Light Thickens by Ngaio Marsh Page B

house. And his mother?”
    “All right. I didn’t go in. Tiny house. Their own furniture. She’s as thin as a lath and definitely upper-class. I don’t remember if her circumstances came out at the trial but my guess would be that after the legal expenses were settled there was enough to buy the house or pay the rent and furnish it from what they had. He had been a well-heeled stockbroker. Mad as a hatter.”
    “And William’s at a drama school?”
    “The Royal Southwark Drama School. It’s good. They get the whole works, all school subjects. Registered as a private school. There must have been enough for William’s fees. And she’s got some secretarial job, I fancy.”
    “I’ve been trying to remember what it was like when I was six. What was he told and how much does he retain?”
    “At a guess, I’d say he was told his father was mentally very ill and committed to an asylum. No more.”
    “Poor little man,” said Emily.
    “He’ll be a good actor. You’ll see.”
    “Yes. How’s your bruise?”
    “Better every day.”
    “Good.”
    “In fact, everything in the garden is —” He pulled up. Emily saw that he had crossed his first and second fingers.
     
    The next day shone brightly. Peregrine and Emily drove happily along the river, over Blackfriars Bridge, and turned right for Wharfingers Lane and the theatre. The entire company had been called and had nearly all arrived and were assembling in the auditorium.
    It was to be a complete run-through of the play, with props. This would be the last one entirely for the actors. After that would come the mechanical, effects, and lights rehearsals with endless stops, adjustments, and repositionings. And then, finally, two dress rehearsals.
    Emily knew a lot of the company. Sir Dougal was delighted that she had come down to rehearsal. Why did they not see more of her in these days? Sons? How many? Three? All at school? Wonderful!
    It struck her that he was excited. Keyed up. Not attending to the answers she gave him. She was relieved when he strolled away.
    Maggie came up to her and gave her a squeeze. “I’ll want to know what you think,” she said. “Really. What you think and feel.”
    “Perry says you’re wonderful.”
    “Does he? Does he, really?”
    “Really and truly. Without qualifications.”
    “Too good. Too soon. I don’t know,” she muttered.
    “All’s well.”
    “I hope so. This
play
, Emmy, my dear.”
    “I know.”
    She wandered away and sat down, her eyes closed, her lips moving. Nina Gaythorne came in, draped in a multiplicity of hand-woven scarves. She saw Emily and waved the end of one of them, at the same time making a strange grimace and raising her faded eyes to contemplate the dome. It was impossible to interpret; some kind of despair? Emily wondered. She waved back conservatively.
    The man with Nina Gaythorne was unknown to Emily. Straw-colored. Tight mouth, light eyes. She guessed he was the Banquo. Bruce Barrabell. They sat together, apart from the others. Emily had the uncomfortable feeling that Nina was telling him who she was. She found herself momentarily looking into his eyes, which startled her by their sharpness and the quick furtive withdrawal of his gaze.
    Macduff, Simon Morten, she recognized from Peregrine’s description. He was physically exactly right; dark, handsome, and reckless, and, at the moment, nervous and withdrawn. A swashbuckler nevertheless.
    Here came the three witches, two girls gabbling nervously and Rangi: aloof, indrawn, anxious. Then the Royals: King Duncan, magnificent, portentous, and his two sons, to whom he seemed to lend a condescending ear. Two Murderers. The Gentlewoman and the Doctor. Lennox and Ross. Menteith. Angus. Caithness. And, coming over to Nina Gaythorne, a small boy. So that’s William, she thought. Last: huge, brooding, his claymore held upright in its harness, Gaston, the sword-bearer.
    I’m thinking about them as they are in the play, mused Emily. And they are behaving