Light Thickens by Ngaio Marsh

killing was exactly what Peregrine asked of him. Maggie, after they had worked at their scenes, said to him, “Dougal, you are playing like the devil possessed. I didn’t know you had it in you.”
    He thought for a moment and then said: “To tell you the truth, nor did I.” And burst out laughing. “Unlucky in love, lucky in war,” he said. “Something like that, eh, Maggie?”
    “Something like that,” she agreed lightly.
    “I suppose,” he said, turning to Peregrine, “it is absolutely necessary to have Marley’s Ghost haunting me? What’s he meant to signify?”
    “Marley’s Ghost?”
    “Well — whoever he is. Seyton. Gaston Sears. What’s he meant to be, silly old fool?”
    “Fate.”
    “Come off it. You’re being indulgent.”
    “I honestly don’t think so. I think he’s valid. He’s not intrusive, Dougal. He’s just — there.”
    Sir Dougal said: “That’s what I mean,” and drew himself up, holding his claymore in front of him. “His tummy rumbles are positively deafening,” he said. “Gurgle, gurgle. Rumble. Crash. A one-man band. One can hardly hear oneself speak.”
    “Nonsense,” said Peregrine and laughed. Maggie laughed with him.
    “You’re very naughty,” she said to Dougal.
    “You’ve heard him, Maggie. In the banquet scene. Standing up by your throne rumbling away. You do know he’s a bit off-pitch in the upper register, Perry, don’t you?” He touched his own head.
    “You’re simply repeating a piece of stage gossip. Stop it.”
    “Barrabell told me.”
    “And who told him? And what about your fight?” Peregrine made a wide gesture and swept his notes to the floor. “Damn,” he said. “Nothing dotty about that fight, is there?”
    “We’d have been just as good if we’d faked it,” Dougal muttered.
    “No, you wouldn’t, and you know it.”
    “Oh, well. But he does rumble. Admit.”
    “I haven’t heard him.”
    “Come on, Maggie. I’m wasting my time with this chap,” Dougal said cheerfully. Peregrine heard the stage door shut behind him.
    He had begun painfully to pick up pages of the notes he had dropped when he heard someone come onstage and cross it. He tried to get up but the movement caught him. By the time he had hauled himself up the door had opened and closed and he did not see who had crossed the stage and gone out of the theatre.
    Charlie had hung the claymore with its fellow on the back wall. Peregrine, having put his papers in order, labored up onto the stage and made his way through pieces of scenery and book wings that had been set up as temporary backing. Only the working light had been left on and it was dark enough in this no-man’s-land for him to go carefully. He was quite startled to see the figure of a small boy, its back toward him. Looking up at the claymore.
    “William!” he said. William turned. His face was white but he said, “Hullo, sir,” loudly.
    “What are you doing here? You weren’t called.”
    “I wanted to see you, sir.”
    “You did? Well, here I am.”
    “You hurt yourself on the wooden claymore,” the treble voice stated.
    “What makes you think that?”
    “I was there. Backstage. When you jumped, I saw you.”
    “You had no business to be there, William. You come only when you are called and stay in front when you are not working. What were you doing backstage?”
    “Looking at my claymore. Mr. Sears said I could have one of them after we opened. I wanted to choose the one that was least knocked about.”
    “I see. Come here. Where I can see you properly.”
    William came at once. He stood to attention and clenched his hands.
    “Go on,” said Peregrine.
    “I took it down; it was very dark. I brought it into the better light. It was still pretty dark but I examined it. Before I could get back there and hang it up, the witches came and started rehearsing. Down on the main stage. I hid it under the canvas. I was very careful to hide it where I thought nobody would fall. I hid, too. I saw you