Light Thickens

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.

“Taxi! Taxi!”

It wasn’t going to stop. “Taxi!” cried Simon in despair.

He forced himself to run. It pulled into the curb.

“Oh, thank God,” he said. He got into it and gave the address. “I’m stone-cold sober,” he said, “but, my God, I’m tired.”

Bruce Barrabell fastened his awful coat and pulled on his black beret. He was going to drop Nina on his way home. She was coming to the Red Fellowship meeting next Sunday and would probably become a member. Not much of a catch but he supposed it was something to have a person from the Dolphin company. He must try to keep her off her wretched superstitious rigmaroles, poor girl.

He lit a cigarette and thought of the killing of Dougal Macdougal. Just how good was this Alleyn? A hangover from the old school tie days, of course, but probably efficient in his own way.

We shall see, thought Barrabell. He went along to Nina’s dressing-room.

The sun was high and reflected from the river.

“I wonder,” said Emily, “what the Smiths are doing.”

“The Smiths?” asked Crispin. “What Smiths? Oh, you mean William and his mum,” he said and returned to his book.

“Yes. He was sent home as soon as they realized what had happened. I think he was just told there’d been an accident. They may have said, to Sir Dougal. There’s nothing they could have read in the Sunday papers. It’ll be an awful shock for them.”

“How old is he?” asked Robin, who lay on his back on the windowseat, vaguely kicking his feet in the air.

“Who? William?”

“Yes.”

“Nine.”

“Same as me.”

“Yes.”

“Is he silly and wet?”

“He’s certainly not silly and I don’t know what you mean by ‘wet.’ ”

“Behind the ears. Like a baby.”

“Not at all like that. He can fight. He’s learning karate and he’s a good gymnast.”

“Does he swear?”

“I haven’t heard him but I daresay he does.”

“I suppose,” said Robin, bicycling madly, “he’s very busy on Sundays.”

“I’ve no information. Shall I ask him to come to lunch? You could go over in a taxi to Lambeth where he lives and fetch him. Only an idea,” said Emily very casually.

“Oh, yes. You could do that, I suppose. Do that,” shouted Robin and leaped to his feet. “Ask him. Please,” he added. “Thrice three and double three. Two for you and three for me. Please.”

“Right you are.”

Emily consulted the cast list that Peregrine kept pi

“Mrs. Smith? It’s Emily Jay. I’ve got two sons home for half-term and we wondered if by any chance William would like to pay us a visit today. Robin, who’s William’s age, could come and collect him for luncheon and we’d promise to return him after an early supper here. Yes. Yes, would you?”

She heard Mrs. Smith’s cool voice repeating the invitation: “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” she added and William’s voice: “I think so. Yes. Thank you.”

“Yes, he’d like to come, thank you very much.”

“Robin will be there in about half an hour depending on a cab. Lovely. Mrs. Smith, I suppose William told you what happened last night at the theatre? Yes, I see… I’m afraid they were all in a great state. It’s Sir Dougal. He’s died… Yes, a fearful blow to us all… I don’t know. They’ll tell the company at four this afternoon what’s been decided. I don’t think William need go down. He’ll be here and we’ll tell him. Tragic. It’s hard to believe, isn’t it?… Yes. Good-bye.”

She hung up and said to Robin: “Go and get ready,” and to Crispin: “Do you want to go, Cip? Not if you don’t.”

“I think I’d like to.”

“Sure?”

“Yes. I can see the infant’s on his best behavior, can’t I?” Robin from the doorway gave a complicated derisory noise and left the room.

“There’s always that,” said their mother. “There’s just one thing, Cip. Do you know what happened last night? Sir Dougal died — yes. But how? What happened? Did you see? Have you thought?”

“I’m not sure. I saw — it. The head. Full-face but only for a split second.”

“Yes?”

“Lots of people in the audience saw it but I think they just thought it was an awfully good dummy, and lots didn’t. It was so quick.”

“Did Robin?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t think he’s sure either but he doesn’t say. He doesn’t want to talk about it.”

“The thing is, young William didn’t see anything. He was waiting offstage. He only knows Sir Dougal is dead. So don’t say anything to upset that, will you? If you can, keep right off the whole subject. Right?”

“Yes.”

“That’s fine. Here he comes.”

Crispin went out to the hall and Emily thought: He’s a nice boy. Old for his years but that’s rather nice too. She went up to the ex-nursery and hunted out a game of Chinese Checkers, one of Monopoly, a couple of memo pads.