“For the good of the production I undertake not to reveal the trickster’s name. Nor will I sack the man or refer to the matter again. It shall be as if it had never happened. Is this understood?”
He stopped.
They stared at him rather like children, he thought, brought together for a wigging and not knowing what would come next.
It was Bruce Barrabell who came next, the silver-tongued Banquo.
“No doubt I shall be snubbed,” he said. “But I really feel I must protest. If this person is among us, I think we should all know who he is. He should be publicly exposed and dismissed. By us. As the Equity representative, I feel I should take this stand.”
Peregrine had not the faintest notion of what, if any, stand the Equity representative was entitled to take. He said grandly: “Properties belonging to the theatre have been misused. Rehearsal time interrupted. This is my affair; I propose to continue. The time for Equity to butt in may or may not arise in due course. If it does I shall advise you of it. At this stage I must ask you to sit down, Mr. Barrabell.”
If he won’t sit down, he wondered, what the hell do I do?
“Hear, hear,” said Sir Dougal helpfully.
There was an affirmative murmur. Nina was heard to say she felt faint. Peregrine said: “Props. When did you last look under the lid of that dish?”
“I never looked under it,” said Props. “It was in place on the table, which was carried on as soon as the curtains closed. The dish would ’ave a plastic boar’s head for performance, but not until the dress rehearsal.”
“Was anyone there? A scene-shifter or an actor?”
“The two scene-shifters who carried the table on. They went off on the other side. And ’im,” said Props, jerking his head at Barrabell, “and the other ghost. The double. They got down under the table just before the curtains reopened.”
“Familiar business for Banquo,” said Sir Dougal and laughed.
“What do you mean by that, may I ask?” said Barrabell.
“Oh, nothing. Nothing.”
“I insist on an explanation.”
“You won’t get one.”
“Quiet, please,” Peregrine shouted. “Go on, Props. When was the dish actually put on the table?”
Props said: “It’s stuck down. All the props not used are stuck down, aren’t they? I put the lid on it after I got it ready, like.”
“Before the rehearsal started?”
“That’s right. And if there’s anybody finks I done it with the ’ead, I never. And if there’s any doubts about that I appeal to my union.”
“There are no doubts about it,” said Peregrine hurriedly. “Where was the head? Where are all the heads? Together?”
“In the walking gents’ dressing-room. All together. Waiting for the dress rehearsal, next week.”
“Is the room unlocked?”
“Yes, it is unlocked. And if you arst ’oo ’as the key, I ’as it. The young gents arst me to unlock it and I unlocked it, din’ I?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“I got me rights like everybody else.”
“Of course you have.” Peregrine waited for a second or two and then said: “Anyone else?”
“Certainly,” said a sepulchral voice. “I was there. But very briefly. I simply informed Macbeth of the murder. I came off downstage, Prompt. Somebody was there with my claidheamh-mor. I seized it. I ran upstage, engaged it into my harness, and entered near the throne, as the curtains were reopened. The previous scene,” reminisced Gaston, “was that of the murder of Banquo. The claidheamh-mor was correctly held. It would never be used for that affair. It is too large and too sacred. An interesting point arises —”
He settled into his narrative style.
“Thank you, Gaston,” said Peregrine. “Very interesting,” and hurried on. “Now, Banquo. You were there during this scene. At what stage did you actually get under the table, do you remember?”
“When I heard Macbeth say, Thou art the best o’ the cutthroats. The curtains were shut and the scene between Macbeth and Gaston, the murderer, was played in front of them. The head and cloak were stuffy and awkward and I always delay putting them on and getting down there. They are made in one and it takes only seconds to put them on. Angus and Caithness popped the whole thing over my head. I collected the cloak around my knees and went down.”
“And the ghost double? Toby?”
A youth held up his head. “I put my head and cloak on in the dressing-room,” he said, “and I got under the table as soon as it was there. The table has no upstage side and there was lots of room, really. I waited at the rear until Bruce got under and crawled forward.”
Peregrine looked at the familiar faces of his actors and thought: This is ridiculous. He cleared his throat. “I now ask,” he said, “which of you was responsible for these tricks.”
Nobody answered.
“Very well,” Peregrine said. “I would beg you not to discuss this affair among yourselves but,” he added acidly, “I might as well beg you not to talk. One point I do put to you. If you think of linking these silly pranks with the Macbeth superstitions you will be doing precisely what the perpetrator wants. My guess is that he or she is an ardent believer. So far no ominous signs have occurred. So he or she has planted some. It’s as silly and as simple as that. Any comments?”
“One asks oneself,” announced Gaston, “when the rumors began and whether, in fact, they go back to some pre-Christian winter solstice ritual. The play being of an extremely sanguinary nature —”
“Yes, Gaston. Later, dear man.”
Gaston rumbled on.
Sir Dougal said: “Oh, for pity’s sake, will somebody tell him to forget his claddy-mor and to shut his silly old trap.”
“How dare you!” roared Gaston suddenly. “I, who have taught you a fight that is authentic in every detail except the actual shedding of blood! How dare you, sir, refer to my silly old trap?”
“I do. I do dare,” Sir Dougal announced petulantly. “I’m still in great pain from the physical strain I’ve been obliged to suffer and all for something that would be better achieved by a good fake and if you won’t shut up, by God, I’ll use your precious techniques to make you. I beg your pardon, Perry, dear boy, but really.”
Gaston had removed his claidheamh-mor from the harness and now, shouting insults in what may have been early Scots, performed some aggressive and alarming exercises with the weapon. The magnificent Duncan, who was beside him, cried out and backed away. “I say!” he protested, “don’t! No! Too much!”
Gaston stamped and rotated his formidable weapon.
“Put that damn silly thing away,” said Sir Dougal, “whatever it’s called: ‘glad-time saw.’ You’ll hurt yourself.”
“Quiet!” Perry shouted. “Gaston! Stop it. At once.”
Gaston did stop. He saluted and returned the weapon to its sheath, a leather pouch which hung by straps from his heavy belt-harness and occupied the place where a sporran would have rested. Once sheathed and the hilt in place, the monstrous blade rose in front of his body and was grasped by his gloved paws. It passed within an inch of his nose, causing him to squint. Thus armed, he retired and stood to attention, squinting hideously and rumbling industriously, by Maggie’s throne. She gave one terrified look at him and then burst out laughing.