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Peregrine looked at it. “Yes,” he said. “Winty told me.”

“Did you guess who did it?”

“Yes. I thought so. Barrabell. It was only a guess but he was about. In the theatre at that time. The sort of thing he’d do, I thought.”

“Did you say so to Meyer?”

“I did, yes. Winty says he went to the loo. It was the only time the room was free. About eight minutes. There’s a window into the foyer. Anybody there could look in, see it was empty, and — do it.”

“One of the Harcourt-Smith victims was called Barrabell. Muriel Barrabell. A bank clerk. She was beheaded.”

“Do you think —?”

“We’ll have to find out,” Alleyn said. “Even so, it doesn’t give him a motive to kill Macbeth.”

“And there’s absolutely no connection that we know of with poor Sir Dougal.”

“No.”

“Whereas with Simon Morten —” Perry stopped.

“Yes?”

“Nothing. That sounds as if I was hiding something. I was only going to say Simon’s got a hot temper and he suspected Dougal of making passes at the Lady. She put that right with him.”

“He hadn’t got the opportunity to do it. He must have chased Macbeth off with his own blunt weapon raised. He’d have to change his weapon for the claidheamh-mor from which he’d have to remove the dummy head while his victim looked on, did nothing, and then obligingly stooped over to receive the stroke.”

“And Gaston?”

“First of all, time. I’ve just done it in dumb show myself, all out and way over the time. And what’s even more convincing, Gaston was seen by the King and Nina Gaythorne by people going on for the call. He actually spoke to them. This was while the murder was taking place. He went into the O.P. corner and collected the claidheamh-mor at the last moment when Macduff came around and he followed him on.”

Peregrine raised his arms and let them drop. “Exit Gaston Sears,” he said. “I don’t think I ever really thought he’d done it but I’m glad to have it confirmed. Who’s left?”

“Without an alibi? Barrabell. The stagehands. Various thanes. Lady Macbeth. Old Uncle Tom Cobbleigh and all.”

“I’d better go back to the boys in the office. They’re trying to make up their minds.”

Alleyn looked at his watch. “It’s ten past two,” he said. “If they haven’t made up their minds I suggest they sleep on it. Are the actors called?”

“For four o’clock this afternoon, poor dears.”

“It’s none of my business, of course, but I don’t think you should go on with Macbeth .”

“No?”

“It’s only a matter of time before the truth is known. A very short time probably. You’ll get a sort of horror-reaction, a great deal of morbid speculation, and, I should think, the kind of publicity that will be an insult to a beautiful production.”

“Oh.”

“There will be a trial. We hope. Your actors will be pestered by the press. Quite possibly the Harcourt-Smith case will be revived and young William cornered by the News of the World and awful remarks put into his reactions. He and his mother will be hunted remorselessly.”

“This may happen whatever we do,” said Peregrine unhappily.

“Certainly. But to nothing like the same extent if you don’t do this play.”

“No. No, nothing like.” Peregrine got up and walked to the door.

“I’ll speak to them,” he said. “Along those lines. Goodnight, Alleyn.”

“Good-night, my dear chap.”

The stage door closed behind him.

“Br’er Fox, what’s emerged definitely from it all?” Alleyn asked.

They opened their notebooks. Alleyn also opened his programme.

“We can wipe out most of the smaller parts,” he said. “They were too active. All the fighting men. When they were offstage they were yelling and bashing away at each other like nobody’s business.”

“I stood over by the dark corner and I’ll take my oath none of them got within cooee of it,” Fox said.

“Yes. They were very well drilled and supposing one of them got out of step on purpose, the others would have known and been down on him at once. It may have looked like an Irishman’s picnic but they were worked out in inches.”

“You can scratch the lot,” said Fox.

“Gladly,” said Alleyn and did so. “And who’s left?” he asked.

“Speaking parts. It’s easier than it looks. The old Colonel Blimpish chap and his son. Never had a chance. The son was ‘dead’ and lying on the stage, hidden from the audience, and the old boy was stiff-upper-lipping on the stairs while the murder was done.”

“So much for the Siwards. And Malcolm was onstage and speaking. Now I’m going to reiterate. Not for the first and, I’m afraid, not for the last time. Gaston Sears was offstage of the crucial moment and talking in a whisper to the King and Miss Gaythorne. Young William was with them.

“The witches had come on for the curtain call and were waiting upstage on the rostrum. Now, Macduff,” said Alleyn. “Let’s look a bit closer at Macduff. He’s a man with a temper and now we know there’s been some sort of trouble between him and Macbeth. He ended the fight by chasing Macbeth off. His story is that Macbeth screamed and fell down as usual and he went straight off and was seen to do so by various actors. Confirmed by the actors. By which time Macbeth was dead. I tried it out with you, Br’er Fox, and I was four and a third minutes. We played the scene with Gaston as Macbeth and the cast and it was three. Moreover, Morton — Macduff — would have had to get the dummy head off the claidheamh-mor before killing Macbeth with it while Macbeth — I’ve said this ad nauseam — stood or lay there waiting to be beheaded. It does not , Br’er Fox, make sense. Moreover, as Macduff himself pointed out, it would have been a whole lot easier for him to have done a Lizzie Borden on Macbeth during their fight and afterward say he didn’t know how he’d gone wrong.”

“His weapon’s as blunt as old boots.”

“It weighs enough for a whack on the head to fix Macbeth.”

“Yerse. But it didn’t.”

“No. We’ll move on. Banquo. Banquo, we find, is a very rum fellow. He’s devious, is Banquo, and he was ‘dead’ all this long time and free, up to the second curtain call to go wherever he liked. He could have gone into the O.P. corner and waited there in the dark with the claidheamh-mor when Gaston left it there for the stagehand to put the dummy head on it. The stagehand did put it there. Banquo removed it and did the deed. There’s no motive that I can see but he’s a possibility.”

“And are you going to tell me that Banquo is the perpetrator of the funny business with the dummy heads? And the typed message?”

“I rather think so. I’m far from happy with the idea, all the same.”

“Humph,” said Fox.

“We’ll knock off now for a while.” He looked into the dark house. “It was a wonderful production, Fox,” he said. “The best I’ve seen. Almost too good. I don’t think they can carry on.”

“What do you suppose they’ll do in its place?”

“Lord knows. Something quite different. Getting Gertie’s Garter ,” said Alleyn angrily.

It was a quarter past three when Peregrine let himself into his house and gave himself a drink. A very stiff whiskey and a sandwich and then upstairs softly to bed.

“Hullo,” said Emily. “You needn’t creep about. I waked when you opened the front door.”

He turned on his bedside lamp.

“What’s happened?” she said when she saw his face.

“Didn’t Cip tell you?”

“Only that there’d been an accident. He said, privately, that Robin didn’t understand. Not properly and he wasn’t sure that he did.”