Peregrine had to admit, strictly to himself, that a change had come over the atmosphere in the theatre. It was not that rehearsals went badly. They went, on the whole, very well, with no more than the expected clashes of temperament among the actors. Barrabell, the Banquo, was the most prominent where these were concerned. He had only to appear on stage for an argument to begin about the various movements of the actors. But Peregrine was, for the most part, a patient and sagacious director and he never let loose a formidable display of anger without considering that the time had come for it and the result would be salutary. He had never encountered Barrabell before but it didn’t take him long to suspect a troublemaker and this morning he had confirmation of it. Barrabell and Nina Gaythorne arrived together. He had dropped his beautifully controlled voice to its lowest level, he had taken her arm, and in her faded, good-natured face there appeared an expression that reminded Peregrine of a schoolchild receiving naughty but absorbing information upon a forbidden subject.

‘Most unexpected,’ the Voice confided. ‘I wasn’t here, of course, but I happened to look out…’ It sank below the point of audibility. ‘…concentrated…most extraordinary…’

‘Really?’

‘…Blondie…rigor…’

‘No!’

‘I promise.’

At this point they came through the scenic archway and saw Peregrine. There was a very awkward silence.

‘Good morning,’ said Peregrine happily.

‘Good morning, Perry. Er – good morning. Er.’

‘You were talking about last night’s storm.’

‘Ah. Yes. Yes, we were. I was saying it was a heavy one.’

‘Yes? But you were not here.’

‘No. I saw it from a window. In Westminster: well, Pimlico.’

‘I didn’t see it,’ said Nina. ‘Not really.’

‘Did you notice that old shed on the waterfront has collapsed?’ Peregrine asked.

‘Ah!’ said Barrabell on a full note. ‘That’s what it is! The difference!’

‘It was struck by lightning.’

‘Fancy!’

‘The centre of the storm.’

‘Not the theatre.’

‘No,’ they both fervently agreed. ‘Not our theatre.’

‘Did you hear about Blondie?’

They made noises.

‘She was here,’ said Peregrine. ‘So was I. Blondie has this thing about lightning. Electricity in the air. My mother has it. She’s seventy and very perky.’

‘Oh yes?’ said Nina. ‘How lovely.’

‘Very fit and well but gets electrically disturbed during thunder-storms.’

‘I see,’ said Barrabell.

‘It’s quite a common occurrence. Like cat’s fur crackling. Nina darling,’ said Peregrine, putting his arm around her, ‘I’ve got three little boys coming this morning to audition for the Macduff kid. Would you be an angel and go through the scene with them? Here are their photographs. Look.’

He opened a copy of Spotlight at the child-actors’ section. Three infant phenomena were displayed. Two were embarrassingly overdressed and bore an innocent look that only just failed to conceal an awful complacency. The third had sensible clothes and a cheeky face.