‘I do, most emphatically. I’m going to work on the sleepwalking scene. I want to get a sleepwalking voice. Dead. No inflections. Metallic. Will it work?’

‘Yes.’

She looked at him and thought how pleasant and romantic he seemed and what a pity it was that he was so stupidly jealous. It showed in his mouth. Nothing could cure it.

When he got up to go she said, ‘Good night, my dear. You won’t take it out on Dougal, will you? It would be so silly. There’s nothing to take.’

‘If you say so.’

He held her by her arms. She gave him a quick kiss and withdrew.

‘Good night, Simon.’

‘Good night.’

When she had shut the door and he was alone outside, he said: ‘All the same, to hell with Sir Dougal Macdougal.’

IV

On Monday morning there was a further and marked change in the atmosphere. It wasn’t gloomy. It was oppressive and nervous. Rather like the thunderstorm, Peregrine thought. Claustrophobic. Expectant. Stifling.

Peregrine finished blocking. By Wednesday they had covered the whole play and took it through in continuity.

There were noticeable changes in the behaviour of the company. As a rule, the actor would finish a scene and come off with a sense of anxiety or release. He or she would think back through the dialogue, note the points of difficulty and re-rehearse them in the mind or, as it were, put a tick against them as having come off successfully. Then he would disappear into the shadows, or watch for a time with professional interest or read a newspaper or book, each according to his temperament and inclination.

This morning it was different. Without exception the actors sat together and watched and listened with a new intensity. It was as though each actor continued in an assumed character, and no other reality existed. Even in the scenes that had been blocked but not yet developed there was a nervous tension that knew the truth would emerge and the characters march to their appointed end.

The company were to see the fight for the first time. Macduff now had something of a black angel’s air about him, striding through the battle on the hunt for Macbeth. He encountered men in the Macbeth tartan, and mistook them for him, but it must be Macbeth or nobody. Then Macduff saw him, armoured, helmeted, masked, and cried out: ‘Turn, hell-hound. Turn!’

Macbeth turned.

Peregrine’s palms were wet. The thanes, waiting offstage now, stood aghast. Steel clashed on steel or screamed as one blade slid down another. There was no other sound than the men’s hard breathing.

Macduff swung his claymore up, then swiftly down. Macbeth caught it on his shield and lurched forward.

Nina, in the audience, screamed.