by Ngaio Marsh
“Maggie!” she cried. “Oh, Maggie, isn’t it awful?”
“Isn’t what awful? Here. Sit down and pull yourself together, for pity’s sake and tell me. Is somebody dead?”
Nina nodded her head a great many times.
“Who”? Is it Dougal? Yes? For the love of Mike, pull yourself together. Has everybody lost their heads?”
Nina produced a shrill cackle of laughter. “What is it?” Maggie demanded.
“He has,” shrieked Nina. “Dougal has.”
“Has what?”
“Lost his head. I’m telling you. Lost his head.”
And while Maggie took in the full enormity of this, Nina broke into an extraordinary diatribe.
“I told you. I told lots of you. You wouldn’t listen. It’s the Macbeth curse, I said. If you make nonsense of it it’ll strike back. If Perry had listened to me, this wouldn’t have happened. You ask Brucie Barrabell, he’ll tell you. He knows. Those tricks with heads. They were warnings. And now — look.”
Maggie went to her little drinks cupboard. She was an abstemious woman and it was stocked for visitors rather than for herself, but she felt she now needed something, actually to prevent her fainting. The room was unsteady. She poured out two large brandies and gave one to Nina. Both their hands were shaking horridly.
They drank quickly and shuddered and drank again.
Nanny returned. She took a look at them and said: “I see you know.”
“Sort of,” said Maggie. “Only what happened. Not how, or why or anything else.”
“I saw Mr. Masters. The first anybody knew was the head carried on by Mr. Sears. Mr. Masters said that was absolutely all and he’s coming to see you as soon as he can. While we were talking a very distinguished-looking gent came up who said he was the Yard. And that’s all I know,” said Nanny. “Except that Mr. Masters said I could give them your telephone number and after a word with Mr. Masters the gentleman said I could take you home. So we’ll go home, love, shan’t we?”
“Yes. What about you, Nina? You could ask to go and I could take you.”
“I said I’d go with Bruce. I’m on his way and he’ll drop me. I’ve finished my drink, thank you all the same, dear Maggie, and I feel better.”
“Come on, then. So do I. I think,” said Maggie. “Lock up, Nanny. We’ll go home. They want our keys, don’t they?”
They left their keys with Mr. Fox. Masters was in deep conference with Alleyn but he saw her and hurried toward her.
“Miss Mannering, I am so sorry. I was coming. Did Nanny explain? Is your car here? This is appalling, isn’t it?”
They fled. Their car was waiting and there was still a small crowd in the alleyway. Maggie turned up her collar but was recognized.
“It’s Margaret Mannering,” shouted a man. “What’s happened? What was the accident? Hi!”
“I don’t know,” she said. Nanny scrambled in beside her and the driver sounded his horn.
The car began to back down the alleyway. Greedy faces at the windows. Impudent faces. Curious, grinning faces. A prolonged hooting and they were in Wharfingers Lane and picking up speed.
“Horrible people,” she said. “And I thought I loved them.”
She began, helplessly, to cry.
Gaston Sears walked up the path to his front door and let himself in. He was, by habit, a night owl and a lonely bird, too. Would it have been pleasant to have been welcomed home by a tender little woman who would ask him how the day, or rather, the night, had gone? And would it have been a natural and admirable thing to have told her? He went into his workroom and switched on the light. The armed Japanese warrior, grimacing savagely, leaped up, menacing him, but he was not alarmed. He found, as he expected, the supper tray left by his Chinese housekeeper. Crab salad and a bottle of a good white wine.
He switched on his heater and sat down to it.
He was hungry but worried. What would be done to his claidheamh-mor? The distinguished-looking policeman had assured him that great care would be taken of it but although he called it by its correct name he did not, he could not, understand. After all, he himself did not fully understand. As things had turned out it had fulfilled its true function but there was no telling, really, if it was satisfied.
He had enjoyed playing Macbeth for the police. He had a most phenomenal memory and years ago had understudied the part. And of course, once memorized, it was never forgotten. It struck him, not for the first time, that if they decided to go on they would ask him to play the part. He would have played it well.
By Heaven! he thought. They will offer it to me! It would be a good solution. I could wear my own basic Macbeth clothes for the garments. Any personable extra can go on for Seyton. And I invented and know the fight. It went well in their reconstruction. I would have been a success. But it would not be a gracious thing to do. It would be an error in taste. I shall tell them so.
He fell to with an appetite on his crab salad and filled his Waterford glass to the brim.
Simon Morten lived in Fulham on the borders of Chelsea. He thought he would walk to St. James’s and on by way of Westminster where he would probably pick up a cab.
Mentally he went over the fight. Gaston played it all-out and backed into the O.P. He yelled and fell with a plop. I couldn’t have done it, thought Simon. Not in the time. Found the claid-something. Removed the dummy head. Placed it by the body. Two-handed grip on the pommel. Swing it up and what’s he doing all the time? Gaston was gone. He walked off and found him standing with Nina Gaythorne and the King and William. He waited for his reentrance. Gaston came down and followed him on.
There was the repeat and then the Yard men with their notes and inaudible discussions and then they were told they could all go home.
In a way Simon was actually sorry. There hadn’t been time to think coherently. He went to Maggie’s dressing-room but she was gone. He went to his own room and found Bruce Barrabell there, putting on his dreary coat.
“We have to suppose these Yard people think they know what they’re doing,” he said, “I take leave to doubt it.”
Simon got his own coat and put it on. He pulled his brown scarf out of a pocket, wound it about his neck and tucked the ends in.
“Our Mr. Sears had himself a marvelous party, didn’t he?”
“I thought he was very good.”
“Oh yes. Marvelous. If you were in the mood.”
“Of course. Good-night.”
“Good-night, Morten,” said Barrabell and Simon took himself off.
He was deadly tired. He had thought the fresh air would revive him but he was beyond that point. He walked quickly but his legs were like logs and each stride took an intense mental effort. Not a soul about and St. James’s a thousand miles away. Big Ben tolled three. The Thames slapped against the Embankment. A taxi came out of a side street.
“Taxi! Taxi!”
It wasn’t going to stop. “Taxi!” cried Simon in despair.
He forced himself to run. It pulled into the curb.
“Oh, thank God,” he said. He got into it and gave the address. “I’m stone-cold sober,” he said, “but, my God, I’m tired.”
Bruce Barrabell fastened his awful coat and pulled on his black beret. He was going to drop Nina on his way home. She was coming to the Red Fellowship meeting next Sunday and would probably become a member. Not much of a catch but he supposed it was something to have a person from the Dolphin company. He must try to keep her off her wretched superstitious rigmaroles, poor girl.
He lit a cigarette and thought of the killing of Dougal Macdougal. Just how good was this Alleyn? A hangover from the old school tie days, of course, but probably efficient in his own way.
We shall see, thought Barrabell. He went along to Nina’s dressing-room.
The sun was high and reflected from the river.
“I wonder,” said Emily, “what the Smiths are doing.”
“The Smiths?” asked Crispin. “What Smiths? Oh, you mean William and his mum,”
he said and returned to his book.
“Yes. He was sent home as soon as they realized what had happened. I think he was just told there’d been an accident. They may have said, to Sir Dougal. There’s nothing they could have read in the Sunday papers. It’ll be an awful shock for them.”
“How old is he?” asked Robin, who lay on his back on the windowseat, vaguely kicking his feet in the air.
“Who? William?”
“Yes.”
“Nine.”
“Same as me.”
“Yes.”
“Is he silly and wet?”
“He’s certainly not silly and I don’t know what you mean by ‘wet.’ ”
“Behind the ears. Like a baby.”
“Not at all like that. He can fight. He’s learning karate and he’s a good gymnast.”
“Does he swear?”
“I haven’t heard him but I daresay he does.”
“I suppose,” said Robin, bicycling madly, “he’s very busy on Sundays.”
“I’ve no information. Shall I ask him to come to lunch? You could go over in a taxi to Lambeth where he lives and fetch him. Only an idea,” said Emily very casually.
“Oh, yes. You could do that, I suppose. Do that,” shouted Robin and leaped to his feet. “Ask him. Please,” he added. “Thrice three and double three. Two for you and three for me. Please.”
“Right you are.”
Emily consulted the cast list that Peregrine kept pinned up by the telephone and dialed a number.
“Mrs. Smith? It’s Emily Jay. I’ve got two sons home for half-term and we wondered if by any chance William would like to pay us a visit today. Robin, who’s William’s age, could come and collect him for luncheon and we’d promise to return him after an early supper here. Yes. Yes, would you?”
She heard Mrs. Smith’s cool voice repeating the invitation: “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” she added and William’s voice: “I think so. Yes. Thank you.”
“Yes, he’d like to come, thank you very much.”
“Robin will be there in about half an hour depending on a cab. Lovely. Mrs. Smith, I suppose William told you what happened last night at the theatre? Yes, I see… I’m afraid they were all in a great state. It’s Sir Dougal. He’s died… Yes, a fearful blow to us all… I don’t know. They’ll tell the company at four this afternoon what’s been decided. I don’t think William need go down. He’ll be here and we’ll tell him. Tragic. It’s hard to believe, isn’t it?… Yes. Good-bye.”
She hung up and said to Robin: “Go and get ready,” and to Crispin: “Do you want to go, Cip? Not if you don’t.”
“I think I’d like to.”
“Sure?”
“Yes. I can see the infant’s on his best behavior, can’t I?” Robin from the doorway gave a complicated derisory noise and left the room.
“There’s always that,” said their mother. “There’s just one thing, Cip. Do you know what happened last night? Sir Dougal died — yes. But how? What happened? Did you see? Have you thought?”
“I’m not sure. I saw — it. The head. Full-face but only for a split second.”
“Yes?”
“Lots of people in the audience saw it but I think they just thought it was an awfully good dummy, and lots didn’t. It was so quick.”
“Did Robin?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t think he’s sure either but he doesn’t say. He doesn’t want to talk about it.”
“The thing is, young William didn’t see anything. He was waiting offstage. He only knows Sir Dougal is dead. So don’t say anything to upset that, will you? If you can, keep right off the whole subject. Right?”
“Yes.”
“That’s fine. Here he comes.”
Crispin went out to the hall and Emily thought: He’s a nice boy. Old for his years but that’s rather nice too. She went up to the ex-nursery and hunted out a game of Chinese Checkers, one of Monopoly, a couple of memo pads.
Then she went downstairs and looked out of the window. No sign of her sons so they must have picked up a cab. She went to the kitchen and found her part-time cook making a horseradish sauce. There was a good smell of beef in the air.
“Richard’s spending the day with friends but we’ve got an extra small boy for lunch, Annie.”
“That’s okay,” said Annie, whose manner was of a free and easy sort.
“I’ll lay the table.”
“Will the boss be in?” asked Annie.
“If he can make it. We’re not to wait.”
“Okeydoke,” said Annie. “All serene.”
Emily couldn’t settle to anything. She wandered downstairs and into the living room. Across the river the Dolphin stood out brightly from its setting in the riverside slums. Peregrine was there now, and all the important people in the Dolphin, trying to reach a conclusion on the immediate future.
I hope they decide against carrying on, she thought. It would be horrible. And, remembering a halfhearted remark of Peregrine’s to the effect that Gaston would be good: It wouldn’t be the same. I hope they won’t do it.
She tried to think of a revival. There was Peregrine’s own play about the Dark Lady and the delicate little Hamnet and his glove. The original glove was now in the Victoria and Albert Museum. They had discussed a revival, and it seemed to fill the bill. The child they had used in the original production had been, as far as she recollected, an odious little monster. But William would play Hamnet well. She began to cast it from the present company in her mind, leaving herself out. She became excited and got a pencil and paper to write it all down.
It being Sunday, there was very little traffic in their part of the world. The boys decided to walk to the main street. They set out and almost at once a cruising taxi came their way. Crispin held up his first finger as his father always did and Robin pranced, waved his arms and imitated a seagull’s cry.
Crispin gave the driver the address and Robin leaped into the taxi.
“Takin ’im to the naughty boys’ ’ome” asked the driver, “or is ’e the Bishop of London?”
Crispin laughed and Robin piped down and was quietly thoughtful. They drove through a maze of small streets, coming finally into Lambeth. Robin broke his silence to start an argument about where the Palace could be and was taken aback when they stopped in a narrow lane off Stangate Street in front of a tidy little house.
“Will you wait for us, please?” said Crispin to the driver. “You wait in the car, Rob.”
Crispin got out of the taxi and went up the flight of three steps to the front door. Before he could ring, the door opened and William came out.
“I’m Crispin Jay,” said Crispin. “That’s Robin halfway out of the cab.”
“I’m William Smith. Hullo. Hullo, Robin.”
“Hullo,” Robin muttered.
“Get in, William,” Crispin said. And to the driver: “Back to Bank-side, please.”
They set off. Robin said he bet he knew all the streets they would go through before they got to Bankside. Crispin said he wouldn’t and won. William laughed infectiously and got a number of the early ones right. “I walk down them every day when I go to school,” he said, “so it’s not fair.”
“I go to the Blue Caps,” said Robin. “When I’m the right age I’ll go to Winchester if I pass the entrance exam.”
“I went to the Blue Caps when I was six but only for a term. I wanted to be an actor so I got a scholarship to the Royal Southwark Drama School. It’s a special school for actors.”
“Do you like it?”
“Yes,” said William. “I do like it, very much.”
“Do you like being in the play?”
“Gosh, yes.”
The taxi made a sharp turn to the right. Crispin took the opportunity to kick his brother, who said: “Hi! Watch your great feet where you put them. Oh! Sorry.”
“There’s the river,” said Crispin. “We’re nearly home.”
“Gosh, I’m starving. Are you starving, William?” Robin
inquired.
“You bet,” said William.
They drew up and stopped.
The two little boys tumbled out and ran up the steps. Crispin paid the taxi and gave the driver a fifteen percent tip.
“Much obliged, your reverence,” said the driver.
“There’s our car,” said Crispin. “Pop’s come home. Good.”
Emily opened the door and the boys went in, Robin loudly asking if it was time for lunch and saying that he and William were rattling-empty. William shook hands and was not talkative. Peregrine came out to the hall and ran his fingers over William’s hair. “Hullo, young fellow,” he said. “Nice to see you.”
“Hullo, sir.”
“I’m afraid I’ve got disturbing news for you. You know Sir Dougal died very unexpectedly last night, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Yes. Well, we’ve been trying to decide what to do: whether to continue with someone else in the part or close down for a week and then rehearse and reopen with a revival. We have almost decided on the latter policy, in which case the play will have to be chosen. There are signs of a return to popularity of the sophisticated romantic drama. Christopher Fry, for instance. Your immediate future depends, of course, on our choice, which will have to be made tonight. There has been one suggestion of a play we used years ago for the gala opening of this theatre. It’s a small cast and one of the characters is a boy. I wrote it. If it’s the play, we will suggest you read for the part. You die at the end of Act One but it is an extremely important part while you’re with us.”
William said: “Could I do it?”
“I think so. But we’d have to try you, of course. You may not suit.”
“Of course.”
“The character is Hamnet Shakespeare, Shakespeare’s son. I thought I might as well tell you what we’re thinking about. You’re a sensible chap.”
“Well,” said William dubiously, “I hope I am.”
“Luncheon,” cried Emily.
Peregrine found in his place at table a sheet of paper and on it in her handwriting a new casting for The Glove by Peregrine Jay. He looked from it to her. “Extraordinary,” he said. “ ‘Two minds with but a single thought.’ Or something like that. Thank you, darling.”