“I shouldn’t think so. Only to put the rat in. There was no means of telling which bag belonged to whom. It might have been Blondie’s. She’d have fainted or gone into high-powered hysterics,” said Rangi.

“She wouldn’t have looked in. Nor would Wendy. Their bags are filled with newspaper and fastened with thongs, tightly knotted. Yours isn’t because you are meant to open it and produce the pilot’s thumb.”

“So I was meant to find it,” said Rangi.

“It wouldn’t have worked with the other two.”

“There’s an obvious man to have played all these silly tricks.”

“Props?” said Peregrine.

“Ask yourself.”

“I do and I don’t believe it. Did you hear his outcries and threats to appeal to his union over the Banquo’s head business? Was that all my eye? We’d have to say we’ve got a bloody star-actor on the books. No. We’ve had him as Props for years. I simply cannot wear him for the job.”

“Can’t you narrow down the field? Where everyone was at the different times? Who could have gone up to Duncan’s room with the head, for instance? As a matter of fact, I ran into him with it. Props. Coming down the ladder from Duncan’s chamber. Now I think of it,” said Rangi, “his manner was odd. I said: ‘What are you doing with that thing?’ and he said he was putting it where it ought to be. I’m sorry, Perry. I really think he’s your man, you know. He must have put it under the dish-cover, mustn’t he?”

“He was taking the one back to the other heads in the walking men’s room. I told him to.”

“Did you see him do it?”

“No.”

“Ask him if he did it.”

“Of course I will. But I’m sure he didn’t put it in the dish. I admit he doesn’t look too good but I’m sure of it.”

“This blasted rat. Where did it come from? Have we been using traps?”

“And who sets them? All right. Props. He put one up in a narrow passage where Henry couldn’t squeeze in.” (Henry was the theatre cat.) “Props told me so himself. He was proud of his cunning.”

Rangi said: “We’ll have to look at it.”

He opened the bag and turned it upside down. The rat’s forequarters fell with a soft plop on the floor.

“There’s the mark of the bar across its neck. It’s deep. And wet. Its neck is broken. It’s bled,” said Rangi. “It doesn’t smell. It’s been recently killed.”

“We’ll have to keep it.”

“Why?”

Peregrine was taken aback. “Why?” he said. “Upon my word I don’t know. I’m treating it like evidence for a crime and there’s no crime of that sort. Nor any sort, really. All the same… wait a bit.”

Peregrine went to a rubbish bin, found a discarded brown-paper bag, and turned it inside out. He brought it back and held it open. Rangi picked the rat up by the ear and dropped it in. Peregrine screwed up the neck of the bag tightly.

“Horrible beast,” he said.

“We’d better — ssh.”

A padded footfall and the swish of a broom sounded in the passage.

“Ernie!” Peregrine called. “Props!”

The door opened and he came in. How many years, Peregrine asked himself, had Ernie been Props at the Dolphin. Ten? Twenty? Dependable always. A cockney with an odd, quirky sense of the ridiculous and an oversensitive reaction to an imagined slight. Thin, sharp face. Quick. Sidelong grin.

“Hullo, guv,” he said. “Fought you’d of gawn by now.”

“Just going. Caught any rats?”

“I never looked. ’Old on.”

He went to the back of the room behind a packing case. A pause and then Props’s voice. “ ’Ullo! What’s this, then?” A scuffling and he appeared with a rattrap on a long string.

“Look at this,” he said. “I don’t get it. The bait’s gone. So’s the rat’s head. There’s been a rat. Fur and gore and hindquarters all over it. Killed. Somebody’s been and taken it. Must of.”

“Henry?” asked Peregrine.

“Nah! Cats don’t eat rats. Just kill ’em. And ’Enery couldn’t get up that narrer passage. Nah! It’s been a man. ’E’s pulled out the trap, lifted the bar, and taken the rat’s forequarters.”

“The caretaker?”

“Not ’im. They give ’im the willies, rats do. It ought to be ’im that sets the trap, not me, but ’e won’t.”

“When did you set it, then, Ernie?”

“Yesterday morning. They was all collected in ’ere waiting for rehearsal, wasn’t they?”

“Yes. We did the crowd scenes,” said Peregrine. He looked at Rangi. “You weren’t here,” he said.

“No. First I’ve heard of it.”

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,” said Peregrine.

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

Peregrine said: “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,” he said. “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,” he said.

“Looks like it,” Peregrine agreed. And after a moment: “Personally, I’m satisfied that it wasn’t you, Ernie. 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. Okay?”

“Okay,” 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.

Why, why, why, thought Peregrine, do I direct plays? Why do I put myself into this hell? Above all, why Macbeth? And then: It’s too soon to be feeling like this; five days too soon. Oh, God deliver us all.

He drove home to Emily.

“Do you have to go out again tonight?” she asked.

“I’m not sure. I don’t think so.”

“How about a bath and a zizz?”

“I ought to be doing something. I can’t think.”

“I’ll answer the telephone and if it’s important I swear I’ll wake you.”

“Will you?” he said helplessly.

“Come on, silly. You haven’t slept for two nights.”

“Haven’t I?”

“Not a wink.”

She went upstairs. He heard the bath running and smelled the stuff she used in it. If I sit down, he thought, I won’t get up.

He wandered to the window. There was the Dolphin across the river, shining in the late-afternoon sun. Tomorrow they’ll put up the big poster. MACBETH! OPENING 23 APRIL! I’ll see it from here.