“Like what you read about,” he said. “I was—”
He stopped short and for a moment looked puzzled. “I was having a bit of fun,” he began again. “You know, Miss Bracey. Just for giggles. I was having old Jobbins on.”
“Yes?” said Miss Bracey. “That was naughty of you, dear, wasn’t it?”
“But,” Trevor said, frowning. “You know. You were there, weren’t you?” he added doubtfully.
She looked anywhere but at Alleyn. “You’re still confused,” she said. “You mustn’t worry about it.”
“But weren’t you, Miss Bracey? Down there? In front? Weren’t you?”
“I don’t know when you mean, dear.”
“Neither do I. Not quite. But you were there.”
“I was in the downstairs foyer on Saturday night for a minute or two,” she said loudly. “As I told the Superintendent.”
“Yeah, I know you were,” Trevor said. “But where was I?”
“You didn’t see me. You weren’t there. Don’t worry about it.”
“I was. I was.”
“I’d better go,” she said and rose.
“No,” Trevor almost shouted. He brought his small fist down on the bed-tray and Jeremy’s microcosms fell on their faces. “No! You’ve got to stay till I remember.”
“I think you should stay, Miss Bracey,” Alleyn said. “Really.”
She backed away from the bed. Trevor gave a little cry. “There!” he said. “That’s it. That’s what you did. And you were looking up—at him. Looking up and backing away and kind of blubbing.”
“Trevor, be quiet. Be quiet. You don’t know. You’ve forgotten.”
“Like what you’re always doing. Miss Bracey. Chasing him. That’s right, isn’t it, Miss Bracey? Tagging old Harry. You’d come out of the downstairs lav and you looked up and saw him. And then the office door opened and it was Mr. Meyer and Mr. Knight and you done—you did a quick scarper, Miss Bracey. And so did I! Back into the circle, smartly. I got it, now,” Trevor said with infinite satisfaction. “I got it.”
“How,” Alleyn said, “did you know who he was? It must have been dark up there.”
“Him? Harry? By his flash coat. Cripey, what a dazzler!”
“It’s not true,” she gabbled and stumbled across the room. She pawed at Alleyn’s coat “It’s not true. He doesn’t know what he’s saying. It wasn’t Harry. Don’t listen. I swear it wasn’t Harry.”
“You’re quite right,” Alleyn said. “You thought it was Harry Grove but it was Jobbins you saw on the landing. Grove had given Jobbins his overcoat.”
Her hands continued for a second or two to scrabble at his coat and then fell away. She looked into his face and her own crumpled into a weeping mask.
Alleyn said: “You’ve been having a bad time. An awful time. But it will ease up. It won’t always be as bad as this.”
“Let me go. Please let me go.”
“Yes,” he said. “You may go now.”
And when she had gone, blowing her nose, squaring her shoulders and making, instinctively he supposed, quite an exit, he turned to Trevor and found him, with every sign of gratification, deep in his comics.
“Do I have to see the others?” he asked. “It’s getting a bit of a drag.”
“Are you tired?”
“No. I’m reading.” His eye lit on Gertrude Bracey’s parcel. “Might as well look it over,” he said and unwrapped a tie. “Where’d she dig that up?” he wondered and returned to his comic.
“You are a young toad, aren’t you?” Alleyn remarked. “How old are you, in Heaven’s name?”
“Eleven and three months,” Trevor said. He was helping himself to a crystallized plum.
A slight rumpus broke out in the passage. Peregrine put his head round the door. “Marco and Harry are both here,” he said and cast up his eyes.
When Alleyn joined him at the door he muttered: “Marco won’t wait. He didn’t want to come. And Harry says he got here first. He’s up to his usual game,” Peregrine said. “Knight-baiting.”
“Tell him to shut up and wait or I’ll run him in.”
“I wish to Heaven you would, at that.”
“Ask Knight to come along.”
“Yes. All right”
“No sign of Conducis as yet?”
“No.”
When Marcus Knight came in he did not exhibit his usual signs of emotional disturbance: the flashing eye, the empurpled cheek, the throbbing pulse and the ringing tone. On the contrary he was pale and as near to being subdued, Alleyn felt, as he could be. He laid his offering upon the now filled-to-capacity bed-tray. Fruit: in season and a gilded basket. He brusquely ran his fingers through Trevor’s curls and Trevor immediately responded with a look that successfully combined young Hamnet and Paul Dombey.
“Oh Mr. Knight,” he said, “You honestly shouldn’t. You are kind. Grapes! How fab!”
A rather stilted bedside conversation followed, during which Knight gave at least half his uneasy attention to Alleyn. Presently Trevor complained that he had slipped down in his bed and asked his illustrious guest to help him up. When Knight with an ill-grace bent over him, Trevor gazed admiringly into his face and wreathed his arms round his neck. “Just like the end of Act I come true,” he said, “isn’t it, Mr. Knight? I ought to be wearing the glove.”
Knight hurriedly extricated himself. A look of doubt crossed Trevor’s face. “The glove,” he repeated. “There’s something about the real one—Isn’t there? Something?”
Knight looked a question at Alleyn, who said: “Trevor doesn’t recall the latter part of his adventures in the theatre on Saturday night I think Jay has explained that we hope one of you may help to restore his memory.”
“I am remembering more,” Trevor said importantly. “I remember hearing Mr. Knight in the office with Mr. Meyer.”
Marcus Knight stiffened. “I believe you are aware, Alleyn, that I left with Meyer at about eleven.”
“He has told us so,” Alleyn said.
“Very well,” Knight stood over Trevor and imposed upon himself, evidently with difficulty, an air of sweet reasonableness. “If,” he said, “dear boy, you were spying about in front while I was with Mr. Meyer in his office, and if you heard our voices, you doubtless also saw us leave the theatre.”
Trevor nodded.
“Precisely,” Knight said and spread his hands at Alleyn.
“People come back,” said the treble voice. Alleyn turned to find Trevor, the picture of puzzled innocence, frowning, his fingers at his lips.
“What the hell do you mean by that!” Knight ejaculated.
“It’s part of what I can’t remember. Somebody came back.”
“I really cannot imagine, Alleyn—” Knight began.
“I-don’t-think-I-want-to-remember.”
“There you are, you see. This is infamous. The boy will be harmed. I absolutely refuse to take part in a dangerous and unwarranted experiment. Don’t worry yourself, boy. You are perfectly right. Don’t try to remember.”
“Why?”
“Because I tell you,” Knight roared and strode to the door. Here he paused. “I am an artist,” he said, suddenly adopting a muted voice that was rather more awful than a piercing scream. “In eight hours’ time I appear before the public in a most exhausting role. Moreover I shall be saddled throughout a poignant, delicate and exacting scene with the incompetence of some revolting child-actor of whose excesses I am as yet ignorant. My nerves have been exacerbated. For the past forty-eight hours I have suffered the torments of hell. Slighted. Betrayed. Derided. Threatened. And now—this ludicrous, useless and important summons by the police. Very well, Superintendent Alleyn. There shall be no more of it. I shall lodge a formal complaint. In the meantime—Goodbye.”
The door was opened with violence and shut—not slammed—with well-judged temperance.
“Lovely eggzit,” said Trevor, yawning and reading his comic.