There was a muddle of human beings, Nanny taking her to her dressing-room, and she removing her makeup and Nanny getting her into her street clothes.
“Nanny, what’s happened? Is it Sir Dougal? What accident?”
“Never you mind, dear. We’ll be told. All in good time.”
“Go out, Nanny. Ask somebody. Ask Mr. Masters. Say I want to know.”
Nanny went out. She ran into somebody, another woman, in the passage and there was a gabble of voices. There was no mistaking the high-pitched, nicely articulated wail.
“Nina!” Maggie had called. “Come in. Come in, darling.”
Nina was in disarray but had changed and had put on her scarves and a tam-o’-shanter of the kind that needs careful adjustment and had not received it. There were traces of mascara under her eyes.
“Maggie!” she cried. “Oh, Maggie, isn’t it awful?”
“Isn’t what awful? Here. Sit down and pull yourself together, for pity’s sake and tell me. Is somebody dead?”
Nina nodded her head a great many times.
“Who”? Is it Dougal? Yes? For the love of Mike, pull yourself together. Has everybody lost their heads?”
Nina produced a shrill cackle of laughter. “What is it?” Maggie demanded.
“He has,” shrieked Nina. “Dougal has.”
“Has what?”
“Lost his head. I’m telling you. Lost his head.”
And while Maggie took in the full enormity of this, Nina broke into an extraordinary diatribe.
“I told you. I told lots of you. You wouldn’t listen. It’s the Macbeth curse, I said. If you make nonsense of it it’ll strike back. If Perry had listened to me, this wouldn’t have happened. You ask Brucie Barrabell, he’ll tell you. He knows. Those tricks with heads. They were warnings. And now — look.”
Maggie went to her little drinks cupboard. She was an abstemious woman and it was stocked for visitors rather than for herself, but she felt she now needed something, actually to prevent her fainting. The room was unsteady. She poured out two large brandies and gave one to Nina. Both their hands were shaking horridly.
They drank quickly and shuddered and drank again.
Nanny returned. She took a look at them and said: “I see you know.”
“Sort of,” said Maggie. “Only what happened. Not how, or why or anything else.”
“I saw Mr. Masters. The first anybody knew was the head carried on by Mr. Sears. Mr. Masters said that was absolutely all and he’s coming to see you as soon as he can. While we were talking a very distinguished-looking gent came up who said he was the Yard. And that’s all I know,” said Nanny. “Except that Mr. Masters said I could give them your telephone number and after a word with Mr. Masters the gentleman said I could take you home. So we’ll go home, love, shan’t we?”
“Yes. What about you, Nina? You could ask to go and I could take you.”
“I said I’d go with Bruce. I’m on his way and he’ll drop me. I’ve finished my drink, thank you all the same, dear Maggie, and I feel better.”
“Come on, then. So do I. I think,” said Maggie. “Lock up, Nanny. We’ll go home. They want our keys, don’t they?”
They left their keys with Mr. Fox. Masters was in deep conference with Alleyn but he saw her and hurried toward her.
“Miss Mannering, I am so sorry. I was coming. Did Nanny explain? Is your car here? This is appalling, isn’t it?”
They fled. Their car was waiting and there was still a small crowd in the alleyway. Maggie turned up her collar but was recognized.
“It’s Margaret Mannering,” shouted a man. “What’s happened? What was the accident? Hi!”
“I don’t know,” she said. Nanny scrambled in beside her and the driver sounded his horn.
The car began to back down the alleyway. Greedy faces at the windows. Impudent faces. Curious, grinning faces. A prolonged hooting and they were in Wharfingers Lane and picking up speed.
“Horrible people,” she said. “And I thought I loved them.”
She began, helplessly, to cry.
Gaston Sears walked up the path to his front door and let himself in. He was, by habit, a night owl and a lonely bird, too. Would it have been pleasant to have been welcomed home by a tender little woman who would ask him how the day, or rather, the night, had gone? And would it have been a natural and admirable thing to have told her? He went into his workroom and switched on the light. The armed Japanese warrior, grimacing savagely, leaped up, menacing him, but he was not alarmed. He found, as he expected, the supper tray left by his Chinese housekeeper. Crab salad and a bottle of a good white wine.
He switched on his heater and sat down to it.
He was hungry but worried. What would be done to his claidheamh-mor? The distinguished-looking policeman had assured him that great care would be taken of it but although he called it by its correct name he did not, he could not, understand. After all, he himself did not fully understand. As things had turned out it had fulfilled its true function but there was no telling, really, if it was satisfied.
He had enjoyed playing Macbeth for the police. He had a most phenomenal memory and years ago had understudied the part. And of course, once memorized, it was never forgotten. It struck him, not for the first time, that if they decided to go on they would ask him to play the part. He would have played it well.
By Heaven! he thought. They will offer it to me! It would be a good solution. I could wear my own basic Macbeth clothes for the garments. Any personable extra can go on for Seyton. And I invented and know the fight. It went well in their reconstruction. I would have been a success. But it would not be a gracious thing to do. It would be an error in taste. I shall tell them so.
He fell to with an appetite on his crab salad and filled his Waterford glass to the brim.
Simon Morten lived in Fulham on the borders of Chelsea. He thought he would walk to St. James’s and on by way of Westminster where he would probably pick up a cab.
Mentally he went over the fight. Gaston played it all-out and backed into the O.P. He yelled and fell with a plop. I couldn’t have done it, thought Simon. Not in the time. Found the claid-something. Removed the dummy head. Placed it by the body. Two-handed grip on the pommel. Swing it up and what’s he doing all the time? Gaston was gone. He walked off and found him standing with Nina Gaythorne and the King and William. He waited for his reentrance. Gaston came down and followed him on.
There was the repeat and then the Yard men with their notes and inaudible discussions and then they were told they could all go home.
In a way Simon was actually sorry. There hadn’t been time to think coherently. He went to Maggie’s dressing-room but she was gone. He went to his own room and found Bruce Barrabell there, putting on his dreary coat.
“We have to suppose these Yard people think they know what they’re doing,” he said, “I take leave to doubt it.”
Simon got his own coat and put it on. He pulled his brown scarf out of a pocket, wound it about his neck and tucked the ends in.
“Our Mr. Sears had himself a marvelous party, didn’t he?”
“I thought he was very good.”
“Oh yes. Marvelous. If you were in the mood.”
“Of course. Good-night.”
“Good-night, Morten,” said Barrabell and Simon took himself off.
He was deadly tired. He had thought the fresh air would revive him but he was beyond that point. He walked quickly but his legs were like logs and each stride took an intense mental effort. Not a soul about and St. James’s a thousand miles away. Big Ben tolled three. The Thames slapped against the Embankment. A taxi came out of a side street.