‘No. Not if it’s remotely useful.’

‘There now!’ said Alleyn. ‘Goodbye for the moment, then. On your way out, would you ask Mr Knight to come in?’

‘Certainly. It’s half past twelve,’ Peregrine said. ‘He’ll have got a bit restive, I daresay.’

‘Will he indeed?’ said Alleyn. ‘Send him in.’

CHAPTER 9
Knight Rampant

Marcus Knight was not so much restive as portentous. He had the air of a man who is making enormous concessions. When Alleyn apologized for keeping him waiting so long, he waved his hand as if to say: ‘Think no more of it. Nevertheless – ’

‘One can’t tell,’ Alleyn said, ‘in our job, how long any given interview will last.’

‘It didn’t escape my notice,’ Knight said, ‘that you were honoured with an earlier visit.’

‘From Hartly Grove? Yes. He had,’ Alleyn said, ‘thought of something.’

‘He thinks of a number of things, most of them highly offensive.’

‘Really? This was quite harmless. I wonder if you’ve noticed his overcoat.’

Mr Knight had noticed Mr Grove’s overcoat and said so briefly and with immeasurable distaste. ‘One is not surprised however,’ he said. ‘One recognizes the form. It is entirely consistent. My God, what a garment! How he dares!’

It became evident that he did not know that the coat had been given to Jobbins.

Alleyn briefly re-checked Knight’s movements. He had driven his Jaguar from the theatre to his house in Montpelier Square where he was given supper as usual by the Italian couple who looked after him. He thought it was probably about ten past eleven when he got in. He did not go out again but could not absolutely prove it.

Extreme, wholly male beauty is not a commonplace phenomenon. Marcus Knight possessed it to a generous degree. His oval face, with its subtly turned planes, his delicate nose, slightly tilted eyes and glossy hair might have been dreamed up by an artist of the Renaissance or indeed by the unknown painter of that unknown man whom many observers call the Grafton Shakespeare. He had the bodily harmony that declares itself through its covering and he moved like a panther. How old was he? Middle thirties? Younger? Forty, perhaps? It didn’t matter.

Alleyn led him cautiously by way of his own exquisite performance to the work of his fellow players. He uncovered a completely egotistic but shrewd appreciation of the play and a raw patch of professional jealousy when the work of his associates, particularly of Harry Grove, came into question. Grove’s Mr W. H., it seemed, was not a true reading. It was showy. It was vulgar. It was even rather camp, said Marcus Knight.

Alleyn spoke of the theft of the glove and documents. Knight rejoiced that they had been recovered. He gazed with passionate concern at Alleyn. Was it certain they were uninjured? Was it quite, quite certain? Alleyn said it was and began to talk of their unequalled worth. Knight nodded several times very slowly in that larger-than life manner that Alleyn associated with persons of his profession. It was more like a series of bows.