‘Quite so,’ Peregrine said. ‘You are the sword-bearer. As for the – ‘

‘ – which has been vulgarized into “claymore”. I prefer “claidheamh-mor” meaning “great sword”, it being – ‘

‘Quite so, Gaston. And now – ‘

For a time the voices mingled, the bass one coming through with disjointed phrases: ‘…Magnus’s leg-biter…quillons formed by turbulent protuberance…’

‘To continue,’ Peregrine shouted. The sword-bearer fell silent.

‘And the witches?’ asked a helpful witch.

‘Entirely evil,’ answered the relieved Peregrine. ‘Dressed like fantastic parodies of Meg Merrilies but with terrible faces. We don’t see their faces until “look not like the inhabitants of the earth and yet are on’t,” when they are suddenly revealed. They smell abominably.’

‘And speak?’

‘Braid Scots.’

‘What about me, Perry? Braid Scots too?’ suggested the porter.

‘Yes. You enter through the central trap, having been collecting fuel in the basement. And,’ Peregrine said with ill-concealed pride, ‘the fuel is bleached driftwood and most improperly shaped. You address each piece in turn as a farmer, as an equivocator and as an English tailor, and you consign them all to the fire.’

‘I’m a funny man?’

‘We hope so.’

‘Aye. A-weel, it’s a fine idea, I’ll give it that. Och, aye. A bonny notion,’ said the porter.

He chuckled and mouthed and Peregrine wished he wouldn’t, but he was a good Scots actor.

He waited for a moment, wondering how much he had gained of their confidence. Then he turned to the designs and explained how they would work and then to the costumes.

‘I’d like to say here and now that these drawings and those for the sets – Jeremy has done both – are, to my mind, exactly right. Notice the suggestion of the clan tartans: a sort of primitive pre-tartan. The cloak is a distinctive check affair. All Macbeth’s servitors and servitors of royal personages wore their badges and the livery of their masters. Lennox, Angus and Ross wear their own distinctive cloaks with the clan check. Banquo and Fleance have particularly brilliant ones, blood-red with black and silver borders. For the rest, thonged trousers, fur jerkins, and sheepswool chaps. Massive jewellery. Great jewelled bosses, heavy necklets and heavy bracelets, in Macbeth’s case reaching up to the elbow and above it. The general effect is heavy, primitive but incidentally extremely sexy. Gauntlets, fringed and ornamented. And the crowns! Macbeth’s in particular. Huge and heavy it must look.’

‘Look,’ said Macdougal, ‘being the operative word, I hope.’

‘Yes, of course. We’ll have it made of plastic. And Maggie…do you like what you see, darling?’

What she saw was a skin-tight gown of dull metallic material, slit up one side to allow her to walk. A crimson, heavily furred garment was worn over it, open down the front. She had only one jewel, a great clasp.

‘I hope I’ll fit it,’ said Maggie.