“She divorced her second husband, I believe, and lives alone?”
“Well — yes. Officially.”
“Anything else about her?”
“She’s a terrific gambler, is Dessy. On the share-market, with the bookies and anything on the side that offers. That’s really what broke up the second marriage. He couldn’t do with all the roulette-party and poker-dice carry-on.”
“Is she a successful gambler?”
“I daresay she herself scarcely knows, so vague are her ways.”
“And Miss Bracey?”
“That’s a very different story. I don’t know anything about Gertie’s background but she really does bear out the Woman Scorned crack. She’s — she’s not all that charitably disposed at any time, perhaps, and this thing’s stirred her up like a wasp’s nest. She and Marco exhibit the heads-and-tails of despised love. Marco is a sort of walking example of outraged vanity and incredulous mortification. He can’t believe it and yet there it is. Rather touchingly, I think, he doesn’t until today seem to have taken against Dessy. But I’ve trembled lest he should suddenly rear back and have a wallop at Harry.”
“Hit him?”
“Yes. Bang-bang. Whereas Gertie doesn’t vent all she’s got on her rival but hisses and stings away at the faithless one.”
“And so Miss Meade is let off lightly at both ends and Grove is the object of a dual resentment?”
“And that’s throwing roses at it,” said Peregrine.
“Knight and Miss Bracey have a real, solid hatred for him? Is that putting it too high?”
“No, it’s not but—” Peregrine said quickly: “What is all this? What’s it matter how Marco and Gertie feel about Harry?”
“Nothing at all, I daresay. What about Random? Any comment on character?”
“Charlie? No trouble to anyone. Not, as you may have discerned, a hundred per cent he-man, but what of that? He doesn’t bring it into the theatre. It was quite all right to let him dress with the boy, for instance.”
“Hobbies?”
“Well, as you’ve heard: Ximenes-class crosswords. Cyphers. And old manuscripts. He’s quite an antiquarian, I’m told, is Charles. Jer says he’s one of those characters who possess an infallible nose for a rare item. He spends half his time among the sixpenny and shilling bins in Long Acre and the Charing Cross Road. Good, conscientious actor. Minor public school and drama academy.”
“Did all the members of the company know each other before this production?”
“Oh, yes. Except Emily. She’s at the beginning,” Peregrine said tenderly, “and doesn’t know many people in the West End yet.”
“Tell me, are you familiar with Harry Grove’s overcoats?”
“I caught sight of him going away the other night wearing a contraption that screamed its way up the lane like a fire-engine and heard a lot of carry-on about it among the company.”
“What was it?”
“I wasn’t close enough to—” Peregrine’s voice faded. He gaped at Alleyn. “Oh no!” he cried. “It can’t be. It’s not possible.”
“What?”
“On — on Henry Jobbins?”
“Grove gave his overcoat to Jobbins on Friday evening. He said nobody seemed to like it. Didn’t you know?”
Peregrine shook his head.
“I can’t imagine,” he said slowly, “I simply cannot imagine why I didn’t recognize it on poor Jobbins. I actually cracked a joke about it and he said it was a present.”
“Perhaps the scarf made a difference.”
“Scarf? I dont think he had a scarf on.”
“Did he not? A bright yellow scarf?”
“Wait. Yes,” said Peregrine, looking sick, “of course. I — I remember. Afterwards.”
“But not before? When you spoke to him?”
“I don’t remember it then. It wasn’t showing.”
“Please say nothing about the overcoat, Jay. It’s of the first importance that you don’t. Not even,” Alleyn said with a friendly air, “to your Emily.”
“Very well. May I know why it matters so much?”
Alleyn told him.
“Yes, I see. But it won’t really get you much further, will it?”
“If nobody knows of the transfer—”
“Yes, of course. Stupid of me.”
“And that really is all. I’m sorry to have kept you such an unconscionable time.”
Peregrine went to the door, hesitated and turned back.
“I’ll do my best,” he said, “to write down my Conduciae or should it be Conducii?”
“Or Conduciosis? Never mind. I’m glad you’ve decided to help. Thank you. Could you let me have it as soon as it’s ready?”
“Yes. All right. Where will you be?”
“Here for another hour I should think. And then wherever developments send me. We’ll leave a P.C. on duty in the theatre. If I’ve gone he’ll take a message. Do you really mind doing this?”
“No. Not if it’s remotely useful.”
“There now!” said Alleyn. “Goodbye for the moment, then. On your way out, would you ask Mr. Knight to come in?”
“Certainly. It’s half past twelve,” Peregrine said. “He’ll have got a bit restive, I daresay.”
“Will he indeed?” said Alleyn. “Send him in.”
NINE
Knight Rampant
Marcus Knight was not so much restive as portentous. He had the air of a man who is making enormous concessions. When Alleyn apologized for keeping him waiting so long, he waved his hand as if to say: “Think no more of it. Nevertheless—”
“One can’t tell,” Alleyn said, “in our job, how long any given interview will last.”
“It didn’t escape my notice,” Knight said, “that you were honoured with an earlier visit.”
“From Hartly Grove? Yes. He had,” Alleyn said, “thought of something.”
“He thinks of a number of things, most of them highly offensive.”
“Really? This was quite harmless. I wonder if you’ve noticed his overcoat.”
Mr. Knight had noticed Mr. Grove’s overcoat and said so briefly and with immeasurable distaste. “One is not surprised, however,” he said. “One recognizes the form. It is entirely consistent. My God, what a garment! How he dares!”
It became evident that he did not know that the coat had been given to Jobbins.
Alleyn briefly re-checked Knight’s movements. He had driven his Jaguar from the theatre to his house in Montpelier Square where he was given supper as usual by the Italian couple who looked after him. He thought it was probably about ten past eleven when he got in. He did not go out again but could not absolutely prove it
Extreme, wholly male beauty is not a commonplace phenomenon. Marcus Knight possessed it to a generous degree. His oval face, with its subtly turned planes, his delicate nose, slightly tilted eyes and glossy hair might have been dreamed up by an artist of the Renaissance or indeed by the unknown painter of that unknown man whom many observers call the Grafton Shakespeare. He had the bodily harmony that declares itself through its covering and he moved like a panther. How old was he? Middle thirties? Younger? Forty, perhaps? It didn’t matter.
Alleyn led him cautiously by way of his own exquisite performance to the work of his fellow players. He uncovered a completely egotistic but shrewd appreciation of the play and a raw patch of professional jealousy when the work of his associates, particularly of Harry Grove, came into question. Grove’s Mr. W.H., it seemed, was not a true reading. It was showy. It was vulgar. It was even rather camp, said Marcus Knight.
Alleyn spoke of the theft of the glove and documents. Knight rejoiced that they had been recovered. He gazed with passionate concern at Alleyn. Was it certain they were uninjured? Was it quite, quite certain? Alleyn said it was and began to talk of their unequalled worth. Knight nodded several times very slowly in that larger-than-life manner that Alleyn associated with persons of his profession. It was more like a series of bows.
“Unique,” he said, on two mellifluous notes. “U-nique!”
Alleyn wondered what he would say if he knew of Jeremy’s substitution.