by Ngaio Marsh
“But isn’t. What was Macbeth doing? Macduff chased him off and then had to dodge about, take the dummy head off the claidheamh-mor, and raise it and do the fell deed.”
“Yerse.”
“Did Macbeth lie there and allow him to get on with it?” Alleyn asked. “And how about the time? If I couldn’t do it in three minutes nobody else could.”
“Well, no. No.”
“Next?”
“Banquo.” Fox suggested.
“He could have done it. He was hanging about in that region after he was called. He could have slipped in and removed the dummy head. Waited there for the end of the duel. Done it. Fixed the head. And walked out in plenty of time for the curtain call. He was wearing his bloodied cloak, which would have accounted for any awkward stains. Next.”
“Duncan and/or one of his sons. Well,” said Fox apologetically. “It’s silly, I know, but they could have. If nobody was watching them. And they could have come out just when nobody was there. If it wasn’t so beastly it would be funny. The old boy rolling up his sleeves and settling his crown and wading in. And, by the way, if there were two of them the time thing vanishes. The King beheads him and drags the body over and puts the dummy by it while his son puts the head on the weapon and places them in the corner. However,” said Mr. Fox, “it is silly. How about one of the witches? The man-witch?”
“Rangi? Partly Maori. He was wonderful. Those grimaces and the dance. He was possessed. He was also with his girls — and you noted it — all through the crucial time.”
“All right, then. The other obvious one. Gaston,” said Fox moodily.
“But why obvious? Well, because he’s a bit dotty — but that’s not enough. Or is it? And again: time. We’ve got to face it, Fox. For all of them. Except for the Royal Family, Banquo, and the witches — time! Rangi could have taken a girl in to do the head on the claidheamh-mor and thus saved about a minute. It’s impossible to imagine anybody collaborating with the exuberant Gaston.”
“Anyway,” said Fox. “We’ve got to face it. They were all too busy fighting and on-going.”
“It’s all approximate. Counsel for the defense, whatever the defense might be, would make mincemeat of it.”
“They talked during the fight. Here —” He flattened out his Penguin copy of the play. “I got this out of a dressing-room,” he said. “Here. Look. Macbeth gets the last word. And damn’d,” quoted Mr. Fox, who read laboriously through his specs, be him that first cries, Hold, enough! and with that they set to again. And within the next three minutes, whoever did it, his head was off his shoulders and on the stick.”
“Our case in a nutshell, Br’er Fox.”
“Yerse.”
“And now, if you will, let us examine what may or may not be the side-kicks in evidence. Where’s Peregrine Jay? Has he gone with the others?”
“No,” said Peregrine, “I’ve been here all the time.” And he came down the center aisle into the light. “Here I am,” he said. “Not as bright as a button, I fear, but here.”
“Sit down. Did you hear what I said?”
“Yes. I’m glad you said it. I’m going to break my own rule and tell you more fully of what may be, as you’ve hinted, side-kicks.”
“I’ll be glad to hear you.”
Peregrine went on. He described the unsettling effect of the tales of ill luck that had grown up around the play of Macbeth and his own stern injunctions to the company that they ignore them.
“The ones most committed, of course, like Nina Gaythorne, didn’t obey me but I think, though I can’t be sure, that on the whole they more or less obeyed. For a time, at any rate. And then it began. With the Banquo mask in the King’s room.”
He described it. “It was extraordinarily — well, effective. Glaring there in the shadow. It’s like all Gaston’s work, extremely macabre. You remember the procession of Banquo’s in the witches’ scene?”
“I do indeed.”
“Well, to come upon one suddenly! I was warned, but even then — horrid!”
“Yes.”
“I examined it and I found an arrangement of string connected with the slate-colored poncho. The head itself was fixed on a coat hanger and the poncho hung from that. The long end of string reached down to the stage. There is a strut in the wall above the head. The string passed over it and down, to stage-level. Now it seemed to me, it still seems to me, that if I’m on the right track this meant that the cloak was pulled up to cover the head and the cord fastened down below. I’ve had a look and there’s a cross-piece in the back of the scenery in exactly the right place.”
“It could be lowered from stage-level?”
“Yes. The intention being that it remained hidden until Macduff went in. Macduff saw it first. He tried to warn Macbeth.”
“What did you do with it?”
“I called Props and wrapped it up in its cloak and told him to put it with its mates on the property table.”
“And then?”
“The next thing that happened was a servant at the banquet swept off the dish-cover and there, underneath was the man’s head again. Grinning at Macbeth. It was — well, awful. You know?”
“What did you do?”
“I addressed the actors. All of them. I said — the expected things, I suppose. That these were rather disgusting tricks but as none of them was prepared to own up to being the perpetrator I thought the best thing we could do was to ignore them. Something like that.”
“Yes. It must have thrown a spanner in your work, didn’t it?”
“Of course. But we rose above. Actors are resilient, you know. They react to something with violence and they talk a great deal but they go on. Nobody walked out on us but there was a nasty feeling in the air. But I really think Rangi’s rat’s head was the worst.”
“Rangi’s rat’s head?” Alleyn repeated.
“Well, it was the head that mattered. In his marketing bag. That’s what we called their bags — a sort of joke. For the things they collected for their spell, you know. Some of them off the corpse on the gallows. Did you know the items they enumerate are really authentic?”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Well, they are. For a charm of powerful trouble. There’s no mention of a rat’s head, though.”
“Have you got your own ideas about the author of these tricks?”
“I have, yes. But they are not supported by any firm evidence. Merely unsecured ideas. They couldn’t be vaguer. They arise from a personal distaste.”
“Can we hear them? We won’t attach too much importance to them. I promise.”
Peregrine hesitated. Mr. Fox completed his notes and looked benevolently at him, his vast hand poised over the notebook.
“Have you spoken to Barrabell? The Banquo?”
“Not really,” said Alleyn. “Only to get his name and address and a very few bits of information about the other people’s positions.”
“He’s a strange one. Beautiful voice, well managed. A mischief-maker. He belongs to some way-out society, the Red Fellowship, I think it’s called. He enjoys making sneaky little underhand jokes about other actors. I find myself thinking of him as a ‘sea-lawyer.’ He’s always making objections to ‘business’ in the play which doesn’t endear him to me, of course.”
“Of course not.”
“I think he knows about young William.”
Alleyn took the folded paper from his pocket, opened it, and showed it to Peregrine.
“This was left in Winter Meyer’s office and typed on the machine there?”
Peregrine looked at it. “Yes,” he said. “Winty told me.”
“Did you guess who did it?”
“Yes. I thought so. Barrabell. It was only a guess but he was about. In the theatre at that time. The sort of thing he’d do, I thought.”
“Did you say so to Meyer?”
“I did, yes. Winty says he went to the loo. It was the only time the room was free. About eight minutes. There’s a window into the foyer
. Anybody there could look in, see it was empty, and — do it.”
“One of the Harcourt-Smith victims was called Barrabell. Muriel Barrabell. A bank clerk. She was beheaded.”
“Do you think —?”
“We’ll have to find out,” Alleyn said. “Even so, it doesn’t give him a motive to kill Macbeth.”
“And there’s absolutely no connection that we know of with poor Sir Dougal.”
“No.”
“Whereas with Simon Morten —” Perry stopped.
“Yes?”
“Nothing. That sounds as if I was hiding something. I was only going to say Simon’s got a hot temper and he suspected Dougal of making passes at the Lady. She put that right with him.”
“He hadn’t got the opportunity to do it. He must have chased Macbeth off with his own blunt weapon raised. He’d have to change his weapon for the claidheamh-mor from which he’d have to remove the dummy head while his victim looked on, did nothing, and then obligingly stooped over to receive the stroke.”
“And Gaston?”
“First of all, time. I’ve just done it in dumb show myself, all out and way over the time. And what’s even more convincing, Gaston was seen by the King and Nina Gaythorne by people going on for the call. He actually spoke to them. This was while the murder was taking place. He went into the O.P. corner and collected the claidheamh-mor at the last moment when Macduff came around and he followed him on.”
Peregrine raised his arms and let them drop. “Exit Gaston Sears,” he said. “I don’t think I ever really thought he’d done it but I’m glad to have it confirmed. Who’s left?”
“Without an alibi? Barrabell. The stagehands. Various thanes. Lady Macbeth. Old Uncle Tom Cobbleigh and all.”
“I’d better go back to the boys in the office. They’re trying to make up their minds.”
Alleyn looked at his watch. “It’s ten past two,” he said. “If they haven’t made up their minds I suggest they sleep on it. Are the actors called?”
“For four o’clock this afternoon, poor dears.”
“It’s none of my business, of course, but I don’t think you should go on with Macbeth.”
“No?”
“It’s only a matter of time before the truth is known. A very short time probably. You’ll get a sort of horror-reaction, a great deal of morbid speculation, and, I should think, the kind of publicity that will be an insult to a beautiful production.”
“Oh.”
“There will be a trial. We hope. Your actors will be pestered by the press. Quite possibly the Harcourt-Smith case will be revived and young William cornered by the News of the World and awful remarks put into his reactions. He and his mother will be hunted remorselessly.”
“This may happen whatever we do,” said Peregrine unhappily.
“Certainly. But to nothing like the same extent if you don’t do this play.”
“No. No, nothing like.” Peregrine got up and walked to the door.
“I’ll speak to them,” he said. “Along those lines. Goodnight, Alleyn.”
“Good-night, my dear chap.”
The stage door closed behind him.
“Br’er Fox, what’s emerged definitely from it all?” Alleyn asked.
They opened their notebooks. Alleyn also opened his programme.
“We can wipe out most of the smaller parts,” he said. “They were too active. All the fighting men. When they were offstage they were yelling and bashing away at each other like nobody’s business.”
“I stood over by the dark corner and I’ll take my oath none of them got within cooee of it,” Fox said.
“Yes. They were very well drilled and supposing one of them got out of step on purpose, the others would have known and been down on him at once. It may have looked like an Irishman’s picnic but they were worked out in inches.”
“You can scratch the lot,” said Fox.
“Gladly,” said Alleyn and did so. “And who’s left?” he asked.
“Speaking parts. It’s easier than it looks. The old Colonel Blimpish chap and his son. Never had a chance. The son was ‘dead’ and lying on the stage, hidden from the audience, and the old boy was stiff-upper-lipping on the stairs while the murder was done.”
“So much for the Siwards. And Malcolm was onstage and speaking. Now I’m going to reiterate. Not for the first and, I’m afraid, not for the last time. Gaston Sears was offstage of the crucial moment and talking in a whisper to the King and Miss Gaythorne. Young William was with them.
“The witches had come on for the curtain call and were waiting upstage on the rostrum. Now, Macduff,” said Alleyn. “Let’s look a bit closer at Macduff. He’s a man with a temper and now we know there’s been some sort of trouble between him and Macbeth. He ended the fight by chasing Macbeth off. His story is that Macbeth screamed and fell down as usual and he went straight off and was seen to do so by various actors. Confirmed by the actors. By which time Macbeth was dead. I tried it out with you, Br’er Fox, and I was four and a third minutes. We played the scene with Gaston as Macbeth and the cast and it was three. Moreover, Morton — Macduff — would have had to get the dummy head off the claidheamh-mor before killing Macbeth with it while Macbeth — I’ve said this ad nauseam — stood or lay there waiting to be beheaded. It does not, Br’er Fox, make sense. Moreover, as Macduff himself pointed out, it would have been a whole lot easier for him to have done a Lizzie Borden on Macbeth during their fight and afterward say he didn’t know how he’d gone wrong.”
“His weapon’s as blunt as old boots.”
“It weighs enough for a whack on the head to fix Macbeth.”
“Yerse. But it didn’t.”
“No. We’ll move on. Banquo. Banquo, we find, is a very rum fellow. He’s devious, is Banquo, and he was ‘dead’ all this long time and free, up to the second curtain call to go wherever he liked. He could have gone into the O.P. corner and waited there in the dark with the claidheamh-mor when Gaston left it there for the stagehand to put the dummy head on it. The stagehand did put it there. Banquo removed it and did the deed. There’s no motive that I can see but he’s a possibility.”
“And are you going to tell me that Banquo is the perpetrator of the funny business with the dummy heads? And the typed message?”
“I rather think so. I’m far from happy with the idea, all the same.”
“Humph,” said Fox.
“We’ll knock off now for a while.” He looked into the dark house. “It was a wonderful production, Fox,” he said. “The best I’ve seen. Almost too good. I don’t think they can carry on.”
“What do you suppose they’ll do in its place?”
“Lord knows. Something quite different. Getting Gertie’s Garter,” said Alleyn angrily.
Chapter 7
THE YOUNGER ELEMENT
It was a quarter past three when Peregrine let himself into his house and gave himself a drink. A very stiff whiskey and a sandwich and then upstairs softly to bed.
“Hullo,” said Emily. “You needn’t creep about. I waked when you opened the front door.”
He turned on his bedside lamp.
“What’s happened?” she said when she saw his face.
“Didn’t Cip tell you?”
“Only that there’d been an accident. He said, privately, that Robin didn’t understand. Not properly and he wasn’t sure that he did.”
“Is Robin upset?”
“You know what he’s like.”
“Has he gone silent?”
“Yes.”
“I’d better tell you,” said Peregrine. And did.
“Oh, Perry,” she whispered. “How awful.”
“Isn’t it?”
“What will you do? Go on?”
“I think not. It’s not decided. Alleyn pointed out what would happen.”
“Not the same Mr. Alleyn?” she exclaimed.
“Yes. The very same. He was in front last night. He’s a Chief Superintendent now. Very grand.”
�
��Nice?”
“Yes. There’s nobody arrested or anything like that. Shall I take a look at the boys?”
“They were both asleep an hour ago. Have a look.”
Peregrine crept along the landing and opened their doors. Steady regular breathing in each room.
He came back to his wife and got into bed.
“Sound asleep,” he said.
“Good.”
“God, I’m tired,” he said. He kissed her and fell asleep.
Maggie Mannering with Nanny had ridden home in her hired car. She was in a state of bewilderment. She had heard the cast go by on their way for the curtain call, the usual storm of applause, and the rest of the company’s movement forward when everyone except herself and Macbeth went on. She had heard Gaston cry out: “No! For God’s sake, no!” and Masters: “Hold it! Hold everything.” There had been a sudden silence and then his voice: “Ladies and gentlemen, I regret to tell you there has been an accident —”
And then the confused sound of the audience leaving and Masters again, saying, “Clear, please. Everybody off and to their dressing-rooms. Please.” And hurrying figures stumbling past her and asking each other, “What accident? What’s happened?” and Malcolm and the soldiers: “It’s him. Did you see? Christ Almighty.”
There was a muddle of human beings, Nanny taking her to her dressing-room, and she removing her makeup and Nanny getting her into her street clothes.
“Nanny, what’s happened? Is it Sir Dougal? What accident?”
“Never you mind, dear. We’ll be told. All in good time.”
“Go out, Nanny. Ask somebody. Ask Mr. Masters. Say I want to know.”
Nanny went out. She ran into somebody, another woman, in the passage and there was a gabble of voices. There was no mistaking the high-pitched, nicely articulated wail.
“Nina!” Maggie had called. “Come in. Come in, darling.”
Nina was in disarray but had changed and had put on her scarves and a tam-o’-shanter of the kind that needs careful adjustment and had not received it. There were traces of mascara under her eyes.