. Macbeth questions him. He is going out? Riding? He must return. For the party. Does Fleance go with him? Yes to all those questions. There is a terrible smile on Macbeth’s face, the lips stretch back. Farewell.

  Seyton is at once sent for the murderers. He has them ready and stands in the doorway and hears the wooing. Macbeth is easier, almost enjoys himself. They are his sort. He caresses them. The bargain is struck; they go off.

  Now Lady Macbeth finds him: full of strange hints and of horror. There is the superb invocation to night and he leads her away. And the scene changes. Seyton joins the murderers and Banquo is dispatched.

  The banquet. Seyton tells Macbeth that Fleance has escaped.

  The bloodied ghost of Banquo appears among the guests.

  The play began its inexorable swell toward the appointed ending. After the witches, the apparitions, the equivocal promises, comes the murder of Macduff’s wife and child.

  Then Lady Macbeth, asleep and talking in that strange, metallic, nightmare voice. Macbeth again, after a long interval. He has degenerated and shrunk. He beats about him with a kind of hectic frenzy and peers hopelessly into the future. These are the death throes of a monster. Please let Macduff find him and finish it.

  Macduff has found him. “Turn, hell-hound, turn!”

  Robin’s hand crept into his father’s and held it fast.

  The fight. Leap, clash, sweep; hoarse, snarling voices. Macbeth is beaten backward, Macduff raises his claymore, and they plunge out of sight. A scream. A thud. Silence. Then the distant approach of pipe and drums. Malcolm and his thanes come out on the upper landing. The rest of his troops march on at stage-level and up the steps with old Siward, who receives the news of his son’s death.

  Macduff comes on downstage, O.P., followed by Seyton.

  Seyton carries his claidheamh-mor and on it, streaming blood, the head of Macbeth. He turns it upstage, facing Malcolm and the troops.

  Macduff has not looked at it. He shouts: “Behold where stands the usurper’s cursed head. Hail, King of Scotland!”

  The blood drips onto Seyton’s upturned face.

  And being well-trained professional actors, they respond, with stricken faces and shaking lips, “Hail, King of Scotland!”

  The curtain falls.

  Cip,” Peregrine said, “you’ll have to get a cab home. Here’s the cash. Take care of Robin, won’t you? Do you know what’s happened?”

  “It seems — some sort of accident?”

  “Yes. To the Macbeth. I’ve got to stay here. Look, there’s a cab. Get it.”

  Crispin darted out and ran toward the taxi, holding up his hand. He jumped back on the platform and the taxi driver drew up. Peregrine said: “In you get, Rob.”

  “I thought we were going backstage,” Robin said. His face was pale, his eyes bewildered.

  “There’s been an accident. Next time.”

  He gave the driver their address and they were gone. Someone tapped his arm. He turned and found it was Roderick Alleyn.

  “I’d better come round, hadn’t I?” he said.

  “You! Yes… You’ve seen it? It really happened?”

  “Yes.”

  They found a crowd of people milling about in the alley. “My God,” said Peregrine. “The bloody public.”

  “I’ll try and cope.”

  Alleyn was very tall. There was a wooden box at the stage door. He made his way to it and stood on it, facing the crowd. “If you please,” he said, and was listened to.

  “You are naturally curious. You will learn nothing and you will be very much in the way if you stay here. Nobody of consequence will be leaving the theatre by this door. Please behave reasonably and go.”

  He stood there, waiting.

  “Who does he think he is?” said a man next to Peregrine.

  “He’s Chief Superintendent Alleyn,” said Peregrine. “You’d better do what he says.”

  There was a general murmur. A voice said: “Aw, come on. What’s the use.”

  They moved away.

  The doorkeeper opened the door to the length of the chain, peered out, and saw Peregrine. “Thank Gawd,” he said. “Hold on, sir.” He disengaged the chain and opened the door wide enough to admit them. Peregrine said: “It’s all right. This is Chief Superintendent Alleyn,” and they went in.

  To a silent place. The stage was lit. Masking pieces rose up; black masses, through which the passage could be seen running under the landing in front of the door to Duncan’s chamber. At the far end of this passage, strongly lit, was a shrouded object, a bundle, lying on the stage. A dark red puddle had seeped from under it.

  They moved around the set and the stage manager came offstage.

  “Perry! Thank God,” he said.

  “I was in front. So was Superintendent Alleyn. Bob Masters, our stage manager, Mr. Alleyn.”

  “Have you rung the Yard?” Alleyn asked.

  “Charlie’s doing it,” said Masters, “now. Our A.S.M. He’s having some difficulty getting a line out.”

  “I’ll have a word with him,” said Alleyn and went into the Prompt Corner.

  “I’m a policeman,” he told Charlie. “Shall I take over?”

  “Ah? Are you? Yes. Hullo? Here’s a policeman.” He held out the receiver. Alleyn said: “Superintendent Alleyn. At the Dolphin. Homicide. Decapitation. That’s what I said. I imagine that as I was here I’ll be expected to take it on. Yes. I’ll hold on while you do.” There was a short interval and he said, “Bailey and Thompson. Yes. Ask Inspector Fox to come down. My case is in my room. He’ll bring it. Get the doctor. Right? Good.”

  He hung up. “I’ll take a look,” he said and went onstage.

  Four stagehands and the Property Master were there, keeping guard.

  “Nobody’s gone,” Bob Masters said. “The company are in their dressing-rooms and Peregrine’s gone back to the office. There’s a sort of conference.”

  “Good,” said Alleyn.

  He walked over to the shrouded bundle. “What happened after the curtain fell?” he asked.

  “Scarcely anybody really realized it was — not a dummy. The head. The dummy’s a very good head. Blood and everything. I didn’t realize. The curtain went down. I was getting them ready for the curtain calls. And then Gaston, who carried it on the end of his claidheamh-mor — the great claymore thing he carries throughout the play — that thing —” He pointed at the bundle.

  “Yes?”

  “He noticed the blood on his gloves and he looked at them. And then he looked up and it dripped on his face and he screamed. The curtain being down.”

  “Yes.”

  “We all saw, of course. He let the — the head — on the claymore — fall. The house was still applauding. So I — really, I didn’t know what I was doing. I went out through the center break in the curtain and said there’d been an accident and I hoped they’d forgive us not taking the usual calls and would go home. And I came off. By that time,” said Mr. Masters, “panic had broken out in the cast. I ordered them all to their rooms and I covered the head with that cloth — it’s used on the props table, I think. And Props sort of tucked it under. And that’s all.”

  “It’s very clear indeed. Thank you, Mr. Masters. I think I’ll look at the head now, if you please. I can manage for myself.”

  “I’d be glad not to.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Alleyn.

  He squatted down, keeping clear of the puddle. He took hold of the cloth and turned it back.

  Sir Dougal stared up at him through the slits in his mask. The eyes were set and glazed. The steel guard over his mouth had fallen away and the mouth stretched in a clown’s grin. Alleyn saw that he had been struck from behind: the wound was clean
and the margin turned outward. He covered the face.

  “The weapon?” he said.

  “We think it must be this,” Masters said. “At least, I do.”

  “This is the weapon carried by Seyton?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s bloodied, of course.”

  “Yes. It would be anyway. And with false blood too. There’s false blood over everything. But” — Masters shuddered — “they’re mixed.”

  “Where’s the false head?”

  “The false —? I don’t know. We haven’t looked.”

  Alleyn walked into the O.P. corner. It was encircled with scenery masking pieces and very dark. He waited for his sight to adapt. In the darkest corner, behind one of the pieces, a man’s form slowly assembled itself, its head facedown. Its head!

  He moved toward it, stooped down, and touched the head. It shifted under his fingers. It was the dummy. He touched the body. It was flesh — and blood. And dead. And headless.

  Alleyn moved back and returned to the stage.

  There was a loud knocking on the stage door.

  “I’ll go,” said Masters.

  It was the Yard. Inspector Fox and Sergeants Bailey and Thompson. Fox was the regular, old-style, plainclothesman: grizzled, amiable and implacable.

  He said: “Visiting your old haunts, are you, sir?”

  “Over twenty years ago, isn’t it, Br’er Fox? And you two. I want you to give the full treatment, photos, prints, the lot, to that head onstage there, covered up, and the headless body in the dark corner over there. They parted company just before the final curtain. All right? And the dummy head in the corner. The assumed weapon is the claymore on which the real head’s fixed, so include that in the party. Any more staff coming?”

  “Couple of uniformed coppers. Any moment now.”

  “Good. Front doors and stage door for them. On guard.”

  He turned to Masters. “We’ll need to know whom to inform. Can you help?”

  “There’s his divorced wife. No children. Winty may know. Mr. Winter Meyer.”

  “He’s still here?” Alleyn exclaimed.

  “In the office. With Peregrine Jay discussing what we’re to do.”

  “Ah, yes. You’ve got tomorrow, Sunday, to make up your minds.”