He was hungry but worried. What would be done to his claidheamh-mor? The distinguished-looking policeman had assured him that great care would be taken of it but although he called it by its correct name he did not, he could not, understand. After all, he himself did not fully understand. As things had turned out it had fulfilled its true function but there was no telling, really, if it was satisfied.

He had enjoyed playing Macbeth for the police. He had a most phenomenal memory and years ago had understudied the part. And of course, once memorized, it was never forgotten. It struck him, not for the first time, that if they decided to go on they might ask him to play the part instead of the understudy. He would have played it well.

By Heaven! he thought. They will offer it to me! It would be a good solution. I could wear my own basic Macbeth clothes for the garments. Any personable extra can go on for Seyton. And I invented and know the fight. It went well in their reconstruction. I would have been a success. But it would not be a gracious thing to do. It would be an error in taste. I shall tell them so.

He fell to his crab salad with an appetite and filled his Waterford glass to the brim.

Simon Morten lived in Fulham on the borders of Chelsea. He thought he would walk to St James’s and on by way of Westminster where he would probably pick up a cab.

Mentally he went over the fight. Gaston played it all out and backed into the OP. He yelled and fell with a plop. I couldn’t have done it, thought Simon. Not in the time. Found the claith-something. Removed the dummy head. Placed it by the body. Two-handed grip on the pommel. Swing it up and what’s he doing all the time? For Gaston had gone. He walked off and found him standing with Nina Gaythorne and the King and William. He waited for his reentrance. Gaston came down and followed him on.

There was the repeat and then the Yard men with their notes and inaudible discussions and then they were told they could all go home.

In a way Simon was actually sorry. There hadn’t been time to think coherently. He went to Maggie’s dressing-room but she was gone. He went to his own room and found Bruce Barrabell there, putting on his rather dreary overcoat.

‘We have to suppose these Yard people think they know what they’re doing,’ he said. ‘I take leave to doubt it.’

Simon got his own coat and put it on.

‘Our Mr Sears had himself a marvellous party, didn’t he?’

‘I thought he was very good.’

‘Oh yes. Marvellous. If you were in the mood.’

‘Of course. Good night.’

‘Good night, Morten,’ said Barrabell and Simon took himself off.