The press cuttings were mainly of productions that he had appeared in, but there were also relics of the trial of Harcourt-Smith. A photograph of the man himself, handcuffed between two policemen, entering the Old Bailey and looking blankly at nothing. Another, of Mr. Justice Swithering, and a third, of William and his mother, taken in the street. There were accounts of the trial.
Barrabell read the cuttings and looked at the photographs. He then put them one by one into the dead fireplace and burned them to ashes. He went to the bathroom on his landing and washed his hands. Then he replaced all the theatrical reviews in the suitcase and looked for a long time at the glossy photograph, which was signed “Muriel.” His hands trembled. He put it under the reviews and shut and locked the case.
Now he consulted his copy of The Stage and rang the number given for inquiries about auditions.
He made a quick calculation, arrived at the amount he owed his landlady, and put it in a used envelope with a cellophane window. He wrote her name on the front and added: “Called away very unexpectedly. B.B.”
Whistling almost inaudibly, he reopened the case and packed into it everything else in the room that he owned. He double-checked every drawer and shelf, put his passport in the breast pocket of his jacket, and, after a final look around, picked up his case and left the room. The landlady’s office was locked. He pushed the envelope under the door and walked out.
He was on a direct route for his destination and waited at the bus stop, dumping his case on the ground until the right bus came along. He climbed aboard, sat near the door, tucked his case under his legs, and paid his fare.
The man who had been behind him in the queue heard him give the address and gave the same one.
Shortly thereafter a message came through to Alleyn.
“Subject left lodging-house carrying suitcase with old Russian labels. Followed to address suggested and is still there.”
To which he replied: “Keep obbo. No arrest but don’t lose him.”
It’s one thing,” said Alleyn, “to have the whole case wrapped up in the copper’s mind and to be absolutely sure, as I am, who’s responsible; and it’s an entirely different cup of tea to get a jury to believe it. God knows it’s a tangle and can’t you hear counsel for the defense? ‘Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you have listened very patiently to this impudent tarradiddle — ’ and so on and so on. I’ve been hoping for something more to break — the man himself, perhaps — but nothing — nothing.”
Fox made a long sympathetic rumbling sound.
“I’ve read and reread the whole case from the beginning, and to me it’s as plain as the nose on your old face, Br’er Fox, but I’m damned if it will be for anybody else. It’s too far removed from simple, short statements, although, God knows, they are there. I don’t know. You’ve got the warrant. Shall we walk in and feel his collar or shan’t we?”
“We’re not likely to pick up anything else if we don’t.”
“No. No, we’re not, I suppose.”
His telephone rang. It was Peregrine.
As Alleyn listened and made notes, his face cleared.
“Thank you,” he said, “I think so. I freely confess I didn’t notice… It may be considerable… I see. Thank you, Peregrine,” he said again and hung up, pushing the paper over to Fox, who had assumed his spectacles in preparation. “This helps,” he said.
“Certainly does,” Fox agreed.
“I never noticed,” said Alleyn.
“You didn’t know there was going to be a murder.”
“Well, no. All the same — nor did young Robin. Lay on a car and a couple of coppers, will you, Fox?”
He took a pair of handcuffs from a drawer in his desk.
“Think he’ll turn ugly?” asked Fox.
“I don’t know. He might. Come on.”
They went down in the lift.
It was a warm early summer evening. The car was waiting for them and Alleyn gave the address to the driver. He and Fox sat in front and the two uniformed police in the back.
“It’s an arrest,” Alleyn said. “I don’t expect much trouble but you never know. The Macbeth murder.”
The traffic streamed past in a world of lights, hurrying figures, incalculable urgencies proclaiming the warmth and excitability of London at night. In the suburbs the traffic thinned out and presently they slowed down and pulled up. It was a dark entry with no lights in the front of the house. A man was waiting for them and came up to the car.
“Hullo,” said Alleyn. “Nobody stirring?”
“He hasn’t left the place, sir. There’s another of our chaps by the back entrance.”
“Right. Ready?”
“Yes, sir.” The other three men spread out behind him.
Alleyn pressed a bell. Footsteps. A dim light behind glass panels and a fine voice, actor-trained, called out: “I’ll go.” Footsteps sounded and the clank of a chain and turn of a key.
The door opened. The tall figure was silhouetted against the dimly lit hall.
“I was expecting you,” the man said. “Come in.”
Alleyn went in, followed by Fox. The two constables followed. One of them locked the door and pocketed the key.
“Gaston Sears,” said Alleyn, “I am about to charge you with the murder of Dougal Macdougal. Do you wish to say anything? You are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so but whatever you say will be taken down and may be given in evidence.”
“Thank you. I wish to say a great deal.”
Fox took out his notebook and uncapped his pen. Alleyn said: “I will search you, if you please, before you begin.”
Gaston turned and placed his hands against the wall.
He wore his black cloak. There were letters and papers of all kinds in every pocket. Alleyn handed them to Fox, who noted their contents and tied them together. They seemed for the most part to be concerned with ancient weaponry and in particular with the claidheamh-mor.
“Please do not lose them,” Gaston said. “They are extremely valuable.”
“They will be perfectly safe.”
“I am relieved to receive your assurance, sir. Where is my claidheamh-mor?”
“Locked up at the Yard.”
“Locked up? Locked up? Do you know what you are saying? Do you realize that I, I who know more about the latent power of the claidheamh-mor than anyone living, have so disastrously aroused it and am brought to this pass by its ferocity alone? Do you know —”
On and on went the great voice. Ancient documents, the rune on the hilt, the history of bloodshed, formal executions, decapitation in battle, what happened to the thief of the sixteenth century (decapitation), its effect on people who handled it (lunacy). “I, in my pride, in my arrogance, supposed myself exempt. Then came the fool, Macdougal, and his idiot remarks. I felt it swell in my hands.
“And what, do you suppose, inspired the practical joker? Decapitated heads. How do you account for them? You cannot. I could not until I discovered Barrabell’s wife had suffered decapitation at the hands of the so-called Hampstead Chopper. Wherever the claidheamh-mor turns up, it is associated with decapitation. And I, its demented agent, I, in my vanity —”
Gaston stopped, wiped his brow, said he was rather warm, and asked for a glass of water, which the Chinese woman brought.
“Before you go on again,” said Alleyn, “You have just said” — he consulted his notes —“ ‘I, its demented agent. I, in my vanity.’ What were you about to say?”
“Let me think. ‘Demented agent,’ did I say? ‘In my vanity.’ But it’s as clear as may be, surely. It came alive in my hands. I was the appointed man.”
“You mean you killed Dougal Macdougal?”