by Ngaio Marsh
He looked at the stage crew. “You’ve had a bit of a job. Which of you is responsible for the properties?”
Props made an awkward movement.
“You are? I’m afraid I must ask you to wait a little longer. The foreman? I’m sorry, but you and you three men will have to wait, too. There’s no need for you to remain onstage any longer. Thank you.” The men moved off into the shadows.
Bailey and Thompson assembled their gear.
“You’ll want the lights man, won’t you?” Alleyn said. “Is he here?”
“Here,” said the lights man, who was with Charlie, the assistant stage manager.
“Right! I’ll leave you to it. Don’t touch anything.” And to Masters: “Where does Mr. Gaston Sears dress?”
“I’ll show you,” said Masters.
He led Alleyn into the world of dressing-rooms. They walked down a passage with doors on either side and the occupants’ names on them. It was very, very quiet.
Gaston’s room was not much more than a cubicle at the end of the passage. Masters tapped on the door and the deep voice boomed: “Come in.” Masters opened the door.
“These two gentlemen would like a word with you, Gaston,” he said and made his way back quickly.
There was only just room for Alleyn and Fox. They edged in and with difficulty shut the door.
Gaston had changed into a black dressing-gown and had removed his makeup. He was sheet-white but perfectly composed. He gave his name and address before being asked to do so.
Alleyn exclaimed: “Ah, I was right. You won’t remember me but I called on you several years ago, Mr. Sears, and asked you to give us the date and value of a claidheamh-mor, part of a burglar’s haul we had recovered.”
“I remember it very well. It was of no great antiquity but it was, as far as that went, not a fake.”
“That’s the one. Tragically enough, it’s about a claidheamh-mor that I’d like to ask you a few questions now.”
“I shall be glad to offer an opinion, particularly as you use the correct term correctly pronounced. It is my own property and it is a perfectly authentic example of the thirteenth-century fighting tool of the Scottish nobleman. In our production I carry it on all ceremonial occasions. It weighs…”
He sailed off into a catalogue of details and symbolic significance and from thence into a list of previous owners. The further he retreated into history the murkier did his anecdotes become. Alleyn and Fox stood jammed together. Fox had with difficulty drawn his notebook from his breast pocket and had opened it in readiness, when Alleyn nudged him, to record anything that seemed to be of interest.
“…as with many other such tools — Excalibur is one — there has grown up, with the centuries, the belief that the weapon — its name — I translate ‘Gut-ravager’ — engraved in a Celtic device on the hilts — is said to be possessed with magic powers. Be that as it may —” He paused to draw breath and take thought.
“You would not wish to let it out of your grasp,” Alleyn cut in and nudged Fox. “Naturally.”
“Naturally. But also I was obliged to do so. Twice. When I joined the murderers of Banquo and when I came off in the last scene. After Macbeth said, a time for such a word, the property man took it from me in order to affix the head on it. I made the head. I could be thought to have the ability to place it on the claidheamh-mor but unfortunately when I did so the first time, I made a childish error and the weapon, which is extremely sharp, pierced the top of the head and it swung about in a ludicrous fashion. So it was thought better to mend the hole and let Props fix it. He had to ladle blood on it.”
“And he returned it to you?”
“He put it in the O.P. corner, on the left as you go in. Nobody else was allowed to go into the corner because of Macbeth and Macduff coming off after their fight, straight into it. I should have said, perhaps, that it is not pitch-dark all the time. It was made so for the end of the fight to guard against anyone in front at the extreme right or in the Prompt boxes seeing Macbeth recover himself. A curtain, upstage of it, was closed by a stagehand as soon as their fight was engaged.”
“Yes. I’ve got that.”
“Props put the claidheamh-mor in the corner sometime before the end of the fight. I took it up at the last moment before Macduff and I reentered.”
“So Macbeth came off, screamed, and was decapitated by the claidheamh-mor from which the dummy’s head had been pulled. The real head now replaced it.”
“I — yes, I confess I had not worked it out so carefully but — yes, I suppose so. I think there would be time.”
“And room? To swing the weapon?”
“There is always room. I invented the fight. I know the moves. Macduff, under my instruction, swung his weapon up while still in view of the audience and brought it down when he was just out of view in the O.P. corner. There was room. I was up at the back talking to the King and Props and others. The little boy, William. I saw Macduff come off. I have grown more and more certain,” said Gaston, “that there was a malign influence at work, that the claidheamh-mor has a secret life of its own. It is satisfied now. We hope. We hope.”
He gazed at Alleyn. “I am extremely tired,” he said. “It has been an alarming experience. Horrifying, really. It must be something I have done. I didn’t look up at first. It was dark. I took it and engaged the hilts in my harness and entered behind Macduff. And when I looked up it dropped blood on my face. What have I done? How have I, who bought and treasured it, committed an offense? Is it because I have allowed it to be used in a public display? True, I have done so. I have carried it.” His piercing eyes brightened. He reassumed his commanding posture. “Can it have been the accolade?“ he asked.”Was I being admitted to some esoteric comradeship and baptized with blood?” He made a helpless gesture. “I am confused,” he said.
“We won’t worry you any more just now, Mr. Sears. You’ve been very helpful.”
They found their way back to the stage, where Bailey and Thompson squatted, absorbed, over their unspeakable tasks.
“Not much doubt about the weapon, Mr. Alleyn,” said Bailey. “It’s this thing it’s stuck on. Sharp! Like a razor. And there’s the marks, see. Done from the back when the victim’s bending over. Clean as a whistle.”
“Yes, I see. Prints?”
“He was wearing gloves. Gauntlets. Whoever he was. They all were.”
“Thompson, have you got all the shots you want?”
“Yes, thanks. Close-up. All around. The whole thing.”
The sound of the stage door being opened and a quick, incisive voice. “All right. Dark, isn’t it. Where’s the body?”
“Sir James,” Alleyn called. “Here!”
“Hullo, Rory. Up to your old games, are you?”
Sir James Curtis appeared, immaculate in dinner jacket and black overcoat and carrying his bag. “I was at a party at Saint Thomas’s. What have you got — good God, what is all this?”
“All yours at the moment,” said Alleyn.
Bailey and Thompson had stepped aside. Macdougal’s head on the end of the claidheamh-mor stared up at the pathologist. “Where’s the body?” he asked.
“In the dark corner over there. We haven’t touched it.”
“What’s the story?”
Alleyn told him. “I was in front,” he said.
“Extraordinary. I’ll look at the body.”
It lay on its front as Alleyn had found it. The blood-soaked Macbeth tartan was wrapped closely around the body. Sir James pulled it away and looked at the wound. The lip was turned in and a piece of the collar was sliced across it into the gash.
“One blow,” he said. He bent over the body. “Better get the remains to the mortuary,” he said. “If your men have finished.”
They went back onstage.
“You may separate them,” said Alleyn.
Bailey produced a large polyethylene bag. He then took hold of the head. Thompson with both hands on the hilt grasped the claidheamh-mor. They faced eac
h other, their feet apart and the blade parallel with the stage: a parody of artisans sweating it out in hell.
“Right?”
“Right.”
“Go.”
The sound was the worst part of it. It resembled the drawing of an enormous cork. It was effective. Bailey put the head in the bag, wrote on a label, and tied it up. He put the bag in a canvas container. “I’ll stow this away,” he said and went out to the police car with it.
“What about the weapon?” asked Thompson.
“Put some cardboard around it,” said Alleyn. “It’ll lie flat on the back seat or on the floor. Then the body and the dummy head. You’ll go straight to the mortuary, I suppose?”
“Yes. And you’ll be here for some time to come?” said Sir James.
“Yes.”
“I’ll ring you if anything turns up.”
“Thanks.”
The ambulance men came in and put the body into another polyethylene bag and the bag on a stretcher and covered it. They carried it out and drove away. Sir James got into his car and followed them.
Alleyn said, “Come on, Fox. We’ll find the property man.”
Masters was waiting offstage for them.
“I thought you might use the greenroom as an office,” he said. “I’ll show you where it is.”
“That’s very thoughtful. I’ll see the property man there.”
The greenroom was a comfortable place with armchairs, books, a solid table, and framed photographs and pictures on the walls. They settled themselves at the table.
“Hullo, Props,” said Alleyn when he came in. “We don’t know your name, I’m afraid. What is it?”
“Ernest James, sir.”
“Ernest James. We won’t keep you long, I hope. This is a pretty grim business, isn’t it?”
“Bloody awful.”
“You’ve been on the staff for a long time, haven’t you?”
“Fifteen year.”
“Long as that? Sit down, why don’t you.”
“Aw. Ta,” said Ernie and sat.
“We’re trying at the moment to sort out when the crime was committed and then when the heads were changed. Macbeth’s last words are Hold, enough. He and Macduff then fight and a marvelous fight it was. He exits and we assume was killed at once. There’s a pause. Then pipe and drums coming nearer and nearer. Then a prolonged entry of everyone left alive in the cast. Then dialogue between Malcolm and Old Siward. Macduff comes in with Gaston Sears following him, the head on his giant weapon.”
“Was you in front, then, guv’nor?”
“Yes, as it happened.”
“Gawd, it was awful. Awful.”
“It was indeed. Tell me, Props. When did you put the dummy head on the claymore and when did you put them in the O.P. corner?”
“Me? Yeah, well. I got hold of the bloody weapon — it’s as sharp as hell — off ’is ’Igh-and-Mightiness when he came off after the Chief said, There’d ’ave been a time for such a word, whatever that may mean. I took it up to the props table, see, and I put the dummy on it. That took a bit of time and handling, like. What with the sharpness and the length, it was awkward. The ’ead’s stuffed full of plaster except for a narrer channel and I had to fit it into the channel and shove it home. It kind of locked. And then I doused it with ‘blood’ rahnd the neck and put it in the corner.”
“When?”
“I got faster with practice. Took me about three minutes, I’d say. Simon Morten was shouting, Make all our trumpets speak. Round about then.”
“And there it remained until Gaston collected it and took it on — with a different head — at the very end.”
“Correct.”
“Right. We’ll ask you to sign a statement to that effect, later on. Can you think of anything at all that could help us? Anything out of the ordinary? Superstitions, for instance?”
“Nuffink,” he said quickly.
“Sure of that?”
“Yer.”
“Thank you, Ernie.”
“Fanks, guv. Can I go home?”
“Where do you live?”
“Five Jobbins Lane. Five minutes’ walk.”
“Yes. All right.” Alleyn wrote on a card: “Ernest James. Permission to leave. R. Alleyn.”
“Here you are. Show it to the man at the door.”
“You’re a gent, guv. Fanks,” Ernie repeated and took it. But he did not go. He shuffled toward the door and stood there, looking from Alleyn to Fox, who had put on his steel-rimmed glasses and now contemplated him over the tops.
“Is there something else?” Alleyn asked.
“I don’t fink so. No.”
“Sure?”
“Yes,” said Ernie and was gone.
“There was something else,” Fox observed tranquilly.
“Yes. We’ll leave him to simmer.”
There was a sharp rap at the door.
“Come in,” Alleyn called. And Simon Morten came in.
He had changed, of course, into his street clothes. Alleyn wondered if he was dramatically and habitually pale or if the shock of the appalling event had whitened him out of all semblance to normality.
“Mr. Morten?” Alleyn said. “I was just going to ask if you would come in. Do sit down. This is Inspector Fox.”
“Good evening, sir. May I have your address?” asked Fox, settling his glasses and taking up his pen.
He had not expected this bland reception. He hesitated. He sat down and gave his blameless address as if it was that of an extremely disreputable brothel.
“We are trying to get some sort of pattern into the sequence of events,” Alleyn said. “I was in front tonight which may be a bit of a help but not, I’m afraid, very much. Your performance really is wonderful: that fight! I was in a cold sweat. You must be remarkably fit, if I may say so. How long did it take you both to bring it up to this form?”
“Five weeks’ hard rehearsal and we’ve still —” He stopped. “Oh, God!” he said. “I actually forgot what has happened — I mean that—” He put his hands over his face. “It’s so incredible. I mean —” He dropped his hands and said: “I’m your prime suspect, aren’t I?”
“To be that,” said Alleyn, “you would have to have pulled off the dummy head and used the claidheamh-mor to decapitate the victim. He would have to have waited there and suffered his own execution without raising a finger to stop you. Indeed, he would have obligingly stooped over so that you could take a fair swipe at him. You would have dragged the body to the extreme corner and put the dummy head on it. Then you would have put the real head on the end of the claidheamh-mor and placed them both in position for Gaston Sears to take them up. Without getting blood all over yourself. All in about three minutes.”
Simon stared at him. A faint color crept into his cheeks.
“I hadn’t thought of it like that,” he said.
“No? Well, I may have slipped up somewhere but that’s how it seems to me. Now,” said Alleyn, “when you’ve got over your shock, do you mind telling me exactly what did happen when you chased him off?”
“Yes. Certainly. Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Well, he screamed and fell as usual and I ran out. Then I just hung around with all the others who’d been called until I got my cue and reentered. I said my final speech ending with ‘Hail, King of Scotland.’ I didn’t turn to look at Seyton carrying — that thing. I just pointed my sword at it while facing upstage. I thought some of them looked and sounded — well — peculiar, but they all shouted and the curtain came down.”
“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 secondhand 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!” he said. “No. 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 and 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. 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 him to elucidate.”
“Yes. But don’t let him think I blew the gaff, will you?”
“No.”
“If you don’t want me any more, may I go home?” Simon asked wearily.