Ngaio Marsh - Light Thickens

“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.

So, after a doubtful glance, did the entire company and the people in the stalls, including Emily.

Gaston stood to attention throughout.

Peregrine wiped the tears from his face, walked up to Gaston, put his arm around his shoulders, and took the risk of his life.

“Gaston, my dear man,” he said, “you have taught us how to meet these ridiculous pranks. Thank you.”

Gaston rumbled.

“What did you say?”

“ Honi soit qui mal y pense. ”

“Exactly,” agreed Peregrine and wondered if it was really an appropriate remark. “Well, everybody,” he said. “We don’t know who played these tricks and for the time being we’ll let them rest. Will you all turn your backs for a moment?”

They did so. He whipped off the lid, wrapped the head in its cloak, took it backstage, and returned.

“Right!” he said. “Places, everybody. Are you ready, Sir Dougal, or would you like to break?”

“I’ll go on.”

“Good. Thank you. From where we left off, please.”

“ Our duties and the pledge ,” said the prompter. And they went on to the end of the play.

When it was all over and he had taken his notes and gone through the bits that needed adjustment, Peregrine made a little speech to his cast.

“I can’t thank you enough,” he said. “You have behaved in a civilized and proper manner like the professionals you are. If, as I believe, the perpetrator of these jokes is among you, I hope he or she will realize how silly they are and we’ll have no more of them. Our play is in good heart and we go forward with confidence, my dears. Tomorrow morning. Everyone at ten, please. In the rehearsal room.”

Peregrine had a session with the effects and lighting people that lasted for an hour, at the end of which they went off, satisfied, to get their work down on paper. The stage was now patched with daylight. Sheets of painted plywood were being carried in from the workshop. Workmen shouted and whistled.

“Come on, Em,” he said. “You’ve had more entertainment than we bargained for, haven’t you?”

“I have indeed. You handled them beautifully.”

“Did I? Good. Hullo, here’s William. What are you doing, young man? Emily, this is William Smith.”

“William, I very much enjoyed your performance,” said Emily, shaking his hand.

“Did you?” said William. “I’m waiting for my mum, Mr. Jay, but” — a vivid flush mounted on his face — “but… I wanted to speak to you about — about — ” He looked at Emily.

“About what?” Peregrine asked.

“About the heads. About the person who’s done it. About everyone saying it’s the sort of thing kids do. I didn’t do it. Really, I didn’t. I think it’s silly. And frightening. Awfully frightening,” William whispered. The red receded and a white-faced little boy stared at them. His eyes filled with tears.

“William!” Emily cried out. “Don’t worry. They are only plastic mock-ups. Nothing to be afraid of. Pretend ghosts. William, never mind . Mr. Sears made them.” She held out her arms. He hung back and then walked, shamefaced, into her embrace. She felt his heart beat and his trembling.