Light Thickens

by Ngaio Marsh

  The press-cuttings were mainly of productions that he had appeared in but there were also relics of the trial of Harcourt-Smith. A photograph. The man himself, handcuffed between two policemen, entering the Old Bailey and looking blankly at nothing, one of Mr Justice Swithering, and one of William and his mother taken in the street. There were accounts of the trial.

  Barrabell read the cuttings and looked at the photographs. He then put them one by one into the dead fireplace and burnt them to ashes. He went to the bathroom on the landing and washed his hands. Then he replaced all the theatrical reviews in the suitcase and looked for a long time at the photograph which was signed ‘Muriel’. His hands trembled. He hid it under the others, shut and locked the case and put it back in the wardrobe.

  Now he consulted his copy of The Stage and rang the number given for enquiries about auditions.

  He made a quick calculation, arrived at the amount he owed his landlady and put it in a used envelope with a Cellophane window. He wrote her name on the outside and added: ‘Called away very unexpectedly. B.B.’

  Whistling almost inaudibly, he re-opened the case and packed into it everything else that he owned in the room. He double-checked every drawer and shelf, put his passport in the breast pocket of his jacket and, after a final look round, picked up his case and left the room. The landlady’s office was locked. He pushed the envelope under the door and walked out.

  He was on a direct route for his destination and waited at the bus stop, dumping his case on the ground until the right bus came along. He climbed aboard, sat near the door, tucked his case under his legs and paid his fare.

  The man who had been behind him in the queue heard him give the destination and gave the same one.

  At twenty-six minutes to six a message came through to Alleyn.

  ‘Subject left lodging house carrying suitcase with old Aeroflot labels. Followed to address suggested and is still there.’

  To which he received a reply. ‘Keep obbo. No arrest but don’t lose him.’

  III

  ‘It’s one thing,’ said Alleyn that evening, ‘to have the whole case wrapped up in the copper’s mind and to be absolutely sure, as I am, who’s responsible; and it’s an entirely different matter to get a jury to believe it. God knows it’s a tangle, and can’t you hear counsel for the defence? “Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury, you have listened very patiently to this – this impudent tarradiddle,” and so on. I’ve been hoping for something to break – the man himself, perhaps – but there’s nothing. Nothing.’

  Fox made a long sympathetic rumbling sound.

  ‘I’ve read and re-read the whole case from the beginning, and to me it’s as plain as the nose on your old face, Br’er Fox, but I’m damned if it will be to anybody else. It’s too far removed from simple, short statements although, God knows, they are there. I don’t know. You’ve got the warrant. Shall we walk in and feel his collar or shan’t we?’

  ‘We’re not likely to pick up anything else if we don’t.’

  ‘No. No, we’re not, I suppose.’

  His telephone rang.

  As Alleyn listened and made notes, his face cleared.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, ‘I think so. I freely confess I didn’t notice…It may be considerable…I see…Thank you, Peregrine,’ he said again and hung up, pushing the paper over to Fox who had assumed his spectacles in preparation. ‘This helps,’ he said.

  ‘Certainly does,’ Fox agreed.

  ‘I never noticed.’

  ‘You didn’t know there was going to be a murder.’

  ‘Well, no. But nor did young Robin. Lay on a car and a couple of coppers, will you, Fox?’

  He took a pair of handcuffs from a drawer in his desk.

  ‘Think he’ll turn ugly?’ asked Fox.

  ‘I don’t know. He might. Come on.’

  They went down in the lift.

  It was a warm early summer’s night. The car was waiting for them and Alleyn gave the address to the driver. He and Fox sat in front and the two uniform police in the back.

  ‘It’s an arrest,’ Alleyn said. ‘I don’t expect much trouble but you never know. The Macbeth murder.’

  The traffic streamed past in a world of lights, hurrying figures, incalculable urgencies proclaiming the warmth and excitability of London at night. In the suburbs the traffic thinned out. In Dulwich they slowed down and pulled up. The cul-de-sac off Alleyn Road was a dark entry with no lights in the front of the house. A man was waiting for them and came up to the car.

  ‘Hullo,’ said Alleyn. ‘Nobody stirring?’

  ‘He hasn’t left the place, sir. There’s another of our chaps by the back entrance.’

  ‘Right. Ready?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The other three men spread out behind him.

  Alleyn pressed a bellpush. Footsteps. A dim light behind glass panels and a fine voice, actor-trained, called out: ‘I’ll go.’ Footsteps sounded and the clank of a chain and turn of a key.

  The door opened. The tall figure was silhouetted against the dimly lit hall.

  ‘I was expecting you,’ the man said. ‘Come in.’

  Alleyn went in, followed by Fox. The two constables followed. One of them locked the door and pocketed the key.

  ‘Gaston Sears,’ said Alleyn, ‘I am about to charge you with the murder of Dougal Macdougal. Do you wish to say anything? You are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so, but whatever you say will be taken down and may be given in evidence.’

  ‘Thank you. I wish to say a great deal.’

  Fox took out his notebook and pen. Alleyn said: ‘I will search you, if you please, before you begin.’

  Gaston turned and placed his hands against the wall.

  He wore his black cloak; there were letters and papers of all kinds in every pocket. Alleyn handed them to Fox who noted their contents and tied them together. They seemed for the most part to be concerned with ancient weaponry and in particular with the claidheamh-mor.

  ‘Please do not lose them,’ Gaston said. ‘They are extremely valuable.’

  ‘They will be perfectly safe.’

  ‘I am relieved to receive your assurance, sir. Where is my claidheamh-mor?’

  ‘Locked up at the Yard.’

  ‘Locked up? Locked up? Do you know what you are saying? Do you realize that I, who know more about the latent power of the claidheamh-mor than anyone living, have so disastrously aroused it that I am brought to this pass by its ferocity alone? Do you know – ‘

  On and on went the great voice. Ancient documents, the rune on the hilts, the history of bloodshed, formal executions, decapitation in battle, what happened to the thief of the sixteenth century (decapitation), its effect on people who handled it (lunacy). ‘I, in my pride, in my arrogance, supposed myself exempt. Then came the fool Macdougal and his idiot remarks. I felt it swell in my hands.

  ‘And what do you suppose inspired the practical joker? Decapitated heads. But how do you account for them? You cannot. I could not until I discovered Barrabell’s wife had suffered decapitation at the hands of the so-called Hampstead Chopper. Wherever the claidheamh-mor turns up, it is associated with decapitation. And I, its demented agent, I in my vanity – ‘

  On and on. Sometimes fairly logical reasoning, sometimes high-flown nonsense, until at last Gaston stopped, wiped his brow, said he was rather warm, and asked for a glass of water, which the Chinese servant brought.

  ‘Before you go on again,’ said Alleyn, ‘you have just said –’ he consulted his notes – ‘“I, its demented agent, I in my vanity”. What were you about to say?’

  ‘Let me think. “Demented agent” did I say? “In my vanity”? But it’s as clear as may be, surely. It came alive in my hands. I was the appointed man.’

  ‘You mean you killed Dougal Macdougal?’

  ‘Certainly. If holding the claidheamh-mor can be called “killing”, I killed him.’ He drew himself up. He might have been an eccentric professor about to address his class. He grasped t
he lapels of his cloak, raised his chin and pitched his voice on a declamatory level.

  ‘It was after the servant put the false head on my claidheamh-mor. He carried it into the appointed corner and left it there and went away. I removed the belt of my tunic. I held the claidheamh-mor in my hands and it was alive and hot and desirous of blood.

  ‘I stood there in the shadows. Very still. I heard him declaim:

  “…weapons laugh to scorn,

  Brandished by man that’s of a woman born.”

  I heard him cross the stage. I raised the claidheamh-mor. He came in, shielding his eyes in the comparative dark. He said, “Who’s there?” I said, “Sir Dougal, there’s a thong loose on your left foot. You will trip,” and he said, “Oh, it’s you, is it. Thank you.” He stooped down and the claidheamh-mor leapt in my hands and decapitated him. I put the head on it and left it in the corner. The coronet had fallen off it and I put it on my own head. I could hear Macduff’s soliloquy and his encounters with the other figures that he mistook for Macbeth and I was ready. I heard Old Siward say, “Enter, sir, the castle,” and I pulled down my visor and adjusted my cloak and I went on and fought as Macbeth and Macduff chased me off and ran on past me. I replaced my heavy belt. That is how it was. I was the avenger. I was proud as Lucifer.’

  IV

  A sunny Sunday and sightseeing craft plied up and down the Thames on their trips to the Tower. The Jays with Alleyn were drinking their after-lunch coffee on the terrace outside their house and across the river the Dolphin, having had its outside washed down, sparkled in the sunshine. William, whose Sunday visit had become a fixture, was being noisily entertained upstairs in the ex-nursery by Robin and Richard.

  ‘Gaston’s saved us a lot of trouble by confessing,’ said Alleyn. ‘Though I can’t think of a more mot injuste for his manner of doing it. He sticks to his story and I can’t make up my mind, to my own satisfaction, whether the plea’s altogether genuine. Luckily I don’t have to. The defence, if he allows it, will be guilty but insane. His past history will support it though he’ll fight it tooth and nail. But he was very cunning, you know. He cooked up an alibi for himself by committing the crime earlier. He was talking away to the covey of “corpses” when the murder was supposed to be done, and alleging he suffered from asthma which he kept quiet about for professional reasons to conceal the fact that he was out of breath from the fight. In reality he’s as strong as an ox with the wind of a bellows. There’s no question of it being an unrehearsed impulse. All the same – ‘

  ‘All the same?’ said Emily.

  ‘Whatever the verdict is, I’ve an idea it won’t upset him as much as it would anyone else. He’ll write a book, I dare say. And he’ll adore the trial.’

  ‘What about Barrabell?’

  ‘Horrid little man with his tricks and manners and anonymous messages. But we won’t let him go to Russia. He’s required to give evidence. I shouldn’t talk like this about him, he’s had an appalling experience, God knows, but it’s not fair to be such a good actor and such a crawler. In a way he’s a link in the whole business. He started the decapitation business and he got Gaston thinking about it and about the claidheamh-mor. Upon my word, I wouldn’t be surprised if he planted the idea in Gaston’s wild imagination. How’s your play going? You’ve started rehearsals, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes. All right. Too early to predict. Young William’s an actor. Maggie’s shaping well. And – Good Lord, I’ve forgotten. It’s why I asked you to lunch in the first place. Wait a moment.’

  Peregrine went indoors. There was a wild shriek from above and the three little boys came tumbling downstairs. They fell into a scrum and out of it and rushed round the house, William shouting, ‘“The devil damn thee black, thou cream-faced loon.”’

  Alleyn called out, ‘Robin! May I interrupt?’

  ‘Yes, sir?’ said Robin warily.

  ‘It’s about you knowing the fighter wasn’t Macbeth.’

  ‘Did you guess?’ said Robin, rallying.

  ‘Only after you gave the hint. Macbeth and all his men wore black lambskin tunics, didn’t they?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And Seyton wore a heavy belt to support the claidheamh-mor?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And when he took it off it showed the wear – the lambskin all flattened and worn?’

  ‘Yes. Only when his cloak-thing shifted for a second.’

  ‘I should have noticed and I didn’t. You’ve been a great help, Robin.’

  ‘Will I have to give evidence?’ Robin asked hopefully.

  ‘Not if he confesses.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I just wanted to thank you.’

  ‘You didn’t notice at the time, sir. I expect you would have,’ said Robin kindly. ‘When you got round to it.’

  ‘I hope so,’ Alleyn said meekly.

  ‘Hi!’ Robin shouted. ‘William!’ And tore off round the house.

  Peregrine reappeared. He carried a long package carefully wrapped in brown paper. ‘Do you know what’s in here?’ he asked.

  Alleyn took it, passed his hands over it and weighed it. ‘Dummy swords?’ he asked.

  ‘Right. The wooden swords used for rehearsing the fight while Gaston made the steel ones. Being Gaston, they are needlessly ornate and highly finished. Now look at this.’

  He gave Alleyn an open envelope addressed to ‘Master William Smith’. ‘Read it,’ he said.

  Alleyn took it out.

  Master William Smith.

  I regret that I, having been much engaged of late, forgot the promise I made you at the beginning of the season. I have, as some compensation, included both weapons. You will be anxious to learn their correct usage. Treat them with the utmost care and respect. Regrettably, I shall not be at liberty to teach you but Mr Simon Morten will no doubt be glad to do so. You will be a good actor.

  I remain,

  Your obedient servant,

  Gaston Sears

  ‘Shall I give them to the boy? And the letter?’

  After a long pause, Alleyn said: ‘I don’t know William. If he is a sensible boy and respects the tools of his trade – yes. I think you should.’

  By the Same Author

  A Man Lay Dead

  Enter a Murderer

  The Nursing Home Murder

  Death in Ecstasy

  Vintage Murder

  Artists in Crime

  Death in a White Tie

  Overture to Death

  Death at the Bar

  Surfeit of Lampreys

  Death and the Dancing Footman

  Colour Scheme

  Died in the Wool

  Final Curtain

  Swing, Brother, Swing

  Opening Night

  Spinsters in Jeopardy

  Scales of Justice

  Off With His Head

  Singing in the Shrouds

  False Scent

  Hand in Glove

  Dead Water

  Death at the Dolphin

  Clutch of Constables

  When in Rome

  Tied up in Tinsel

  Black As He’s Painted

  Last Ditch

  Grave Mistake

  Photo-Finish

  Light Thickens

  Black Beech and Honeydew (autobiography)

  Copyright

  HARPER

  an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

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  Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2009

  FIRST EDITION

  Light Thickens first published in Great Britain by Collins 1982

  Ngaio Marsh asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of these works

  Copyright © Ngaio Marsh Ltd 1982

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  EPub Edition © MAY 2010 ISBN: 978-0-007-34487-1

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