Killer Dolphin

“Nothing at all, I daresay. What about Random? Any comment on character?”

“Charlie? No trouble to anyone. Not, as you may have discerned, a hundred per cent he-man, but what of that? He doesn’t bring it into the theatre. It was quite all right to let him dress with the boy, for instance.”

“Hobbies?”

“Well, as you’ve heard: Ximenes-class crosswords. Cyphers. And old manuscripts. He’s quite an antiquarian, I’m told, is Charles. Jer says he’s one of those characters who possess an infallible nose for a rare item. He spends half his time among the sixpe

“Did all the members of the company know each other before this production?”

“Oh, yes. Except Emily. She’s at the begi

“Tell me, are you familiar with Harry Grove’s overcoats?”

“I caught sight of him going away the other night wearing a contraption that screamed its way up the lane like a fire-engine and heard a lot of carry-on about it among the company.”

“What was it?”

“I wasn’t close enough to—” Peregrine’s voice faded. He gaped at Alleyn. “Oh no!” he cried. “It can’t be. It’s not possible.”

“What?”

“On — on Henry Jobbins?”

“Grove gave his overcoat to Jobbins on Friday evening. He said nobody seemed to like it. Didn’t you know?”

Peregrine shook his head.

“I can’t imagine,” he said slowly, “I simply ca

“Perhaps the scarf made a difference.”

“Scarf? I dont think he had a scarf on.”

“Did he not? A bright yellow scarf?”

“Wait. Yes,” said Peregrine, looking sick, “of course. I — I remember. Afterwards.”

“But not before? When you spoke to him?”

“I don’t remember it then. It wasn’t showing.”

“Please say nothing about the overcoat, Jay. It’s of the first importance that you don’t. Not even,” Alleyn said with a friendly air, “to your Emily.”

“Very well. May I know why it matters so much?”

Alleyn told him.

“Yes, I see. But it won’t really get you much further, will it?”

“If nobody knows of the transfer—”

“Yes, of course. Stupid of me.”

“And that really is all. I’m sorry to have kept you such an unconscionable time.”

Peregrine went to the door, hesitated and turned back.

“I’ll do my best,” he said, “to write down my Conduciae or should it be Conducii?”

“Or Conduciosis? Never mind. I’m glad you’ve decided to help. Thank you. Could you let me have it as soon as it’s ready?”

“Yes. All right. Where will you be?”

“Here for another hour I should think. And then wherever developments send me. We’ll leave a P.C. on duty in the theatre. If I’ve gone he’ll take a message. Do you really mind doing this?”

“No. Not if it’s remotely useful.”

“There now!” said Alleyn. “Goodbye for the moment, then. On your way out, would you ask Mr. Knight to come in?”

“Certainly. It’s half past twelve,” Peregrine said. “He’ll have got a bit restive, I daresay.”

“Will he indeed?” said Alleyn. “Send him in.”

NINE

Knight Rampant

Marcus Knight was not so much restive as portentous. He had the air of a man who is making enormous concessions. When Alleyn apologized for keeping him waiting so long, he waved his hand as if to say: “Think no more of it. Nevertheless—”

“One can’t tell,” Alleyn said, “in our job, how long any given interview will last.”

“It didn’t escape my notice,” Knight said, “that you were honoured with an earlier visit.”

“From Hartly Grove? Yes. He had,” Alleyn said, “thought of something.”

“He thinks of a number of things, most of them highly offensive.”

“Really? This was quite harmless. I wonder if you’ve noticed his overcoat.”

Mr. Knight had noticed Mr. Grove’s overcoat and said so briefly and with immeasurable distaste. “One is not surprised, however,” he said. “One recognizes the form. It is entirely consistent. My God, what a garment! How he dares!”

It became evident that he did not know that the coat had been given to Jobbins.

Alleyn briefly re-checked Knight’s movements. He had driven his Jaguar from the theatre to his house in Montpelier Square where he was given supper as usual by the Italian couple who looked after him. He thought it was probably about ten past eleven when he got in. He did not go out again but could not absolutely prove it

Extreme, wholly male beauty is not a commonplace phenomenon. Marcus Knight possessed it to a generous degree. His oval face, with its subtly turned planes, his delicate nose, slightly tilted eyes and glossy hair might have been dreamed up by an artist of the Renaissance or indeed by the unknown painter of that unknown man whom many observers call the Grafton Shakespeare. He had the bodily harmony that declares itself through its covering and he moved like a panther. How old was he? Middle thirties? Younger? Forty, perhaps? It didn’t matter.

Alleyn led him cautiously by way of his own exquisite performance to the work of his fellow players. He uncovered a completely egotistic but shrewd appreciation of the play and a raw patch of professional jealousy when the work of his associates, particularly of Harry Grove, came into question. Grove’s Mr. W.H., it seemed, was not a true reading. It was showy. It was vulgar. It was even rather camp, said Marcus Knight.

Alleyn spoke of the theft of the glove and documents. Knight rejoiced that they had been recovered. He gazed with passionate concern at Alleyn. Was it certain they were uninjured? Was it quite, quite certain? Alleyn said it was and began to talk of their unequalled worth. Knight nodded several times very slowly in that larger-than-life ma

“Unique,” he said, on two mellifluous notes. “U-nique!”

Alleyn wondered what he would say if he knew of Jeremy’s substitution.

“Well,” he said lightly. “At least Mr. Conducis and the American purchaser can breathe again. I can’t help wondering who she may be.”

“She?”

“Now, why did I say ‘she’?” Alleyn ejaculated. “I suppose I must have been thinking of Mrs. Constantia Guzma

It was formidable to see how rapidly, with what virtuosity, Knight changed colour from deepest plum to parchment and back again. He drew his brows together. He retracted his upper lip. It crossed Alleyn’s mind that it was a pity the role of William Shakespeare didn’t offer an opportunity for a display of these physical demonstrations of fury.

“What,” he asked, rising and looming over Alleyn, “has that person—Grove—said to you? I demand an answer. What has he said?”

“About Mrs. Constantia Guzma

“You lie!”

“I don’t, you know,” Alleyn said composedly. “Grove didn’t mention her to me. Really. She’s an extremely well-known collector. What’s the matter?”

Knight glowered at him in silence for some time. Fox cleared his throat

“Do you swear,” Knight began in the lowest register of his voice, building up a crescendo as he went on. “Do you swear the name of Guzma

“No, I don’t do that, either. It has.”

“All!” he bellowed suddenly. “The lot. The whole pack of them! He’s lunched and bloody dined on it. Don’t attempt to contradict me. He’s betrayed a deeply, deeply regretted confidence. A moment of weakness. On my part. Before I knew him for what he is: a false, false man.” He pointed at Alleyn. “Has he—has he told—her? Miss Meade? Destiny? You need not answer. I see it in your face. He has.”