‘Yes. I thought so. Barrabell. It was only a guess but he was about. In the theatre at that time. The sort of thing he’d do, I thought.’

‘Did you say so to Winter?’

‘I did, yes. Winty says he went to the loo. It was the only time the room was free. About five minutes. There’s a window into the foyer. Anybody there could look in, see it was empty and – do it.’

‘One of the Harcourt-Smith victims was called Barrabell. Muriel Barrabell. A bank clerk. She was beheaded.’

‘Do you think –?’

‘We’ll have to find out,’ Alleyn said. ‘Even so, it doesn’t give him a motive to kill Macbeth.’

‘And there’s absolutely no connection that we know of with poor Sir Dougal.’

‘No.’

‘Whereas with Simon Morten –’ Perry stopped.

‘Yes?’

‘Nothing. That sounds as if I was hiding something. I was only going to say Simon’s got a hot temper and he suspected Dougal of making passes at the Lady. She put that right with him.’

‘He hadn’t got the opportunity to do it. He must have chased Macbeth off with his own blunt weapon raised. He’d have to change his weapon for the real claidheamh-mor, from which he had to remove the dummy head while his victim looked on, did nothing and then obligingly stooped over to receive the stroke.’

‘And Gaston?’

‘First of all, time. I’ve done it in dumb show myself, all out and way over the time. And what’s even more convincing, Gaston was seen by the King and Nina Gaythorne and, as they came out, by people going on for the call. He actually spoke to them. This was while the murder was taking place. He went into the OP corner and collected the claidheamh-mor at the last moment when Macduff came round and he followed him on.’

Peregrine raised his arms and let them drop. ‘Exit Gaston Sears,’ he said. ‘I don’t think I ever really thought he’d done it but I’m glad to have it confirmed. Who’s left?’

‘Without an alibi? Barrabell. The stagehands. Various thanes. Lady Macbeth. Old Uncle Tom Cobbleigh and all.’

‘I’d better go back to the boys in the office. They’re trying to make up their minds.’

Alleyn looked at his watch. ‘It’s ten past two,’ he said. ‘If they haven’t made up their minds I suggest they sleep on it. Are the actors called?’

‘For four o’clock this afternoon, poor dears.’

‘It’s none of my business, of course, but I don’t think you should go on with Macbeth.’

‘No?’

‘It’s only a matter of time before the truth is known. A very short time probably. You’ll get a sort of horror-reaction, a great deal of morbid speculation, and, I should think, the kind of publicity that will be an insult to a beautiful production.’

‘Oh.’