“Couldn’t be clearer. What sort of man was Macdougal?”
“Macdougal? Sir Dougal? Good-looking if you like the type.”
“In himself?”
“Typical leading man, I suppose. He was very good in the part.”
“You didn’t go much for him?”
He shrugged. “He was all right.”
“A bit too much of a good thing?”
“Something like that. But, really, he was all right.”
“De mortuis nil nisi bonum?”
“Yes. Well, I didn’t know anything that was not good about him. Not really. He was fabulous in the fight. I never felt in danger. Even Gaston said he was good. You couldn’t fault him. God! I’m the understudy! If it’s decided we go on.”
“Will it be so decided, do you think?”
“I don’t know. I daren’t think.”
“ ‘The show must go on’?”
“Yes, I suppose,” Simon said after a pause, “it may depend on the press.”
“The press?”
“Yes. If they’ve got a clue as to what happened they could make such a hoo-hah we couldn’t very well go on as if Macbeth was ill or dying or dead or anything of that sort, could we? But if they only get a secondhand account of there having been an ‘accident,’ which is what Bob Masters said in his curtain speech, they may decide it’s not worth a follow-up and do nothing. Tomorrow. One thing is certain,” said Simon, “we don’t need a word of publicity.”
“No. Has it occurred to you,” said Alleyn, “that it might strike someone as a good moment to revive all the superstitious stories about Macbeth?”
Simon stared at him. “Good God!” he said. “No. No, it hadn’t. But you’re dead right. As a matter of fact — well, never mind about all that. But Perry, our director, had been on at us and the idiot superstitions and not to believe any of it and — and — well, all that.”
“Really? Why?”
“He doesn’t believe in any of it,” said Simon, looking extremely ill at ease.
“Has there been an outbreak of superstitious observances in the cast?”
“Well — Nina Gaythorne rather plugs it.”
“Yes?”
“Perry thinks it’s a bad idea.”
“Have there been any occurrences that seemed to bolster up the superstitions?”
“Well — sort of. If you don’t mind I’d rather not go into details.”
“Why?”
“We said we wouldn’t talk about them. We promised Perry.”
“I’ll ask him to elucidate.”
“Yes. But don’t let him think I blew the gaff, will you?”
“No.”
“If you don’t want me any more, may I go home?” Simon asked wearily.
“No more right now. But wait a bit, if you don’t mind. We can’t let the cast go just yet. Leave your dressing-room key with us. We’ll ask you to sign a typed statement later on.”
“I see. Thank you,” said Simon and got up. “You did mean what you said? About it being impossible for me to have — done it?”
“Yes. Unless some sort of crack appears, I mean it.”
“Thank God for that at least,” said Simon.
He went to the door, hesitated, and spoke.
“If I’d wanted to kill him,” he said, “I could have faked it at any time during the fight. Easily. And been ‘terribly sorry.’ You know?”
“Yes,” said Alleyn. “There’s that, too, isn’t there?”
When he had gone, Fox said: “That’s one we can tick off, isn’t it?”
“At this point, Fox.”
“He doesn’t seem to have liked the deceased much, does he?”
“Not madly keen, no. But very honest about it as far as it went. He was on the edge of talking about the superstitions, too.”
“That’s right. So who do you see next?”
“Obviously, Peregrine Jay.”
“He was here twenty years ago, at the time of the former case. Nice young chap he was then.”
“Yes. He’s in conference. Up in the offices,” said Alleyn.
“Shall I pluck him out?”
“Would you? Do.”
Fox removed his spectacles, put them in his breast pocket, and left the room. Alleyn walked about, muttering to himself.
“It must have been then. After the fight. Say, one minute for the pause and the pipe and drums coming nearer, two at the outside. The general entry: say a quarter of a minute, Siward’s dialogue about his son’s death. Another two minutes. Say three to four minutes all told. At the end of the fight Macbeth exited and yelled. Did Macduff say something that made him stoop? No — he did fall forward to give the thud. The man having removed the dummy head, decapitates him, gathers up the real head, and jams it on the claidheamh-mor. That’s what takes the time. Does he wedge the hilt against the scenery and then push the head on? He lugs the body into the darkest corner and stands the claidheamh-mor in its place ready for Gaston to grasp it. He puts the dummy head by the body. Where does he go then? What does he look like?”
He stopped short, closed his eyes, and recalled the fight. The two figures. The exchange of dialogue and Macbeth’s hoarse final curse: “And damn’d be him that first cries, Hold enough!”
“It must have been done after the fight. There’s no other way. Or is there? Is there? Nonsense.”
The door opened. Fox, Winter Meyer, and Peregrine came in.
“I’m sorry to drag you away,” said Alleyn.
“It’s all right. We’d come to a deadlock. To go on or not. He — was so right in the part.”
“A difficult decision.”
“Yes. It’s hard to imagine the play without him. It’s hard to imagine anything, right now,” said Peregrine.
“How will the actors feel?”
“About going on? Not very happy but they’ll do it.”
“And the new casting?”
“There’s the rub,” said Peregrine. “Simon Morten is Macbeth’s understudy and the Ross is Simon’s. We’ll have to knock up a new, very simple fight, a new Macduff can’t possible manage the present one. Simon’s good and ready. He’ll give a reasonable show, but the whole thing’s pretty dicey.”
“Yes. What sort of actor is Gaston Sears?”
Peregrine stared at him. “Gaston? Gaston.”
“He knows — he invented — the fight. He’s an arresting figure. It’s a very farfetched notion but I wondered.”
“It’s — it’s a frightening thought. I haven’t seen much of his acting but I’m told he was good in an unpredictable sort of way. He’s a very predictable person. A bit on the dotty side, some of them think. It — it certainly would solve a lot of problems. We’d only need to find a new Seyton and he’s a tiny part as far as lines go. He’s only got to look impressive. My God, I wonder… No. No,” he repeated. And then: “We may decide to cut our losses and rehearse a new play. Probably the best solution.”
“Yes. I think I should remind you that — it’s a dazzling glimpse of the obvious — the murderer, and who he is I’ve not the faintest notion, will turn out to be one of your actors or else a stagehand. If the latter, I suppose you can go ahead but if the former — well, the mind boggles, doesn’t it?”
“I can feel mine boggling, anyway.”
“In the meantime I’d like to know what the story is, about the Macbeth superstitions and why Props and Simon Morten go all peculiar when I ask them.”