Light Thickens

by Ngaio Marsh

  ‘Couldn’t be clearer. What sort of man was Macdougal?’

  ‘Macdougal? Sir Dougal? Good-looking, if you like the type.’

  ‘In himself?’

  ‘Typical leading man, I suppose. He was very good in the part.’

  ‘You didn’t go much for him?’

  He shrugged. ‘He was all right.’

  ‘A bit too much of a good thing?’

  ‘Something like that. But, really, he was all right.’

  ‘De mortuis nil nisi bonum?’

  ‘Yes. Well, I didn’t know anything that was not good about him. Not really. He was fabulous in the fight. I never felt in danger. Even Gaston said he was good. You couldn’t fault him. God! I’m the understudy! If it’s decided we go on.’

  ‘Will it be so decided, do you think?’

  ‘I don’t know. I daren’t think.’

  ‘“The show must go on”?’

  ‘Yes. I suppose,’ Simon said after a pause, ‘it may depend on the press.’

  ‘The press?’

  ‘Yes. If they’ve got a clue as to what happened they could make such a hoo-hah we couldn’t very well go on as if Macbeth was ill or dying or dead or anything of that sort, could we? But if they only get a second-hand account of there having been an “accident”, which is what Bob Masters said in his curtain speech, they may decide it’s not worth a follow-up and do nothing. Tomorrow. One thing is certain,’ said Simon, ‘we don’t need a word of publicity.’

  ‘No. Has it occurred to you,’ said Alleyn, ‘that it might strike someone as a good moment to revive all the superstitious stories about Macbeth?’

  Simon stared at him. ‘Good God! No, it hadn’t. But you’re dead right. As a matter of fact – well, never mind about all that. But Perry, our director, had been on at us about the idiot superstitions and not to believe any of it and – and – well, all that.’

  ‘Really? Why?’

  ‘He doesn’t believe in any of it,’ said Simon, looking extremely ill at ease.

  ‘Has there been an outbreak of superstitious observances in the cast?’

  ‘Well – Nina Gaythorne rather plugs it.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Perry thinks it’s a bad idea.’

  ‘Have there been any occurrences that seemed to bolster up the superstitions?’

  ‘Well – sort of.’

  ‘What, for instance?’

  ‘If you don’t mind I’d rather not go into details.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We said we wouldn’t talk about them. We promised Perry.’

  ‘I’ll ask Jay to elucidate.’

  ‘Yes. Well, don’t let him think I blew the gaff, will you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘If you don’t want me any more…?’

  ‘I don’t think I do. We’ll ask you to sign a typed statement later on.’

  ‘I see. Well, thank you,’ said Simon and got up. ‘You did mean what you said? About it being impossible for me to have – done it?’

  ‘Yes. Unless some sort of crack appears, I mean it.’

  ‘Thank God for that, at least,’ said Simon. ‘Good night.’

  ‘Good night, Mr Morten.’

  He went to the door, hesitated and spoke.

  ‘If I’d wanted to kill him,’ he said, ‘I could have faked it during the fight. And been “terribly sorry”. You know?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Alleyn. ‘There’s that, too, isn’t there? Good night.’

  When he had gone, Fox said: ‘That’s one we can tick off, isn’t it?’

  ‘At this point, Fox.’

  ‘He doesn’t seem to have liked the deceased much, does he?’

  ‘Not madly keen, no. But very honest about it as far as it went. He was on the edge of talking about the superstitions but pulled himself up short and said Jay extracted promises not to gossip about the aspect.’

  ‘That’s right. So who do you see next?’

  ‘Obviously, Peregrine Jay.’

  ‘He was here twenty years ago, at the time of the former case. Nice young chap he was then.’

  ‘Yes. He’s in conference. Up in the offices,’ said Alleyn.

  ‘Shall I pluck him out?’

  ‘Would you?’

  Fox removed his spectacles, put them in his breast pocket and left the room. Alleyn walked about, muttering to himself.

  ‘It must have been then. After the fight. Say, one minute for the pause and the pipe and drums coming nearer, two at the outside. The general entry: say a quarter of a minute, Siward’s dialogue about his son’s death. Another two minutes. Say three to four minutes all told. Macbeth exits and yells. Macduff says something that makes him stoop or – no – he did fall forward to give the thud. The man, having removed the dummy head, decapitates him, gathers up the real head and jams it on the claidheamh-mor. That’s what takes the time. Does he wedge the hilts against the scenery and then push the head on? He lugs the body into the darkest corner and stands the claidheamh-mor in its place ready for Gaston to grasp it. He puts the dummy head by the body. And that’s it. Where does he go now? What does he look like?’

  He stopped short, closed his eyes and recalled the fight. The two figures. The exchange of dialogue and Macbeth’s hoarse final curse.

  ‘And damned be him that first cries, “Hold, enough!”’

  ‘It must have been done after the fight. There’s no other way. Or is there? Is there? Nonsense.’

  The door opened. Fox, Winter Morris and Peregrine came in.

  ‘I’m sorry to drag you away,’ said Alleyn.

  ‘It’s all right. We’d come to a deadlock. To go on. Or not.’

  ‘A difficult decision?’

  ‘Yes. As a matter of fact I was going to ask you how much longer…’ said Morris.

  ‘We’ll have finished here tomorrow. Possibly tonight. The body has been removed to the mortuary and the op corner is now being examined. We’ll clean up.’

  ‘I see. Thank you.’

  ‘How will the actors feel?’

  ‘About going on? Not very happy but they’ll do it.’

  ‘And the new casting?’

  ‘There’s the rub,’ said Peregrine. ‘Simon Morten is Macbeth’s understudy and the Ross is Simon’s. We’ll have to knock up a new, very simple fight, a new Macduff can’t possibly manage the present one. Simon’s good and ready. He’ll give a reasonable show, but the whole thing’s pretty dicey.’

  ‘Yes. What sort of actor is Gaston Sears?’

  Peregrine stared at him. ‘Gaston? Gaston?’

  ‘He knows – or rather he invented – the fight. He’s an arresting figure. It’s a very far-fetched notion but I wondered.’

  ‘It’s – it’s a frightening thought. I haven’t seen him acting but I’m told he was good in an unpredictable sort of way. He’s a very unpredictable person. A bit on the dotty side, some of them think. It – it certainly would solve a lot of problems. We’d only need to find a new Seyton and he’s a tiny part as far as lines go. He’s only got to look impressive. There’s a tall, dark chap…My God, I wonder…No. No,’ repeated. And then: ‘We may decide to cut our losses and rehearse a new play. Probably the best solution.’

  ‘Yes. I think I should remind you that – it’s a dazzling glimpse of the obvious – the murderer (and who he is I’ve not the faintest notion) must be one of your actors or else a stagehand. If the latter, I suppose you can go ahead, but if the former – well, the mind boggles, doesn’t it?’

  ‘I can feel mine boggling anyway.’

  ‘In the meantime I’d like to know what the story is, about the Macbeth superstitions and why Props and Simon Morten go all peculiar when I ask them.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, now. I’d asked them not to talk to each other or to anyone else about these – happenings. You’ve got to consider the general atmosphere.’

  And he told Alleyn, sparingly, about the dummy heads and the rat’s head in Rangi’s marketing bag.

  ‘Have you any idea who the practi
cal joker was?’

  ‘None. Nor do I know if there is any link with the subsequent horror.’

  ‘It sounds like an unpleasant schoolboy’s nonsense.’

  ‘It certainly isn’t our young William’s nonsense,’ said Peregrine quickly. ‘He was scared as hell at the head on the banquet table. He’s a very nice small boy.’

  ‘He’d have to be an infant Goliath to lift the claidheamh-mor two inches.’

  ‘Yes. He would, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Bob Masters sent him home. Straight away. He didn’t want him to see it. Gaston dropped the claidheamh-mor and head on the stage. The boy was waiting to go on for the curtain call. Bob told him there’d been a hitch and there wasn’t to be a call and to get into his own clothes quick and go home.’

  ‘Yes. William Smith, Fox. In case we want him. Has he got a telephone number?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Peregrine. We’ve got it. Shall I –?’

  ‘I don’t think we want it tonight. We’ll ask the King and Props to confirm that Gaston Sears stood with the boy offstage. And that Macduff came straight off. If this is so, it completely clears Macduff. And Gaston, of course.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘During the fight, Malcolm and Old Siward with Ross and Caithness assembled on the Prompt upper landing, out of sight, waiting for their final entrance. The rest of the forces waited on the OP side. The “dead” characters – the King, Banquo, Lady Macduff and her son were also waiting OP for the second curtain call. The witches were alone upstage.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Therefore he must have been decapitated in the interval between his and Macduff’s exit, fighting, and Macduff and Gaston’s re-entry with his head.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Peregrine wearily. ‘And it’s three and a half minutes at the most.’

  ‘We’ll now summon the rest of the company and get them, if they can, to give each other alibis for that period.’

  ‘Shall I call them?’

  ‘In here, if you would. I don’t want them on stage just yet. Nor, I think, do they want it. Thank you, Jay. It’ll be a squash but never mind.’

  Peregrine went out. Winter Morris, who had stood inside the door without speaking, came to Alleyn’s table and put a folded paper on it.

  ‘I think you should see this,’ he said. ‘Perry agrees.’

  Alleyn opened it.

  The tannoy boomed out: ‘Everyone in the greenroom, please. Company and staff call. Everyone in the greenroom.’

  Alleyn read the typed message: ‘murderers sons in your co.’

  ‘When did you get it? And how?’ Winty told him.

  ‘Is it true?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Winty miserably.

  ‘Does anyone else know?’

  ‘Perry thinks Barrabell does. The Banquo.’

  ‘Spiteful character?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It refers to the little Macduff boy, William Smith. I represented the police in the case,’ Alleyn said. ‘He was a little chap of six then but I recognized him. He’s got a very distinctive face. One of the victims was named Barrabell. Bank clerk. She was beheaded,’ said Alleyn. ‘Here come the actors.’

  IV

  By using a considered routine they managed to extract the information wanted in reasonable time.

  The alibis of Gaston Sears, Props and Macduff were secured. Alleyn read the names out from his programme and each in turn was remembered as being offstage in the group of waiting actors. The King and Nina Gaythorne were whispering to Gaston. Her dress was caught up.

  ‘I want you to be very sure how you answer the next question. Does anyone remember any movement among you all that could have meant someone had slipped into the OP corner after Macduff came out?’

  ‘We were too far upstage to do it,’ said Simon. ‘All of us.’

  ‘And does anyone remember Macbeth not coming off?’

  There was a pause and then Nina Gaythorne said: ‘William said: “Where’s Sir Dougal? He’s still in there.” Or something like that. Nobody paid much attention. Our cue was coming and we were getting into position to go on for the second call.’

  ‘Yes,’ Alleyn said. ‘Now, I wonder if you would all go to your rooms and come out when you are called, as far as you can remember, exactly in the order you observed tonight. From the start of the fight until the end I want you all to do exactly what you did then. Is that understood?’

  ‘Not very pleasant,’ said Barrabell.

  ‘Murder and its consequences are never very pleasant, I’m afraid. Mr Sears, will you read Macbeth’s lines, if you please?’

  ‘Certainly. I know them, I think, by heart.’

  ‘Good. You had better have a look, though. The timing must be exact.’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘There’s a book on the prompt table.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Do you know the moves?’

  ‘Certainly. I also,’ he said loftily, ‘know the fight.’

  ‘Good. Are we ready? Will those of you who were in their dressing rooms please go to them?’

  They trooped off. Alleyn said to Peregrine: ‘You take over, will you?’

  ‘Very well.’ He raised his voice: ‘From:

  ‘“Blow wind, come wrack,

  At least we’ll die with harness on our back.”’

  ‘We’ll go out on stage. It’s tidied up, I hope,’ Alleyn said.

  ‘I hope so,’ said Peregrine devoutly.

  ‘Come on, then. Fox, you watch the stage. The OP side in particular, will you?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Is the effects man here? He is. With his assistants? I think mechanical effects were overlaid by live voices. Good. We want the whole thing exactly timed as for performance. Right? Can you manage?’

  They walked down the dressing-room passages and suddenly the theatre was alive with the presence of actors waiting behind closed doors for the play to begin. Thompson and Bailey had been tidy. They left the patch of stage where the bundle had been covered over with a mackintosh sheet weighted down. In the OP corner, they had outlined the body in chalk before removing it. There was a bucket of ‘blood’ beside it.

  ‘Right,’ said Alleyn who had moved into the house front. Peregrine called: ‘Macbeth. Macduff. Young Siward. You’re on, please. Malcolm, Old Siward and the Forces. Called and waiting.’ There was the sound of movements offstage. Malcolm and Siward spoke and went off.

  Gaston entered and spoke. The others had given their lines auto-matically and not played up to performance pitch but he went the whole hog. His fatigue vanished and he was good.

  ‘“At least we’ll die with harness on our back,”’ he ended and went off into the OP area and through it. He waited offstage.

  They played through the battle scenes to the point where Macbeth entered on the platform OP and Macduff entered from Prompt corner.

  ‘Turn, hell-hound. Turn.’

  The fight. Gaston was perfect. Macduff, who looked exhausted and tried to go through it at token speed, was forced to respond fully.

  Exeunt. Macbeth’s scream, cut off. Macduff ran straight through and out. Alleyn set his watch.

  There followed the long triumphant entry and final scene with Old Siward. Macduff re-entered OP corner. Gaston reverted to Seyton and came on, without the claidheamh-mor, behind him. He proclaimed in his natural tones: ‘I assume my claidheamh-mor is not to be found. I presume it has been seized by the police. I take this opportunity,’ he went on, pitching his considerable voice into the auditorium, ‘of warning them that they do so at their peril. There is strength in the weapon.’

  ‘The claidheamh-mor is perfectly safe in our keeping,’ said Alleyn.

  ‘It may be, and doubtless is, safe. It is the police who should be trembling.’

  Before addressing the actors Alleyn allowed himself a moment to envisage this situation.

  ‘Thank you, gentlemen,’ Alleyn said. ‘It was asking a lot of all of you to re-enact the las
t scene but I think I can tell you that you have really helped us. Now, if you will do the same thing again with the scene immediately before it, from “brandished by man that’s of a woman born” up to “Enter, sir, the castle,” I think you will then be free to go home. It’s Macduff’s soliloquy. I want you all in your given places. With offstage action and noises, please. Jay, would you?’

  Peregrine said: ‘It’s where the group of Macduff’s soldiers run across and upstairs. Right? Simon?’

  ‘Oh God. Yes. All right,’ said the exhausted Simon.

  ‘Ready, everybody. “Brandished by man that’s of a woman born.”’

  The speech was broken by offstage entries, excursions and alarms. Alleyn timed it. Three minutes. Macbeth entered on OP rostrum.

  ‘Right. Thank you very much, Mr Morten. And Mr Sears. We’ve not established your own movements, Mr Sears, as you’ve been kind enough to impersonate Macbeth’s. Can you now tell us where you were over this period?’

  ‘Certainly. On the OP side but not in the darkened corner. I remained there throughout, keeping out of the way of the soldiers who entered and exited in some disorder. I may say their attempts at soldierly techniques during these exercises was pitiful. However, I was not consulted and I kept my opinions to myself. I spoke, I believe, to several fellow players during this period. Those who were called for the final curtain – Miss Gaythorne, I recall – advanced some astonishing claptrap about garlic as a protection against bad luck. Duncan was one. Banquo was another. He complained, I recollect, that he was called too soon.’

  Duncan and Banquo agreed. Several other actors recalled seeing Gaston there, earlier in the action.

  ‘Thank you very much,’ said Alleyn. ‘That’s all, ladies and gentlemen. You may go home. Leave your dressing-room keys with us. We’d be grateful if you would arrange to be within telephone call. Good night.’

  They said good night and left the theatre in ones and twos. Gaston wore his black cloak clutched histrionically above his chest in an actor’s hand. He bowed to Alleyn and said: ‘Good night, sir.’