“The caretaker?”
“Not ’im. They give ’im the willies, rats do. It ought to be ’im that sets the trap, not me, but ’e won’t.”
“When did you set it, then, Ernie?”
“Yesterday morning. They was all collected in ’ere waiting for rehearsal, wasn’t they?”
“Yes. We did the crowd scenes,” said Peregrine. He looked at Rangi. “You weren’t here,” he said.
“No. First I’ve heard of it.”
Peregrine saw an alert, doubtful look on Props’s face.
“We’ve been wondering who knew all about the trap. Pretty well the whole company seems to be the answer,” said Peregrine.
“That’s right,” Props said. He was staring at the brown-paper parcel. “What’s that?” he asked.
Peregrine said: “What’s what?”
“That parcel. Look. It’s mucky.”
He was right. A horrid wetness seeped through the paper. “It’s half your rat, Props,” said Peregrine. “Your rat’s in the parcel.”
“ ’Ere! What’s the game, eh? You’ve taken it off of the trap and made a bloody parcel of it. What for? Why didn’t you say so instead of letting me turn myself into a blooming exhibition? What’s all this about?” Props demanded.
“We didn’t remove it. It was in Mr. Western’s bag.”
Props turned and looked hard at Rangi. “Is that correct?” he asked.
“Perfectly correct. I put my hand in to get the pilot’s thumb and” — he grimaced — “I touched it.” He picked up his bag and held it out. “Look for yourself,” he said. “It’ll be marked.”
Props took the bag and opened it. He peered inside. “That’s right,” he said. “There’s marks.” He stared at Peregrine and Rangi. “It’s the same bloody bugger what did the other bloody tricks,” he said.
“Looks like it,” Peregrine agreed. And after a moment: “Personally, I’m satisfied that it wasn’t you, Ernie. You’re not capable of such a convincing display of bewilderment. Or of thinking it funny.”
“Ta, very much.” He jerked his head at Rangi. “What about him?” he asked. “Don’t ’e fink I done it?”
“I’m satisfied. Not you,” said Rangi.
There was a considerable pause before Props said: “Fair enough.”
Peregrine said: “I think we say nothing about this. Props, clear up the wet patch in the witch’s bag, would you, and return it to its place on the table with the other two. Drop the rat in the rubbish bin. We’ve overreacted, which is probably exactly what he wanted us to do. From now on, you keep a tight watch on all the props right up to the time they’re used. And not a word to anyone about this. Okay?”
“Okay,” they both said.
“Right. Go ahead then. Rangi, can I give you a lift?”
“No, thanks. I’ll take a bus.”
They went out through the stage door.
Peregrine unlocked his car and got in. Big Ben tolled four o’clock. He sat there, dog-tired suddenly. Drained. Zero hour. This time on Saturday: the opening night and the awful burden of the play. Of lifting the cast. Of hoping for the final miracle. Of being, within himself, sure, and of conveying that security somehow to the cast.
Why, why, why, thought Peregrine, do I direct plays? Why do I put myself into this hell? Above all, why Macbeth? And then: It’s too soon to be feeling like this; five days too soon. Oh, God deliver us all.
He drove home to Emily.
“Do you have to go out again tonight?” she asked.
“I’m not sure. I don’t think so.”
“How about a bath and a zizz?”
“I ought to be doing something. I can’t think.”
“I’ll answer the telephone and if it’s important I swear I’ll wake you.”
“Will you?” he said helplessly.
“Come on, silly. You haven’t slept for two nights.”
“Haven’t I?”
“Not a wink.”
She went upstairs. He heard the bath running and smelled the stuff she used in it. If I sit down, he thought, I won’t get up.
He wandered to the window. There was the Dolphin across the river, shining in the late-afternoon sun. Tomorrow they’ll put up the big poster. MACBETH! OPENING 23 APRIL! I’ll see it from here.
Emily came down. “Come on,” she said.
She helped him undress. The bath was heaven. Emily scrubbed his back. His head nodded and his mouth filled with foam.
“Blow!”
He blew and the foam floated about, a mass of iridescent bubbles.
“Stay awake for three minutes longer,” said her voice. She had evidently pulled out the plug. “Come on. Out.”
He was dried. The sensation was laughable. He woke sufficiently to fumble himself into his pajamas and then into bed.
“Sleep,” he murmured, “that knits up the ravell’d sleave of care.”
“That’s right,” said Emily, a thousand miles away.
He slept.
Across the river, not very far away as the crow flies, the theatre trembled with the rebirth of the play. The actors were gone but business manager Winter Meyer and his staff worked away in the front-of-house. Telephones rang. Bookings were made. Royalty were coming and someone from Buck House would appear the day before they opened to settle the arrangements. The police and Security people would make decisions. Chief Superintendent Alleyn and his wife were coming. The Security pundits thought it a good idea if he were to be put in the box next to the Royalty. Chief Superintendent Alleyn received the order philosophically if not jubilantly and asked for a seat later in the season when he could watch the play rather than the house.
“Of course, of course, my dear chap,” Winty gushed. “Anytime. Anywhere. Management seat. Our pleasure.”
Flower shop. Cleaners. Press. Programmes. Biographical notes. Notes on the play. Nothing about superstitions.
Winter Meyer read through the proofs and could find nothing to crack the eggshell sensitivity of any of the actors. Until he came to the piece on Banquo.
“Mr. Bruce Barrabell, too long an absentee from the West End.” He won’t relish that, thought Winty, and changed it to “… makes a welcome return to…”
He went through the whole thing again and then rang up the printers and asked if the Royal Programme was ready and when he could see a copy.
Winter Meyer’s black curls were now iron gray. He had been business manager at the Dolphin ever since it was restored and remembered the play about Shakespeare by Peregrine Jay that twenty years ago had been accompanied by a murder.
Seems a long time ago now, thought Winty. Things have gone rather smoothly since then. He touched wood with his plump white finger. Of course we’re in a nice financial position, permanently endowed by the late Mr. Conducis. Almost too secure, you might think. I don’t, he thought with a fat chuckle. He lit a cigar and returned to his work.
He had dealt with his “In” tray. There was only an advertisement left from a wine merchant. He picked it up and dropped it in his wastebasket, exposing a folded paper at the bottom of his tray.
Winty was an extremely tidy man and liked to say he knew exactly where everything lay on or in his desk and what it was about. He did not recognize this folded sheet. It was, he noted, a follow-up sheet of office letter paper. He frowned and opened it.
The typed message read: “murderers son in your co.”
Winter Meyer sat perfectly still, his cigar in his left hand and in his right this outrageous statement.
Presently he turned and observed, on a small table, the typewriter sometimes used by his secretary for taking down dictated letters. He inserted a sheet of paper and typed the statement.
This, he decided, corresponds exactly. The monstrous truth declared itself. It had been executed in his office. Somebody had come in, sat down, and infamously typed it. No apostrophe or full stop and no capital letter. Because the writer was in a hurry? Or ignorant? And the motive?