‘I was showing the girls and Rangi how to fall soft. They don’t know what happened. They’ve each got a special place. The sword was halfway between two places.’

‘It was there – under the cover when they fell?’

‘Must have been.’

‘Wouldn’t they have seen it? Seen the shape under the cover?’

‘No. I didn’t. It’s very dark down there.’

They were silent, for a moment. The sound of London swelled into the gap. On the river a solitary craft gave out its lonely call.

‘Nobody knew,’ Emily ventured, ‘that you were going to make that jump?’

‘Of course not. I didn’t know myself, did I?’

‘So it being you that got the jab in the wind was just bad luck.’

‘Must have been.’

‘Well, thank God for that, at least.’

‘Yes.’

‘Where was it? Before he hid it.’

‘I don’t know. Wait a sec. Yes, I do. The two wooden claymores were hung up on nails. On the back wall. They were very much the worse for wear, in spite of having cloth shields on the blades. One was split. Being Gaston’s work, they were carefully made: the right weight and balance and grip but they were really only makeshift. They were no good for anything except playing soldiers.’ He stopped and then said hurriedly: ‘I won’t elaborate on the sword to the doctor. I’ll just say it’d been left lying there and nobody cleared it up.’

‘Yes. All right. True enough as far as it goes.’

‘And as for William, beyond taking care what we talk about, we ignore the whole thing.’

‘The play being what it is – ‘ Emily began. And stopped.

‘It’s all right. He was shouting out “He got his comeuppance, didn’t he?” just like any other small boy. At rehearsal, I mean.’

‘How old was he when it happened?’

‘Six.’

‘He’s nine now?’

‘Yes. He looks much younger. He’s a nice boy.’

‘Yes. Does it hurt much? Your side?’

‘If I move it’s unpleasant. I wonder if for the cast there’s some chronic affliction I could have had at odd times? The result of something that happened long before Macbeth.’

‘Diverticulitis?’

‘Why diverticulitis?’

‘I don’t know why,’ said Emily, ‘but it seems to me it’s something American husbands have. Their wives say mysteriously to one: “My dear! He has diverticulitis.” And one nods and looks solemn.’

‘I think I’d be safer with a growling gall bladder. Whereabouts is one’s gall bladder?’

‘We can ask the doctor.’

‘So we can.’

‘Shall I have a look at you?’

‘No, we’d better leave well alone.’

‘What a dotty remark that is. After all,’ said Emily, ‘the bit in question is the bit of you that is not well so how can we leave it alone? I’ll get our dinner instead. It’ll be a proper onion soup and then an omelette. OK?’