‘And what do you suppose inspired the practical joker? Decapitated heads. But how do you account for them? You cannot. I could not until I discovered Barrabell’s wife had suffered decapitation at the hands of the so-called Hampstead Chopper. Wherever the claidheamh-mor turns up, it is associated with decapitation. And I, its demented agent, I in my vanity – ‘

On and on. Sometimes fairly logical reasoning, sometimes high-flown nonsense, until at last Gaston stopped, wiped his brow, said he was rather warm, and asked for a glass of water, which the Chinese servant brought.

‘Before you go on again,’ said Alleyn, ‘you have just said –’ he consulted his notes – ‘“I, its demented agent, I in my vanity”. What were you about to say?’

‘Let me think. “Demented agent” did I say? “In my vanity”? But it’s as clear as may be, surely. It came alive in my hands. I was the appointed man.’

‘You mean you killed Dougal Macdougal?’

‘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 removed the belt of my tunic. 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,

Brandished 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 leapt in my hands and decapitated him. I put the head on it and left it in the corner. The coronet had fallen off it 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 visor and adjusted my cloak and I went on and fought as Macbeth and Macduff chased me off and ran on past me. I replaced my heavy belt. That is how it was. I was the avenger. I was proud as Lucifer.’

IV