They finished at five to two in the morning. The management had provided beer, whisky and sherry. Some of them left without taking anything. William was dispatched in a taxi with Angus and Menteith who lived more or less in the same direction. Maggie slipped away as soon as her sleepwalking scene was over and she had seen Peregrine. Fleance went after the murder, Banquo after the cauldron scene and Duncan on his arrival at the castle. There were not many hold-ups. A slight re-arrangement of the company-fights at the end. Macbeth and Macduff went like clockwork.

Peregrine waited till they were all gone and the nightwatchman was on his rounds. The theatre was dark except for the dim working light. Dark, coldly stuffy. Waiting.

He stood for a moment in front of the curtain and saw the caretaker’s torch moving about the circle. He felt empty and deadly tired. Nothing untoward had happened.

‘Good night,’ he called.

‘Good night, guv’nor.’

He went through the curtain into backstage and past the menacing shapes of scenery, ill-defined by the faraway working light. Where was his torch? Never mind, he’d got all his papers under his arm fastened to a clapperboard and he would go home. Past the masking pieces, cautiously along the Prompt side.

Something caught hold of his foot.

He fell forward and a jolt wrenched at his former injury and made him cry out.

‘Are you all right?’ asked the scarcely audible voice in the circle.

He was all right. He still had hold of his clapperboard. He’d caught his foot in one of the light cables. Up he got, cautiously. ‘All serene,’ he shouted.

‘Are you quite sure?’ asked an anxious voice close at hand.

‘God! Who the hell are you?’

‘It’s me, guv.’

‘Props! What the blazes are you doing? Where are you?’

‘I’m ‘ere. Thought I’d ‘ang abaht and make sure no one was up to no tricks. I must of dozed off. Wait a tick.’

A scrabbling noise and he came fuzzily into view round the corner of a dark object. A strong smell of whisky accompanied him. ‘It’s the murdered lady’s chair,’ he said. ‘I must have dropped off in it. Fancy.’

‘Fancy.’

Props moved forward and a glassy object rolled from under his feet.

‘Bottle,’ he said coyly. ‘Empty.’

‘So I supposed.’

Peregrine’s eyes had adjusted to the gloom. ‘How drunk are you?’ he asked.

‘Not so bad. Only a few steps down the primrose parf. There wasn’t more’n three drinks left in the bottle. Honest. And nobody got up to no tricks. They’ve all vanished. Into thin air.’

‘You’d better follow them. Come on.’

He took Props by the arm, steered him to the stage door, opened it and shoved him through.