Light Thickens

Fox made a long sympathetic rumbling sound.

“I’ve read and reread the whole case from the begi

“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 thi

“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 ca

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?”

“Certainly. If holding the claidheamh-mor can be called ‘killing,’ I killed him.” He drew himself up. He might have been an eccentric professor about to address his class. He grasped the lapels of his cloak, raised his chin, and pitched his voice on a declamatory level.

“It was after the servant put the false head on my claidheamh-mor. He carried it into the appointed corner and left it there and went away. I went in. I removed the head and laid it aside on the floor. I removed my belt. I held the claidheamh-mor in my hands and it was alive and hot and desirous of blood.

“I stood there in the shadows. Very still. I heard him declaim:

… weapons laugh to scorn

Brandish’d by man that’s of a woman born.

I heard him cross the stage. I raised the claidheamh-mor. He came in, shielding his eyes in the comparative dark. He said. ‘Who’s there?’ I said, ‘Sir Dougal, there’s a thong loose on your left foot. You will trip,’ and he said, ‘Oh, it’s you, is it? Thank you.’ He stooped down and the claidheamh-mor leaped in my hands and decapitated him. I put the head on it and left it in the corner. The coronet had fallen off and I put it on my own head. I could hear Macduff’s soliloquy and his encounters with the other figures that he mistook for Macbeth and I was ready. I heard Old Siward say, Enter, sir, the castle, and I pulled down my vizor and adjusted my cloak and I went on and fought and Macduff chased me off and he ran on past me. I replaced my belt. That is how it was. I was the avenger. I was proud as Lucifer.”

A su

“Gaston’s saved us a lot of trouble,” said Alleyn, “by confessing. Though I can’t think of a more mot injuste for his ma