And being well-trained, professional actors, they respond and with stricken faces and shaking lips repeat, ‘“Hail, King of Scotland.”’

The curtain falls.

II

‘Cip,’ Peregrine said, ‘you’ll have to get a cab home. Here’s the cash. Take care of Robin, won’t you? Do you know what’s happened?’

‘It seems – some sort of accident?’

‘Yes. To the Macbeth. I’ve got to stay here. Look, there’s a cab. Get it.’

Crispin darted out and ran towards the taxi, holding up his hand. He jumped on the platform and the taxi-driver drew up. Peregrine said: ‘In you get, Rob.’

‘I thought we were going backstage,’ Robin said.

‘There’s been an accident. Next time.’

He gave the driver their address and Crispin some money and they were gone. Someone tapped his arm. He turned and found it was Alleyn.

‘I’d better come round, hadn’t I?’ he said.

‘You! Yes. You’ve seen it?’

‘Yes.’ They found a crowd of people milling about in the alley.

‘My God,’ said Peregrine. ‘The bloody public.’

‘I’ll try and cope,’ Alleyn said.

He was very tall. There was a wooden box at the stage door. He made his way to it and stood on it facing the crowd. ‘If you please,’ he said, and was listened to.

‘You are naturally curious. You will learn nothing and you will be very much in the way if you stay here. Nobody of consequence will be leaving the theatre by this door. Please behave reasonably and go.’

He stood there, waiting.

‘Who does he think he is?’ said a man next to Peregrine.

‘He’s Chief Superintendent Alleyn,’ said Peregrine. ‘You’d better do what he says.’

There was a general murmur. A voice said: ‘Aw, come on. What’s the use.’

They moved away.

The doorkeeper opened the door to the length of the chain, peered out and saw Peregrine. ‘Thank Gawd,’ he said. ‘Hold on, sir.’ He disengaged the chain and opened the door wide enough to admit them. Peregrine said: ‘It’s all right. This is Chief Superintendent Alleyn,’ and they went in.

To a silent place. The stage was lit. Masking pieces rose up; black masses, through which the passage could be seen running under the landing in front of the door to Duncan’s chamber. At the far end of this passage, strongly lit, was a shrouded object, a bundle, lying on the stage. A dark red puddle had seeped from under it.

They moved round the set and the stage director came offstage.

‘Perry! Thank God,’ he said.

‘I was in front. So was Superintendent Alleyn. Bob Masters, our stage director; Mr Alleyn.’

‘Have you rung the Yard?’ Alleyn asked.

‘Charlie’s doing it,’ said Masters, ‘now. Our ASM. He’s having some difficulty getting a line out.’

‘I’ll have a word with him,’ said Alleyn, and went into the Prompt corner.

‘I’m a policeman,’ he told Charlie. ‘Shall I take over?’