by Ngaio Marsh
“A little, I think. Not enough, not anything like enough to even think of an arrest.”
Peregrine’s fingers had been playing with something in his pocket. They closed around it and fetched it out, a dilapidated little figure, jet black, flourishing a bent weapon.
“Where did you find that?” Alleyn asked.
“It’s one of my boy’s toy soldiers — a crusader. William found it.”
“William?”
“Smith. He spent the day with us. He’s the same age as young Robin. They got on like a house on fire playing with the boys’ electric train. This thing was a passenger, picked up at Crewe. He said he was hurt but he had to get to the theatre at seven. It gave me quite a shock — all black and with a claymorish thing — like Sir Dougal. Only they called him Sears. Extraordinary, how children behave. You know? William didn’t know what had happened in the theatre, only that Sir Dougal was dead. Robin didn’t know or wasn’t certain about the decapitation, but he’d been very much upset when it happened. I’d realized that, but he didn’t ask any questions and now there he was, making a sort of game of it.”
“Extraordinary,” said Alleyn. “May I have it? The crusader? I’ll take great care of him.”
“All right,” said Peregrine and handed it over. “It might be Sir Dougal or Barrabell or Sears or nobody,” he said. “It doesn’t look tall enough for Simon Morten. It’s masked, of course.”
“He wasn’t masked. And in any case —”
“No. In any case the whole thing’s a muddle and a coincidence. William fished this thing out of a box full of battered toys.”
“And called it — what? Sears?”
“Not exactly. I mean, it became Sears. They picked him up at Crewe. Before that, William — being Sears at the moment when he used the telephone — rang up the station for an emergency stop. He said — what the hell did he say? That he was hurt and had to get to the Dolphin by seven. That’s when William took this thing from the box and they put it in the train. It was a muddle. They hooted and whistled and shouted and changed the plot. William gasped and panted a lot.”
“Panted? As if he’d been running?” Alleyn asked.
“Yes. Sort of. I think he said something about trying not to. I’m not sure. He said it was asthma but Sears wouldn’t let on because he was an actor. One thing I am sure about, though.”
“What’s that?”
“They got rid of whatever feelings they had about the real event by turning it all into a game.”
“That sounds like good psychology to me,” said Alleyn. “But then I’m not a psychologist. I can understand Robin calling this thing Sears, though.”
“Why?”
“He was here, wasn’t he? In the theatre. He saw the real Sears carry the head on. Associated images.”
“I think I see what you mean,” said Peregrine doubtfully. “Well. I had better go back to the offices and tell them my decision and get audition notices typed out. What about you?”
“We’ll see them out of here,” said Alleyn.
“Good luck to you,” said Peregrine. He vaulted down into the orchestra well and walked away up the center aisle. The doors opened and shut behind him.
Alleyn went over his notes.
“Is there a connection or isn’t there?” he asked himself. “Did the perpetrator of these nasty practical jokes have anything to do with the beheading of an apparently harmless star actor or was he practicing along his own beastly self-indulgent lines? Who is he? Bruce Barrabell? Why are his fellow actors and — well, Peregrine Jay — so sure he’s the trickster? Simply because they don’t like him and he seems to be the only person in the company capable of such murky actions? But why would he do it? I’d better take a potshot and try to find out.” He looked at his notes. “Red Fellowship. Hmm. Silly little outfit, but they’re on the lists and so’s he. Here goes.”
He walked down the dressing-room corridor until he came to the one shared by Barrabell and Morten. He paused and listened. Not a sound. He knocked and a splendid voice said, “Come.” They always make such a histrionic thing of it when they leave out the “in,” Alleyn thought.
Bruce Barrabell was seated in front of his looking-glass. The lights were switched on and provided an unmotivated brilliance to the dead room. The makeup had all been laid by in an old cigar box fastened by two rubber bands. The dirty grease-cloths were neatly rolled up in a paper bag, which was next to a battered suitcase with Russian labels stuck on it. On the top of his belongings was a programme, several review pages, and a small collection of cards and telegrams. Crumpled tissues lay about the dressing-table.
Simon Morten’s possessions were all packed away in his heavily labeled suitcase, which was shut and waited on the floor, inside the door. The indescribable smell of greasepaint still hung on the air and the room was desolate.
“Ah. Mr. Alleyn!” said Barrabell expansively. “Good evening to you. Can I be of any help? I’m just tidying up, as you see.” He waved his hand at the disconsolate room. “Do sit down,” he invited.
“Thank you,” said Alleyn. He took the other chair and opened his file. “I’m checking all your statements,” he said.
“Ah yes. Mine is quite in order, I hope?”
“I hope so, too,” Alleyn said. He turned the papers slowly until he came to Mr. Barrabell’s statement. He looked at his man and saw two men. The silver-voiced Banquo saying, so beautifully: “There’s husbandry in Heaven; their candles are all out,” and the unnaturally pale actor, with light eyes, whose hands trembled a little as he lit a cigarette.
“I’m sorry. Do you?” Barrabell asked winningly and offered his cigarettes.
“No, thank you. I don’t. About these tricks that have been played during the rehearsal period. I see you called them ‘schoolboy hoaxes’ when we asked you about them.”
“Did I? I don’t remember. It’s what they were, I suppose. Isn’t it?”
“Two extremely realistic severed heads? A pretty case-hardened schoolboy. Had you one in mind?”
“Oh no. No.”
“Not the one in Mr. Winter Meyer’s ‘co,’ for instance?”
There was a pause. Barrabell’s lips moved, repeating the words, but no sound came from them. He slightly shook his head. “There was somebody,” Alleyn went on, “a victim, in the Harcourt-Smith case. Her name was Muriel Barrabell, a bank clerk.” He waited. Somewhere along the corridor a door banged and man’s voice called out. “In the greenroom, dear.”
“Was she your sister?”
Silence.
“Your wife?”
“No comment.”
“Did you want the boy to get the sack?”
“No comment.”
“He was supposed to have perpetrated these tricks. And all to do with severed heads. Like his father’s crimes. Even the rat’s head. A mad boy, we were meant to think. Like his father. Get rid of him, he’s mad, like his father. It’s inherited.”
There was another long silence.
“She was my wife,” said Barrabell. “I never knew at the time what happened. I didn’t get their letter. He was charged with another woman’s murder. Caught red-handed. I was doing a long tour of Russia with the Leftist Players. It was all over when I got back. She was so beautiful, you can’t think. And he did that to her. I made them tell me. They didn’t want to but I kept on and on until they did.”
“And you took it out on this perfectly sane small boy?”
“How do you know he’s perfectly sane? Could you expect me to be in the same company with him? I wanted this part. I wanted to work for the Dolphin. But do you imagine I could do so with that murderer’s brat in the cast? Not bloody likely,” said Barrabell and contrived a sort of laugh.
“So you came to the crisis. All the elaborate attempts to incriminate young William came to nothing. And then, suddenly, inexplicably, there is the real, the horrible crime of Sir Dougal’s decapitation. How do you explain that?”
“I don’t,” he said at once. “I know n
othing about it. Nothing. Apart from his vanity and his accepting that silly title, he was harmless enough. A typical bourgeois hero, which maybe is why he excelled as Macbeth.”
“You see the play as an antiheroic exposure of the bourgeois way of life, do you? Is that it? Can that be it?”
“Certainly. If you choose to put it like that. It’s the Macbeths’ motive. Their final desperate gesture. And they both break under the strain.”
“You really believe that, don’t you?”
“Certainly,” he repeated. “Of course, our reading was, as usual, idiotic. Take the ending: Hail, King of Scotland! In other words, ‘Hail to the old acceptable standards. The old rewards and the old dishing out of cash and titles.’ We cut all that, of course. And the bloody head of Macbeth stared the young Malcolm in the face. Curtain,” said Barrabell.
“Have you discussed the play with your political chums at the Red Fellowship meetings?”
“Yes. Not in detail. More as a joke, really.”
“A joke,” Alleyn exclaimed. “Did you say a joke?”
“A bit on the macabre side, certainly. There’s a meeting every Sunday morning. You ought to come. I’ll bring you in on my ticket.”
“Did you talk about the murder?”
“Oh yes. Whodunit talk. You know.”
“Who did do it?”
“Don’t ask me. I don’t know, do I?”
Alleyn thought: He’s not so frightened, now. He’s being impudent.
“Have you thought about the future, Mr. Barrabell? What do you think of doing?”
“I haven’t considered it. There’s talk of another Leftist Players tour but of course I thought I was settled for a long season here.”
“Of course. Would you read this statement and if it’s correct, sign it? Pay particular attention to this point, will you?”
The forefinger pointed to the typescript.
“You were asked where you were between Macbeth’s last speech and Old Siward’s epitaph for his son. It just says, ‘Dressing-room and O.P. center waiting for a call.’ Could you be a little more specific?”Alleyn asked.
“I really don’t see quite how.”
“When did you leave the dressing-room?”
“Oh. We were called on the tannoy. They’ll give you the time. I pulled on my ghost’s head and the cloak and went out.”
“Did you meet anybody in the passage?‘
“Meet anyone? Not precisely. I followed the old King and the Macduffs, mother and son, I remember. I don’t know if anyone followed me. Any of the other ‘corpses.’ ”
“And you were alone in the dressing-room?”
“Yes, my dear Chief Superintendent. Absolutely alone.”
“Thank you.” Alleyn made an addition and offered his own pen. “Will you read and sign it, please? There.”
Barrabell read it. Alleyn had written: “Corroborative evidence. None.”
He signed it.
“Thank you,” Alleyn said and left him.
In the passage he ran into Rangi. “Hullo,” he said, “I’m getting statements signed. Would it suit you to do yours now?”
“Good as gold.”
“Where’s your room?”
“Along here.”
He led the way to where the passage turned left and the rooms were larger.
“I’ve got Ross and Lennox and Angus in with me,” Rangi said. He came to the correct door and opened it. “Nobody here. It’s a bit of a muddle, I’m afraid,” he said.
“Doesn’t matter. You’ve packed up, I see.”
He cleared a chair for Alleyn and took one himself.
“Yours was a wonderful performance,” said Alleyn. “It was a brilliant decision to use those antipodean postures: the whole body working evil.”
“I’ve been wondering if I should have done it. I don’t know what my elders would say: the strict ones. It seemed to be right for the play. Mr. Sears approved of it. I thought maybe he would think it all nonsense but he said there are strong links throughout the world in esoteric beliefs. He said all or anyway most of the ingredients in the spell are correct.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Alleyn said. He saw that around his neck on a flax cord Rangi wore a tiki, a greenstone effigy of a human fetus. “Is that a protection?” Alleyn asked.
“In my family for generations.” The brown fingers caressed it.
“Really? You’re a Christian, aren’t you? Forgive me; it’s rather confusing —”
“It is, really. Yes. I suppose I am. The Mormon Church. It’s very popular with my people. They don’t ‘mormonize,’ you know, only one wife at a time, and they’re not all that fussy about our old beliefs. I suppose I’m more pakeha than Maori in ordinary day-to-day things. But when it comes to this — what’s happened here — it — well, it all comes rolling in, like the Pacific, in huge waves, and I’m Maori, through and through.”
“That I understand. Well, all I want is your signature to this statement. You weren’t asked many questions but I wonder if you can give me any help over this one. The actual killing took place between Macbeth’s exit fighting and Malcolm’s entrance. Those of you who were not onstage came out of your dressing-rooms. There were you three witches and the dead Macduffs and the King and the Banquo under his ghost mask and cloak. Is that correct?”
Rangi shut his large eyes. “Yes,” he said. “That’s right. And Mr. Sears. He was with the rest of us but as the cue got nearer he moved away into the O.P. corner with Macduff, ready for their final entrance.”
“Was anyone following you?”
“The other two witches. We were in a bunch.”
“Anyone else?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Sure?”
“Yes,” said Rangi firmly. “Quite sure. We were last.”
He read it carefully and signed it. As he returned it to Alleyn he said: “It doesn’t do to meddle with these things. They are wasps’ nests that are better left alone.”
“We can’t leave a murder alone, Rangi.”
“I suppose not. All the same. He made fun of things that are tapu — forbidden. My great-grandfather knew how to deal with that.”
“Oh?”
“He cut off the man’s head,” said Rangi cheerfully. “And ate him.”
The tannoy broke the silence that followed. “Members of the company are requested to assemble in the greenroom for a managerial announcement. Thank you,” it said.
Alleyn found Fox in the greenroom. “Finished?” he asked. “I’ve got all the statements. Except, of course, your lot. They’re not conspicuously helpful. There’s one item that the King noticed. He says — hold on a jiffy — here we are. He says he noticed that Sears was wheezing while he waited with them before the final entry. He said something about it and Sears tapped his own chest and frowned. He made a solemn thing with his eyebrows. ‘Asthma, dear boy, asthma. No matter.’ Can’t you see him doing it?”
“Yes. Vincent Crummies stuff. He must have found that massive claidheamh-mor a bit of a burden lumping it around with him.”
“What I thought. Poor devil. Here comes the management. We’ll hand over.”
They put the statements in a briefcase and settled themselves inconspicuously at the back of the room.
The management came through the auditorium and onstage by way of the Prompt box and from thence to the greenroom. They looked preternaturally solemn. The senior guardian was in the middle and Winter Meyer at the far end. They sat down behind the table, watching the company file in.
“I’m afraid,” said the senior guardian, “there are not enough chairs for everybody but please use the ones that are available. Oh, here are some more.”
Stagehands brought chairs from the dressing-rooms. There was a certain amount of politeness. Three ladies occupied the sofa. Simon Morten stood behind Maggie. She turned to speak to him. He put his hand on her shoulder and leaned over her with a possessive air. Gaston Sears stood apart with folded arms and pale face and dark suit,
like a phony figurehead got up for the occasion. Bruce Barrabell occupied an armchair. Rangi and his girls were together by the doorway.
And in the back of the room, quietly, side by side, sat Alleyn and Fox, who sooner or later, it must be assumed, would remove one of the company, having charged him with the murder by decapitation of their leading man.
The senior guardian said his piece. He would not keep them long. They were all deeply shocked. It was right that they should know as soon as possible what had been decided by the management. The usual procedure of the understudy taking over the leading role would not be followed. It was felt that the continued presentation of the play would be too great a strain on actors and on audiences. This was a difficult decision to take when the production was such a wonderful success. However, after much anxious consideration it had been decided to revive The Glove. The principals had been cast. If they looked at the board they would see the names of the actors. There were four good parts still uncast and Mr. Jay would be pleased to audition anyone who wished to apply. Rehearsals would begin next week. Mr. Meyer would be glad to settle Macbeth salaries tomorrow morning if the actors would kindly call at the office. He thanked them all for being so patient and said he would ask them to stand in silence for one minute in remembrance of Sir Dougal Macdougal.
They stood. Winter Meyer looked at his watch. The minute seemed interminable. Strange little sounds — sighs, a muffled thump; a telephone bell; a voice, instantly silenced — came and went and nobody really thought of Sir Dougal except Maggie, who fought off tears. Winter Meyer made a definitive movement and there was no more silence.
“Excuse me, Mr. Chairman. Before we break up.”
It was Bruce Barrabell.
“As representative of Equity I would just like to convey the usual messages of sympathy and to say that I will make suitable enquiries on your behalf as to the correct action to be taken in these very unusual circumstances. Thank you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Barrabell,” replied the flustered senior guardian.