Light Thickens Read online

  ‘I’m sure you’re right,’ Alleyn said. He saw that round his neck on a flax cord Rangi wore a tiki, a greenstone effigy of a human foetus. ‘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 on stage came out of your dressing-rooms. There were you three witches and the dead Macduffs and the King and 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 OP corner with Macduff, ready for their final entrance.’

  ‘Was anyone following you?’

  ‘The other two witches. We were in a bunch.’

  ‘Anyone else?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Rangi firmly. ‘Quite sure. We were last.’

  He read the statement carefully and signed it. As he returned it to Alleyn he said: ‘It doesn’t do to meddle with these things. They are wasps’ nests that are better left alone.’

  ‘We can’t leave a murder alone, Rangi.’

  ‘I suppose not. All the same. He made fun of things that are tapu – forbidden. My great-grandfather knew how to deal with that.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘He cut off the man’s head,’ said Rangi cheerfully. And ate him.’

  The tannoy broke the silence that followed. ‘Members of the company are requested to assemble in the greenroom for a managerial announcement. Thank you,’ it said.

  II

  Alleyn found Fox in the greenroom. ‘Finished?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve got all the statements. Except, of course, your lot. They’re not conspicuously helpful. There’s one item that the King noticed. He says – hold on – here we are. He says he noticed that Sears was wheezing while he waited with them before the final entry. He said something about it and Sears tapped his own chest and frowned. He made a solemn thing with his eyebrows. “Asthma, dear boy, asthma. No matter.” Can’t you see him doing it?’

  ‘Yes. Vincent Crummles stuff. He must have found that massive claidheamh-mor a bit of a burden.’

  ‘What I thought. Poor devil. Here comes the Management. We’ll hand over.’

  They put the statements in a briefcase and settled themselves inconspicuously at the back of the room.

  The Management came through the auditorium and on stage by way of the Prompt-box and thence to the greenroom. They looked preternaturally solemn. The senior guardian was in the middle and Winter Morris at the far side. They sat down behind the table.

  ‘I’m afraid,’ said the senior guardian, ‘there are not enough chairs for everybody but please use the ones that are available. Oh, here are some more.’

  Stagehands brought chairs from the dressing-rooms. There was a certain amount of politeness. Three ladies occupied the sofa. Simon Morten stood behind Maggie. She turned to speak to him. He put his hand on her shoulder and leant over her with a possessive air. Gaston Sears stood apart with folded arms, pale face and dark suit, like a phoney figurehead got up for the occasion. William and his mother had appeared and were at the back of the room. Bruce Barrabell occupied an armchair. Rangi and his girls were together by the doorway.

  And in the back of the room, quietly side by side, sat Alleyn and Fox, who would sooner or later, it must be assumed, remove one of the company, having charged him with the murder by decapitation of their leading man.

  The senior guardian said his piece. He would not keep them long. They were all deeply shocked. It was right that they should know as soon as possible, what had been decided by the Management. The usual procedure of the understudy taking over the leading role would not be followed. It was felt that the continued presentation of the play would be too great a strain on actors and on audiences. This was a difficult decision to take when the production was such a wonderful success. However, after much anxious consideration it had been decided to revive The Glove. The principals had been cast. If they looked at the board they would see the names of the actors. There were four good parts still uncast and Mr Jay would be pleased to see anyone who wished to apply. Rehearsals would begin next week, that was to say on tomorrow week. Mr Morris would be glad to settle Macbeth salaries this evening if the actors would kindly call at the office. He thanked them all for being so patient and said he would ask them to stand in silence for one minute in remembrance of Sir Dougal Macdougal.

  They stood. Winter Morris looked at his watch. The minute seemed interminable. Strange little sounds – sighs; a muffled thump; a telephone bell; a voice, instantly silenced – came and went and nobody really thought of Sir Dougal except Maggie, who fought off tears. Winter Morris made a definitive movement and there was no more silence.

  ‘Excuse me, Mr Chairman. Before we break up.’

  It was Bruce Barrabell.

  ‘As representative of Equity I would just like to convey the usual messages of sympathy and to say that I will make suitable enquiries on your behalf as to the correct action to be taken in these very unusual circumstances. Thank you.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Barrabell,’ replied the flustered senior guardian.

  He and his colleagues left in a discreet procession by the stage door. The actors went out to the empty stage and collected round the noticeboard.

  Winter Morris said: ‘The office is now open, ladies and gentlemen,’ and hurried back to it.

  The green board carried a typed notice on company paper.

  MACBETH

  ALL PERSONNEL

  ANNOUNCEMENT EXTRAORDINARY

  Owing to an unforeseen and most tragic circumstance the season will, as from now, be closed. The play The Glove by Peregrine Jay will replace it. Four of the leading parts are cast from the existing company. The remainder are open for auditions which will be held this evening and tomorrow and, if necessary, the next two days. Rehearsals will begin next week. The Management thanks the company for its outstanding success and deeply regrets the necessity to close.

  Signed:

  Dolphin Enterprises, Samuel Goodbody.

  31st May, 1982. Chairman.

  At a respectable distance was a second announcement.

  CURRENT PRODUCTION

  The Glove Auditions: This afternoon and two following days 11 a.m.–1 p.m. 2 p.m.–5 p.m.

  Shakespeare Mr Simon Morten

  Anne Hathaway Miss Nina Gaythorne

  Hamnet Shakespeare Master William Smith

  The Dark Lady Miss Margaret Mannering

  Dr Hall

  Joan Hart

  The Rival

  Burbage

  Books of the Play obtainable at office.

  Peregrine stood in front of the board and copied the casting into his own book. The actors read the notices and by ones and twos moved into the auditorium and through the stalls into the foyer.

  He moved chairs on to the stage, placing them back to back to mark the doorways into Shakespeare’s parlour and leaving a group of six as working props. He went into the stalls and sat down.

  I must pull myself together, he thought, I must go on as usual and I must whip up from somewhere enthusiasm for my own play.

  Bob M
asters came on stage and peered into the auditorium.

  ‘Bob,’ Peregrine said, ‘we’ll hold auditions in the usual way when everyone is ready.’

  ‘Right. Give us half an hour while Winty settles the treasury.’

  ‘OK.’

  The last of the actors had gone into the foyer. A lonely couple emerged from the shadows and appeared on stage: William and his mother, she tidy in a dark grey suit and white blouse, William also in dark grey, white shirt and dark blue tie. He walked over to the board, looked at it and turned to his mother. She joined him and put her hands on his shoulders. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said clearly. ‘Don’t I have to audition?’

  ‘Hullo, William,’ Peregrine called out. ‘You don’t, really. We’re taking a gamble on you. But I see you’ve got your book. Go and collect your treasury and come back here and we’ll see how you shape up. All right?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, sir.’

  ‘I’ll come back and wait for you outside,’ said his mother. She had gone out by the stage door before Peregrine realized what she was up to.

  William went through the house to the offices, and for a short time Peregrine was quite alone. He sat in the stalls and supposed that people like Nina had begun to say that the Dolphin was an unlucky theatre. And suddenly time contracted and the first production of his play seemed to have scarcely completed its run. He could almost hear the voices of the actors…

  William came back. He went through the opening scenes and Peregrine thought: I was right. The boy’s an actor.

  ‘You’ll do,’ he said. ‘Go home and learn your lines and come down for rehearsals in a week’s time.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said William and went out by the stage door. ‘“Yes, sir. No, sir. Three bags full, sir,” said an unmistakable voice. It was Bruce Barrabell, sitting up at the back. In the dark.

  Peregrine peered at him. ‘Barrabell?’ he said. ‘Are you going to audition?’

  ‘I thought so. For Burbage.’

  He doesn’t come on until the second act, Peregrine thought. He would be good. And he felt a sudden violent dislike of Barrabell. I don’t want him in the cast, he thought. I can’t have him. I don’t want to hear him audition. I don’t want to speak to him.

  The part of Burbage was of a frantically busy man of affairs and an accomplished actor in the supposed Elizabethan manner. Silvertongued, blast it, thought Peregrine. He’s ideal, of course. Oh damn and blast!

  The actors began to trickle in from the offices and Mrs Abrams came down to take notes for Peregrine and say, ‘Thank you, darling. We’ll let you know.’ The Ross auditioned for Dr Hall. He read it nicely with a good appreciation of the medical man of his day and his anxious and lethal treatment of young Hamnet. The Gentlewoman tried for Joan Hart, the poet’s sister. That had been Emily’s part and Peregrine tried not to let himself be influenced by this. If he suggested she came back and played it she would say she was too old now.

  They plodded on. Someone came and sat behind Peregrine. He felt a hand on his arm.

  ‘Has Barrabell read for you?’ the voice murmured.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I wouldn’t cast him.’ The hand was withdrawn and Alleyn left quietly.

  III

  Before he left the theatre, Alleyn had a short talk with Peregrine and told him of Barrabell’s confession, if confession it could be called.

  Back at the Yard he went through the statements and put the regulation conclusion before himself and Mr Fox, who remained, as it were, anonymous.

  ‘If all reasonable explanations fail, the investigation must consider the explanation which, however outlandish, is not contradicted?’

  ‘And what in this case is the outlandish explanation that is not contradicted?’

  ‘There is not time for the murder to be accomplished between the end of the fight and the appearance of Macbeth’s head on the claidheamh-mor so it must have been done before the fight.’

  ‘But Macbeth spoke during the fight. True, his voice was hoarse and breathless.’

  Alleyn took his head in his hands and did his best to listen to the past. ‘Get thee back. My soul is too much charged with blood of thine already.’ Sir Dougal had had the slight but unmistakable burr of Scots in his voice. He had given it a little more room for the Thane: ‘too much charrged’. A grievous sound. It drifted through his memory, but his recollection held no personality behind it. Just the broken despair of any breathless, beaten fighter.

  He must look for a new place in the play where the murder could have been committed. It was Sir Dougal who fought and killed Young Siward. He wore his visor up, displaying his full face. His speech ended with his desperate recollection of the last of the witches’ equivocal pronouncements:

  ‘– weapons laugh to scorn,

  Brandished by man that’s of a woman born’

  and there, suddenly, in his imagination, stood the actor. Up went the gauntleted hand and down came the visor. He went off into the OP corner – and was murdered? Macduff came on. He had a soliloquy, broken by skirmishes and determined searches. Outbursts of fighting occurred now here, now there. The Macbeth faction were dressed alike: black, gauntleted, some masked, others not. The effect was nightmarish. What if Macduff encountered a man uniformed like Macbeth but not Macbeth? Pipes. Malcolm with a group of soldiers marched on. Old Siward greeted him and welcomed him to the castle. He made a ceremonial entry. Cheering within. The masked ‘Macbeth’ entered. Macduff came on. Saw him. Challenged him. They fought.

  ‘Yes,’ Alleyn said, ‘it’s possible. It’s perfectly possible but does it throw a spanner in all our calculations and alibis! None of the “corpses” are in position for the curtain call. The Macduff, Simon Morten, could just have done it, but he’d have got a nasty shock when the dead man turned up to fight him. On the other hand, as Macbeth’s understudy he would know the fight. But he was already engaged in the fight himself. Damn. Barrabell? Gaston? Props? Rangi? All possible. But wait a bit: all but one impossible. Unless we entertain the idea of a collaborator who understood the fight. Let’s take any one of them regardless and see how it works out. Rangi.’

  ‘Rangi,’ said Fox without enthusiasm.

  ‘He would do the murder at the earlier time. He’d wait till the last minute. Then rush round to Gaston and say Sir Dougal’s fainted and he, Gaston, will have to go on for the fight with Macduff. All right so far?’

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Fox, ‘as far as you’ve got. Motive, though?’

  ‘Ah, motive. His great-grandfather knew how to deal with this sort of nonsense. He told me in the nicest way imaginable. He cut off the other chap’s head and ate him.’

  ‘Really!’ said Fox primly. ‘How very unpleasant. But I suppose he could have done a return to his great-grandfather’s state of mind and killed Macbeth. You know, reverted to the Stone Age, sort of.’

  ‘Any of the others could have done the same thing.’

  ‘You don’t mean – ‘

  ‘I don’t mean the chopper and cooking-pot bit, and I’ll thank you not to be silly. I mean could have gone to Gaston at the last moment and asked him to fight. The catch in that is, it’d be a damnable bit of evidence against him, later on.’

  ‘Yerse,’ said Mr Fox. ‘And whoever he was, he didn’t do it.’

  ‘I know he didn’t do it. I’m simply trying to find a way out, Fox. I’m trying to eliminate and I have eliminated.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Alleyn. You have. When do we book the gentleman?’

  ‘I doubt if we’ve got a tight enough case, you know.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Blast the whole boiling of them,’ said Alleyn. He got up and walked about the room. ‘Do you know what they’re doing now? At this precise moment? Holding auditions for the replacement. A good play by Jay built round the death of Shakespeare’s young son and the arrival of the Dark Lady. So far they haven’t cast the murderer but there’s no guarantee they won’t. What’s more, it’s the play they were doing with great success when thi
s theatre re-opened. There was a mess then and one of the company was guilty.’

  ‘God bless my soul!’ said Fox. ‘That’s right. I remember. Proper turn-up for the books, that one was.’

  ‘And a right proper young monster the boy was. This is altogether a different story. D’you know who this kid is?’

  ‘No. Ought I to? Not anything in our line of business, I suppose?’

  ‘No – well, that’s not quite true. He’s a nice well-brought-up little chap and he’s the son of the Hampstead Chopper. He doesn’t know that and I’m extremely anxious that he shan’t find out, Fox.’

  ‘Harcourt-Smith, wasn’t it?’

  ‘It was. His mother dropped the Harcourt. He knows his father’s in a loony-bin but not why.’

  ‘Broadmoor?’

  ‘Yes. A lifer.’

  ‘Fancy that, now,’ Fox said, shaking his head.

  ‘One of his father’s earlier victims was a Mrs Barrabell.’

  ‘You’re not telling me – ‘

  ‘Yes, I am. Wife. Barrabell put those practical jokes together. All to do with heads. He hoped the Management would think the boy was responsible and give him the sack.’

  ‘Has he told you? Barrabell?’

  ‘Not in so many words.’

  ‘He’s a member of some potty little way-out group, isn’t he?’

  ‘The Red Fellowship. Yes.’

  ‘What do we know about them?’

  ‘The usual. Meeting once a week on Sunday mornings. Genuine enough. No real understanding of the extraordinary and extremely complicated in-fighting that goes on at sub-diplomatic levels. A bit dotty. He and his mates iron everything out to a few axioms and turn a blind eye to all that doesn’t fit. The terrible reality of Bruce Barrabell rests in the fact that his wife was beheaded by a maniac. I think he believes, or has brooded himself into believing, that the child has inherited the father’s madness and that sooner or later it’ll emerge and then it’ll be too late.’

  ‘I still don’t know where Sir Dougal fits in. If he does.’