Peregrine saw an alert, doubtful look on Props’s face. ‘We’ve been wondering who knew all about the trap. Pretty well the whole company seems to be the answer,’ he said.

‘That’s right,’ Props said. He was staring at the brown paper parcel. ‘What’s that?’ he asked.

‘What’s what?’

‘That parcel. Look. It’s mucky.’

He was right. A horrid wetness seeped through the paper. ‘It’s half your rat, Props,’ said Peregrine. ‘Your rat’s in the parcel.’

‘’Ere. What’s the game, eh? You’ve taken it off of the trap and made a bloody parcel of it. What for? Why didn’t you say so instead of letting me turn myself into a blooming exhibition? What’s all this about?’ Props demanded.

‘We didn’t remove it. It was in Mr Western’s bag.’

Props turned and looked hard at Rangi. ‘Is that correct?’ he asked.

‘Perfectly correct. I put my hand in to get the pilot’s thumb and – ‘ he grimaced – ‘I touched it.’ He picked up his bag and held it out. ‘Look for yourself. It’ll be marked.’

Props took the bag and opened it. He peered inside. ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘There’s marks.’ He stared at Peregrine and Rangi. ‘It’s the same bloody bugger what did the other bloody tricks.’

‘Looks like it,’ Peregrine agreed. And after a moment: ‘Personally I’m satisfied that it wasn’t you, Props. You’re not capable of such a convincing display of bewilderment. Or of thinking it funny.’

‘Ta very much.’ He jerked his head at Rangi. ‘What about him?’ he asked. ‘Don’t ‘e fink I done it?’

‘I’m satisfied. Not you,’ said Rangi.

There was a considerable pause before Props said: ‘Fair enough.’

Peregrine said: ‘I think we say nothing about this. Props, clear up the wet patch in the witch’s bag, would you, and return it to its place on the table with the other two. Drop the rat in the rubbish bin. We’ve overreacted, which is probably exactly what he wanted us to do. From now on, you keep a tight watch on all the props right up to the time they’re used. And not a word to anyone about this. OK?’

‘OK,’ they both said.

‘Right. Go ahead then. Rangi, can I give you a lift?’

‘No, thanks. I’ll take a bus.’

They went out through the stage door.

Peregrine unlocked his car and got in. Big Ben tolled four o’clock. He sat there, dog-tired suddenly. Drained. Zero hour. This time on Saturday: the opening night and the awful burden of the play: of lifting the cast. Of hoping for the final miracle. Of being, within himself, sure, and of conveying that security somehow to the cast.