“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 sunny May Sunday and sightseers’ craft plied up and down the Thames on their trips to the Tower. The Jays with Alleyn were drinking their after-luncheon coffee on the terrace outside their house. Across the river the Dolphin, having had its outside washed down, sparkled in the sunshine. William, whose Sunday visit had become a fixture, was being noisily entertained upstairs in the ex-nursery by Robin and Richard.
“Gaston’s saved us a lot of trouble,” said Alleyn, “by confessing. Though I can’t think of a more mot injuste for his manner of doing it. He sticks to his story and I can’t make up my mind, to my own satisfaction, whether the plea’s altogether genuine. Luckily I don’t have to. The defense, if he allows it, will be guilty but insane. His back history will support it but he’ll fight it tooth and nail. But he was very cunning, you know. He managed an alibi for himself by committing the crime earlier. He was talking away to the covey of ‘corpses’ when the murder was supposed to be done, and alleging he suffered from asthma, which he kept quiet about for professional reasons. He’s as strong as an ox with the wind of a bellows. There’s no question of its being an unrehearsed impulse. All the same —”
“All the same?” said Emily.
“Whatever the verdict is, I’ve an idea it won’t upset him as much as it would anyone else. He’ll write a book, I daresay. And he’ll adore the trial.”
“What about Barrabell?”
“Horrid little man with his tricks and manners and anonymous messages. But we won’t let him go to Russia. He’s wanted to give evidence. I shouldn’t talk like this about him, he’s had an appalling experience, God knows, but it’s not fair to be such a good actor and such a crawler. In a way he’s a link in the whole business. He started the decapitation business and he got Gaston thinking about it and about the claidheamh-mor. Upon my word, I wouldn’t be surprised if he planted the idea in Gaston’s wild imagination. How’s your play going? You’ve started rehearsals, haven’t you?”
“Yes. All right. Too early to predict. Young William’s an actor. Maggie’s shaping well. And — good Lord, I’ve forgotten. It’s why I asked you to lunch in the first place. Wait a moment.”
He went indoors. There was a wild shriek from above and the three little boys came tumbling downstairs. They fell into a scrum and out of it and rushed round the house, William shouting, “The devil damn thee black, thou cream-fac’d loon!”
Alleyn called out: “Robin. May I interrupt?”
“Yes, sir?” said Robin warily.
“It’s about you knowing the fighter wasn’t Macbeth.”
“Did you guess?” said Robin, rallying.
“Only after you gave the hint. Macbeth and all his men wore black lambskin tunics, didn’t they?”
“Yes.”
“And Seyton wore a heavy belt to support the claidheamh-mor?”
“That’s right.”
“And when he took it off it showed the wear — lambskin all flattened and worn?”
“Yes. Only when his cloak-thing shifted.”
“I should have noticed and I didn’t. You’ve been a great help, Robin.”
“Whangee! Will I have to give evidence?”
“No. I just wanted to thank you.”
“You didn’t notice at the time, sir. I expect you would have,” said Robin kindly, “when you got around to it.”
“I hope so,” said Alleyn meekly.
“Hi!” Robin shouted. “William!” and tore off round the house.
Peregrine reappeared. He carried a long package carefully wrapped in brown paper. “Do you know what’s in here?” he asked.
Alleyn took it, passed his hands over it, and weighed it. “Dummy swords?” he asked.
“Right. The wooden swords used for rehearsing the fight while Gaston made the steel ones. Being Gaston’s, they are needlessly ornate and highly finished. Now read this.”
He gave Alleyn an open envelope addressed to “Master William Smith.”
“Read it,” he said.
Alleyn took it out.
Master William Smith.
I regret that I, having been much engaged of late, forgot the promise I made you at the beginning of the season. I have, as some compensation, included both weapons. You will be anxious to learn their correct usage. Treat them with the utmost care and respect. Regrettably, I shall not be at liberty to teach you but Mr. Simon Morten will, no doubt, be glad to do so. You will be a good actor.
I remain,
Your obedient servant,
Gaston Sears
“Shall I give them to the boy? And the letter?”
After a long pause, Alleyn said: “I don’t know William. If he is a sensible boy and respects the tools of his trade — yes. I think you should.”
The End