‘You know what I think,’ said the 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 book called The Curse of Macbeth by Richard Huggett.’

They finished their drinks. The party had gone flat.

‘Call it a day, chaps?’ suggested Ross.

‘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 fellow, 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.’ He made a shaky attempt to cross himself. ‘I’m OK,’ 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.’

VIII

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, sloshed 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 remorseless strain on muscles unaccustomed to such exercise. They sweated profusely. The Anvil Chorus, out of tune, played slowly on a gramophone, ground out a lugubrious, a laborious, a nightmare-like accompaniment, made more hateful by Gaston humming, also out of tune.

The relationship between the three men was, from the first, uneasy. Dougal tended to be facetious. ‘What ho, varlet. Have at thee, miscreant,’ he would cry.