Light Thickens

by Ngaio Marsh

  ‘I remind you,’ he said, ‘of the arrangement of this scene. It opens as a front scene with the curtains closed. They are held open by servitors while the Macbeths welcome the guests and closed again when they have all gone through. The servitors go off. Macbeth has his scene with the Third Murderer who is Gaston. At the end Gaston goes off. Macbeth claps his hands and the servitors from the sides open the curtains completely.

  ‘For the good of the production I undertake not to reveal the trickster’s name. Nor will I sack the man or refer to the matter again. It shall be as if it had never happened. Is this understood?’

  He stopped.

  They stared at him rather like children, he thought, brought together for a wigging and not knowing what would come next.

  Bruce Barrabell came next, the silver-tongued Banquo.

  ‘No doubt I shall be snubbed,’ he said, ‘but I really feel I must protest. If this person is among us, I think we should all know who he is. He should be publicly exposed and dismissed. By us. As the Equity Representative I feel I should take this stand.’

  Peregrine had not the faintest notion of what if any stand the Equity Representative was entitled to take.

  He said grandly: ‘Properties belonging to the theatre have been misused. Rehearsal time interrupted. This is my affair: I propose to continue. The time for Equity to butt in may or may not arise in due course. If it does I shall advise you of it. At this stage I must ask you to sit down, Mr Barrabell.’

  If he won’t sit down, he wondered, what the hell do I do?

  ‘Hear, hear,’ said Sir Dougal helpfully.

  There was an affirmative murmur. Nina was heard to say she felt faint. Peregrine said: ‘Props, when did you last look under the lid of that dish?’

  ‘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 have 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 him,’ said Props, jerking his head at Barrabell, ‘and the other ghost. The double. They got down under the table just before the curtains re-opened.’

  ‘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. He 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 re-opened. The previous scene,’ reminisced Gaston, ‘was that of the murder of Banquo. The claidheamh-mor would never have been 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 of the cut-throats.” 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 gathered up the cloak round my knees and crouched down.’

  ‘And the ghost double? Toby?’

  A youth held up his hand. ‘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.’

  ‘When was the dish 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 thinks I done it with the head, 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 nex’ week.’

  ‘Is the room unlocked?’

  ‘Yes. 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 moment. He 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 this trick.’

  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 sights 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 rumours 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 his 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: “Gladtime 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 and occupied the place where a sporran would have rested. The hilts being established there, 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 round his shoulders and took the risk o
f his life.

  ‘Gaston, my dear boy,’ 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 this trick and for the time being we’ll let it 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 to the property table and returned.

  ‘Right!’ he said. ‘From where we left off, please.’

  ‘“Our duties and the pledge,”’ said the prompter.

  ‘Yes. Places, everybody. Are you ready, Sir Dougal, or would you like to break?’

  ‘I’ll go on.’

  ‘Good. Thank you.’

  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 – there have been others that came to nothing – 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. Everybody at ten, please. In the rehearsal room.’

  II

  Peregrine had a session with the effects and lights people which lasted for an hour, at the end of which they went off, satisfied, to get their work down on paper.

  ‘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? I thought I might be called for this afternoon, Mr Jay, and I brought my lunch. My mum’s coming in later for me.’

  ‘There’s no rehearsal this afternoon. We’re handing over to the staff. They’re moving in, as you see.’

  The stage was patched with daylight. Sheets of painted plywood were being carried in from the workshop. Workmen shouted and whistled.

  ‘I’ll just wait for her,’ said William.

  ‘Well – I don’t think you can quite do that. It’s one of those rules. You know?’

  In the silence that followed a vivid flush mounted in William’s face. ‘Yes. I think I do,’ he said. ‘I wanted to speak to you about it, but…’ He looked at Emily.

  ‘About what?’ Peregrine asked.

  ‘About the head. 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 boy stared at them. His eyes filled with tears. ‘I can’t look at it,’ he said. ‘Much less touch it. It’s awful.’

  ‘What about the other one?’ asked Peregrine.

  ‘What other one, sir?’

  ‘In the King’s room.’

  ‘Is there one there too? Oh gosh!’

  ‘William!’ Emily cried out. ‘Don’t worry. They’re only plastic mock-ups. Nothing to be afraid of. Pretence ghosts. William, never mind. Gaston 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. ‘Hankie,’ 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, never 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 frightened of the head? Quite apart from anyone thinking you did it. Just between ourselves.’

  He nodded.

  ‘Would you be if you’d made it? You know? It’s a long business. You take a mould 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 won’t get a rhyme for “phenomenon”,’ and gave another dry sob.

  ‘You win. When’s your mama coming for you?’

  ‘About four, I should think. She’s buying our supper. It’s her afternoon off.’

  ‘Well, you can wait here with me. Perry’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 and 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 the 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 on the stage.

  ‘You go to a drama school, don’t you?’ Emily said after a pause.

  ‘The Royal Southwark Theatre 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 OK. I’m going to be an actor.’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  The door at front-of-house opened. 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 round. Apparently Mrs Smith had expostulated with him. ‘It’s all right, Mum,’ he said. ‘Mrs Jay says it is. Come on.’

  Emily said: ‘Hello, Mrs Smith. Do come in. I am so pleased to meet you,’ and held out her hand. ‘I’m Emily Jay.’

  ‘I’m afraid my son’s rather precipitate,’ said Mrs Smith. ‘I’ve just called to collect him. I do know outsiders shouldn’t walk into theatres as if they were bus stations.’

  ‘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 t
o your face?’

  ‘I don’t know. What?’ asked William unconvincingly.

  ‘Same as what’s the matter with all our faces,’ Emily explained. ‘One of Gaston Sears’s dummy heads for the parade of Banquo’s successors got on to 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 icy out of doors.’ 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 round her. ‘That’s settled. We can go home.’

  ‘Right.’

  He wanted a word in the box office so they went out by the front-of-house.

  The lifesize 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 ten days 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.’