by Ngaio Marsh
“I don’t suppose there’s one of us who isn’t. Just a bit.”
“Peregrine,” Maggie said at once.
“He doesn’t seem like it, certainly. All that stuff about keeping it under our hats even if we do fancy it.”
“Still. Two successful productions and not a thing happening at either of them,” said Maggie.
“There is that, of course.” He waited for a moment and then in a much too casual manner said: “They were going to do it in the Dolphin, you know. Twenty years or so ago. When it opened.”
“Why didn’t they?”
“The leading man died or something. Before they’d come together. Not a single rehearsal, I’m told. So it was dropped.”
“Really?” said Maggie. “What are the other rooms like? More nudes?”
“Shall I show you?”
“I don’t think so, thank you.”
She looked at her watch. “Shouldn’t we be going to your Wig and Piglet?”
“Perry’s taking the witches first. We’ve lots of time.”
“Still, I’m obsessively punctual and shan’t enjoy my oysters if we’re cutting it short.”
“If you insist.”
“Well, I do. Sorry. I’ll just tidy up. Where’s your bathroom?”
He opened a door. “At the end of the passage,” he said.
She walked past him, hunting in her bag as she went, and thought, If he pounces I’ll be in for a scene and a bore.
He didn’t pounce but nor did he move. Unavoidably she brushed against him and thought: He’s got more of what it takes, Highland or Lowland, than is decent.
She did her hair, powdered her face, used her lipstick, and put on her gloves in a bathroom full of mechanical weight-reducers, potted plants, and a framed rhyme of considerable indecency.
“Right?” she asked briskly on reentering the sitting room.
“Right.” He put on his overcoat and they left the flat. It was dark outside now. He took her arm. “The steps are slippery,” he said. “You don’t want to start off with a sprained ankle, do you?”
“No. That I don’t.”
He was right. The steps glimmered with untimely frost and she was glad of his support. His overcoat was Harris tweed and smelled of peat fires.
As she got into the car, Maggie caught sight of a tall man wearing a short overcoat and a red scarf. He was standing about sixty feet away.
“Hullo,” she exclaimed. “That’s Simon. Hi!” She raised her hand but he had turned away and was walking quickly into a side street.
“I thought that was Simon Morten,” she said.
“Where?”
“I made a mistake. He’s gone.”
They drove back over the river and along the Embankment to the Wig and Piglet. The street lights were brilliant: snapping and sparkling in the cold air and broken into sequins on the outflowing Thames. Maggie felt excited and uplifted. When they entered the little restaurant with its huge fire, white tablecloths, and shining glasses, her cheeks flamed and her eyes were brilliant. Suddenly she loved everybody.
“You’re fabulous,” Dougal said. Some of the people had recognized them and were smiling. The maître d’hôtel made a discreet fuss over them. She was in rehearsal for a superb play and opposite her was her leading man.
She began to talk, easily and well. When champagne was brought she thought; I ought to stop him opening it. I never drink before rehearsals. But how dreary and out of tune with the lovely evening that would be.
“Temperamental inexactitude,” she said quite loudly. “British Constitution.”
“I beg your pardon, Maggie?”
“I was just testing myself to make sure I’m not tiddly.”
“You are not tiddly.”
“I’m not used to whiskey and you gave me a big one.”
“No, I didn’t. You are not tiddly. You’re just suddenly elevated. Here come our oysters.”
“Well, if you say so, I suppose I’m all right.”
“Of course you are. Wade in.”
So she did wade in and she was not tiddly. In the days to come she was to remember this evening, from the time when she left the flat until the end of their rehearsal, as something apart. Something between her and London, with Dougal Macdougal as a sort of necessary ingredient. But no more.
Gaston Sears inhabited a large old two-story house in a tiny cul-de-sac opening off Alleyn Road in Dulwich. It was called Alleyn’s Surprise and the house and grounds occupied the whole of one side. The opposite side was filled with neglected trees and an unused pumping house.
The rental of such a large building must have been high, and among the Dulwich College boys there was a legend that Mr. Sears was an eccentric foreign millionaire who lived there, surrounded by fabulous pieces of armor, and made swords and practiced black magic. Like most legends this was founded on highly distorted fact. He did live amongst his armor and he did very occasionally make swords. And his collection of armor was the most prestigious, outside the walls of a museum, in Europe. And certainly he was eccentric.
Moreover, he was comfortably off. He had started as an actor, a good one in far-out, eccentric parts, but so inclined to extremes of argumentative temperament that nobody cared to employ him. A legacy enabled him to develop his flair for historic arms and accoutrements. His expertise was recognized by all the European collectors and he was the possessor of honorary degrees from various universities. He made lecture tours in America for which he charged astronomical fees, and extorted frightening amounts from greedy, ignorant, and unscrupulous buyers which more than compensated for the opinions he gave freely to those he decided to respect. Of these Peregrine Jay was one.
The unexpected invitation to appear as sword-bearer to Macbeth had been accepted with complacency. “I shall be able to watch the contest,” he had observed. “And afterward correct any errors that may creep in. I do not altogether trust the Macbeth. Dougal Macdougal! Indeed!” he sneered. “No, He is not to be trusted.”
He was engaged upon making molds for the weapons. From a mold of the genuine, historical claidheamh-mor a replica would be cast in molten steel, which Macbeth would wear. Gaston himself would carry the real claidheamh-mor throughout the performance. A second claymore, less elaborate, would make the mold for the weapon Macduff would wear.
His workshop was a formidable background. Suits of armor stood ominously about the room, swords of various ages and countries hung on the walls with drawings of details in ornamentation. A life-size effigy of a Japanese warrior in an ecstasy of the utmost ferocity, clad in full armor, crouched in warlike attitude, his face contorted with rage and his sword poised to strike.
Gaston hummed and occasionally muttered as he made the long wooden trough that was to contain clay from which the matrix would be formed. He made a good figure for a Vulcan, being hugely tall with a shock of black hair and heavily muscled arms.
“Double, double toil and trouble,”
he hummed in time with his hammering. And then:
“Her husband’s to Aleppo gone, master o’ the Tiger
But in a sieve I’ll thither sail
And, like a rat without a tail,
I’ll do and I’ll do and I’ll do — ”
And on the final I’ll do he tapped home his nail.
Bruce Barrabell, who played Banquo, was not on call for the current rehearsal. He stayed at home and learned his part and dwelt upon his grievances. His newest agent was getting him quite a bit of work but nothing that was likely to do him any lasting good. A rather dim supporting role in another police series for Grenada. And now, Banquo. He’d asked to be tried for Macbeth and been told the part was already cast. Macduff: same thing. He was leaving the theatre when some whippersnapper came after him and said would he come to read Banquo. There’d been some kind of a slipup. So he did and he’d got it. Small part, actually. Lot of standing round with one foot up and the other down on those bloody steps. But there was one little bit. He flipped his part over and began to read
it.
“There’s husbandry in heaven; Their candles are all out.”
He read it aloud. Quietly. The slightest touch of whimsicality. Feel the time of night and the great empty courtyard. He had to admit it was good. “There’s housekeeping in Heaven.” The homely touch that somehow made you want to cry. Would a modern audience understand that housekeeping was what was meant by husbandry? Nobody else could write about the small empty hours as this man did. The young actor they’d produced for Fleance, his son, was nice: unbroken, clear voice. And then Macbeth’s entrance and Banquo’s reaction. Good stuff. His scene, but of course the Macbeth would overact and Perry would let him get away with it. Look at the earlier scene. Although Perry, fair’s fair, put a stop to that little caper. But the intention was there for all to see.
He set himself to memorize, but it wasn’t easy. Incidents out of the past kept coming in. Conversations…
“Actually, we are not quite strangers. There was a Macbeth up in Dundee, sir. I won’t say how many years ago.”
“Oh?”
“We were witches.” Whispering it. Looking coy.
“Really? Sorry. Excuse me. I want to — Perry, Perry, dear boy, just a word —”
Swine! Of course he remembered.
It was the Angus’s birthday. He, the Ross, and the rest of the lairds and the three witches were not called for the evening’s rehearsal. They arranged with other free members of the cast to meet at the Swan in Southwark and drink Angus’s health.
They arrived in twos and threes and it was quite late by the time the witches, who had been rehearsing in the afternoon, came in. Two girls and a man. The man (First Witch) was a part Maori called Rangi Western, not very dark but with the distinctive short upper lip and flashing eyes. He had a beautiful voice and was a prize student from the London Academy of Music and Dramatic Art. The second witch was a nondescript thin girl called Wendy, possessed of a remarkable voice: harsh, with strange, unexpected intervals. The third was a lovely child, a white-blonde, delicate, with enormous eyes and a babyish high-pitched voice. She was called Blondie.
Their rehearsal had excited them. They came in talking loudly. “Rangi, you were marvelous. You sent cold shivers down my spine. Truly. And that movement! I thought Perry would stop you but he didn’t. The stamp. It was super. We’ve got to do it, Wendy, along with Rangi. His tongue. And his eyes. Everything.”
“I thought it was fabulous giving us the parts. I mean the difference! Usually they all look alike and are too boring for words — all masks and mumbles. But we’re really evil. I mean really!”
“Angus!” they shouted. “Happy birthday, love. Bless you.”
Now they had all arrived. The witches were the center of attention. Rangi was not very talkative, but the two girls excitedly described his performance at rehearsal.
“He was standing with us, listening to Perry’s description, weren’t you, Rangi? Perry was saying we have to be the incarnation of evil. Not a drop of goodness anywhere about us.
“It’s got to be there. You know? In every move we make. How did he put it, Wendy?”
“ ‘Trembling with animosity,’ ” said Wendy.
“Yes. And I was standing by Rangi and I felt him tremble, I swear I did.”
“You did, didn’t you, Rangi? Tremble?”
“Sort of,” Rangi mumbled. “Don’t make such a thing about it.”
“No, but you were marvelous. You sort of grunted and bent your knees. And your face! Your tongue! And eyes!”
“Anyway, Perry was completely taken with it and asked him to repeat it and asked us to do it — not too much. Just a kind of ripple of hatred. It’s going to work, you know.”
“Putting a curse on him. That’s what it is, Rangi, isn’t it?”
“Have a drink, Rangi, and show us.”
Rangi made a brusque, dismissive gesture and turned away to greet the Angus.
The men closed around him. They were none of them quite drunk, but they were noisy. The members of the company now far outnumbered the other patrons, who had taken their drinks to a table in the corner of the room and looked on with ill-concealed interest.
“It’s my round,” Angus shouted. “I’m paying, all of you. No arguments. Yes, I insist. That which hath made them drunk hath made me bold,” he shouted.
His voice faded out and so, raggedly, did all the others. Blondie’s giggle persisted and died. A single voice — Angus’s — asked uncertainly: “What’s up? Oh. Oh, I see. Oh, hell! Never mind. Sorry everybody. Drink up.”
They drank in silence. Rangi drained his pint of light and bitter. Angus nodded to the barman, who replaced it with another. Angus mimed pouring in something else and laid an uncertain finger on his lips. The barman winked and added a tot of gin. He pushed the drink over toward Rangi’s hand. Rangi’s back was turned but he felt the glass, looked around, and saw it.
“Is that mine?” he asked, puzzled.
They all seized on this. They said confusedly that of course it was his drink. “Go on, have it. Drink it up. No heeltaps.”
It was something to make a fuss about, something that would make them all forget about Angus’s blunder. They bet Rangi wouldn’t drink it down then and there. So Rangi did. There was a round of applause.
“Show us, Rangi. Show us what you did. Don’t say anything, just show.”
“E-e-e-ah!” he shouted suddenly. He slapped his knees and stamped. He grimaced, his eyes glittered, and his tongue whipped in and out. He held his umbrella before him like a spear and it was not funny.
It lasted only a few seconds.
They applauded and asked him what it meant and was he “weaving a spell.” He said no, nothing like that. His eyes were glazed. “I’ve had a little too much to drink,” he said. “I’ll go now. Good-night, all of you.”
They objected. Some of them hung on to him but they did it halfheartedly. He brushed them off. “Sorry,” he said, “I shouldn’t have taken that drink. I’m no good with drinking.” He pulled some notes out of his pocket and shoved them across the bar. “My round,” he said. “Good-night, all.”
He walked quickly to the swing doors, lost his balance, and regained it.
“You all right?” Angus asked.
“No,” he answered. “Far from it.”
He walked into the doors. They swung out and he went with them. They saw him pull up, look stiffly to right and left, raise his umbrella in a magnificent gesture, get into the taxi that responded, and disappear.
“He’s all right,” said one of the lairds. “He’s got a room round here.”
“Nice chap.”
“Very nice.”
“I’ve heard, I don’t know who told me, mark you,” said Angus, “that drink has a funny effect on Maori people. Goes straight to their heads and they revert to their savage condition.”
“Rangi hasn’t,” said Ross. “He’s gone grand.”
“He did when he performed that dance or whatever it was,” said the actor who played Menteith.
“You know what I think?” said Ross. “I think he was upset when you quoted.”
“It’s all a load of old bullshit, anyway,” said a profound voice in the background.
This provoked a confused expostulation that came to its climax when the Menteith roared out: “Thass all very fine but I bet you wouldn’t call the play by its right name. Would you do that?”
Silence.
“There you are!”
“Only because it’d upset the rest of you.”
“Yah!” they all said.
The Ross, an older man who was sober, said: “I think it’s silly to talk about it. We feel as we do in different ways. Why not just accept that and stop nattering?”
“Somebody ought to write a book about it,” said Wendy.
“There is a chapter about it in a book called Supernatural on Stage, by Richard Huggett.”
They finished their drinks. The party had gone flat.
“Call it a day, chaps?” asked Ross.
<
br /> “That’s about the strength of it,” Menteith agreed.
The nameless and lineless thanes noisily concurred and gradually they drifted out.
Ross said to the Angus, “Come on, old boy, I’ll see you home.”
“I’m afraid I’ve overstepped the mark. Sorry. We were carousing till the second cock. Oh, dear, there I go again.”
“Come on, old boy.”
“All right.” He made a shaky attempt to cross himself. “I’m okay,” he said.
“Of course you are.”
“Right you are, then. Good-night, Porter,” he said to the barman.
“Good-night, sir.”
They went out.
“Actors,” said one of the guests.
“That’s right, sir,” the barman agreed, collecting their glasses.
“What was that they were saying about some superstition? I couldn’t make head or tail of it.”
“They make out it’s unlucky to quote from this play. They don’t use the title either.”
“Silly sods,” remarked another.
“They take it for gospel.”
“Probably some publicity stunt by the author.”
The barman grunted.
“What is the name of the play, then?”
“Macbeth.”
Rehearsals for the duel had begun and were persisted in remorselessly. At 9:30 every morning Dougal Macdougal and Simon Morten, armed with weighted wooden claymores, slashed and banged away at each other in a slow dance superintended by a merciless Gaston.
The whole affair, step by step, blow by blow, had been planned down to the last inch. Both men suffered agonies from the strain on muscles unaccustomed to such exercise. They sweated profusely. Gaston had found an ancient 45-rpm record of the Anvil Chorus, which when played at a lower speed ground out a lugubrious, laborious, nightmarelike accompaniment, made more hateful by Gaston humming, also out of tune.
The relationship among the three men was, from the first, uneasy. Dougal tended to be facetious. “What ho, varlet. Have at thee, miscreant,” he would cry.
Morten — Macduff — did not respond to these sallies. He was ominously polite and glum to a degree. When Dougal swung at him, lost his balance, and ran, as it were, after his own weapon, wild-eyed, an expression of great concern upon his face, Morten allowed himself a faint sneer. When Dougal finally tripped and fell in a sitting position with a sickening thud, the sneer deepened.
