enormous and completely illegible signature did indeed occupy a surprising area. Peregrine glanced at it and then looked more closely.
‘I’ve seen that before,’ he said. ‘It looks like a cyclone.’
‘Once seen never forgotten.’
‘I’ve seen it,’ Peregrine said, ‘recently. Where, I wonder.’
Winter Morris looked bored.
‘Did he sign your autograph book?’ he asked bitterly.
‘It was somewhere unexpected. Ah, well. Never mind. The fun will start with the first rehearsal. He’ll want me to rewrite his part, of course, adding great hunks of ham and corn and any amount of fat. It’s tricky enough as it is. Strictly speaking a playwright shouldn’t direct his own stuff. He’s too tender with it. But it’s been done before and by the Lord I mean to do it again. Marco or no Marco. He looks like the Grafton portrait of Shakespeare. He’s got the voice of an angel and colossal prestige. He’s a brilliant actor and this is a part he can play. It’ll be a ding-dong go which of us wins but by heaven I’m game if he is.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Morris. ‘Live for ever, dear boy. Live for ever.’
They settled at their respective desks. Presently Peregrine’s buzzer rang and a young woman provided by the management and secreted in an auxiliary cubby-hole said: ‘Victoria and Albert for you, Mr Jay.’
Peregrine refrained from saying: ‘Always available to Her Majesty and the Prince Consort.’ He was too apprehensive. He said: ‘Oh yes. Right. Thank you,’ and was put into communication with the expert.
‘Mr Jay,’ the expert said, ‘is this a convenient time for you to speak?’
‘Certainly.’
‘I thought it best to have a word with you. We will, of course, write formally with full reports for you to hand to your principal but I felt – really,’ said the expert and his voice, Peregrine noticed with mounting excitement, was trembling, ‘really, it is the most remarkable thing. I – well, to be brief with you, the writing in question has been exhaustively examined. It has been compared by three experts with the known signatures and they find enough coincidence to give the strongest presumption of identical authorship. They are perfectly satisfied as to the age of the cheverel and the writing materials and that apart from salt-water stains there has been no subsequent interference. In fact, my dear Mr Jay, incredible as one might think it, the glove and the document actually seem to be what they purport to be.’
Peregrine said: ‘I’ve always felt this would happen and now I can’t believe it.’
‘The question is: what is to be done with them?’
‘You will keep them for the time being?’
‘We are prepared to do so. We would very much like,’ said the expert and Peregrine caught the wraith of a chuckle in the receiver, ‘to keep them altogether. However! I think my principals will, after consultation, make an approach to – er – the owner. Through you, of course and – I imagine this would be the correct proceeding – Mr Greenslade.’
‘Yes. And – no publicity?’
‘Good God, no!’ the expert ejaculated quite shrilly. ‘I should hope not. Imagine!’ There was a long pause. ‘Have you any idea,’ the expert said, ‘whether he will contemplate selling?’
‘No more than you have.’
‘No. I see. Well: you will have the reports and a full statement from us within the next week. I – must confess – I – I have rung you up simply because I – in short – I am as you obviously are, a dévoté.’
‘I’ve written a play about the glove,’ Peregrine said impulsively. ‘We’re opening here with it.’
‘Really? A play,’ said the expert and his voice flattened.
‘It isn’t cheek!’ Peregrine shouted into the telephone. ‘In its way it’s a tribute. A play! Yes, a play.’
‘Oh, please! Of course. Of course.’
‘Well, thank you for telling me.’
‘No, no.’
‘Goodbye.’
‘What? Oh, yes. Of course. Goodbye.’
Peregrine put down the receiver and found Winter Morris staring at him.
‘You’ll have to know about this, Winty,’ he said. ‘But as you heard – no publicity. It concerns the Great Person so that’s for sure. Further it must not go.’
‘All right. If you say so: not an inch.’
‘Top secret?’
‘Top secret as you say. Word of honour.’
So Peregrine told him. When he had finished, Morris ran his white fingers through his black curls and lamented. ‘But listen, but listen, listen, listen. What material! What a talking line! The play’s about it. Listen: it’s called The Glove. We’ve got it. Greatest Shakespeare relic of all time. The Dolphin Glove. American offers. Letters to the papers: “Keep the Dolphin Glove in Shakespeare’s England.” “New fabulous offer for Dolphin Glove!” Public subscriptions. The lot! Ah Perry, cherub, dear dear Perry. All this lovely publicity and we should keep it secret!’
‘It’s no good going on like that.’
‘How do you expect me to go on? The Great Person must be handled over this one. He must be seen. He must be made to work. What makes him work? You’ve seen him. Look: he’s a financial wizard: he knows. He knows what’s good business. Listen: if this was handled right and we broke the whole story at the psychological moment: you know, with the publicity: the right kind of class publicity … Look –’
‘Do pipe down,’ Peregrine said.
‘Ah! Ah! Ah!’
‘I’ll tell you what my guess is, Winty. He’ll take it all back to his iron bosom and lock it away in his Louis-the-Somethingth bureau and that’s the last any of us will ever see of young Hamnet Shakespeare’s cheverel glove.’
In this assumption, however, Peregrine was entirely mistaken.
II
‘But that’s all one,’ Marcus Knight read in his beautiful voice. ‘Put it away somewhere. I shall not look at it again. Put it away.’
He laid his copy of Peregrine’s play down and the six remaining members of the company followed his example. A little slap of typescripts ran round the table.
‘Thank you,’ Peregrine said. ‘That was a great help to me. It was well read.’
He looked round the table. Destiny Meade’s enormous black eyes were fixed on him with the determined adulation of some mixed-up and sexy medieval saint. This meant, as he knew, nothing. Catching his eye, she raised her fingers to her lips and then in slow motion, extended them to him.
‘Darling Perry,’ she murmured in her celebrated hoarse voice, ‘what can we say? It’s all too much. Too much.’ She made an appealing helpless little gesture to the company at large. They responded with suitable if ambiguous noises.
‘My dear Peregrine,’ Marcus Knight said (and Peregrine thought: ‘his voice is like no other actor’s). ‘I like it. I see great possibilities. I saw them as soon as I read the play. Naturally, that was why I accepted the role. My opinion, I promise you, is unchanged. I look forward with interest to creating this part.’ Royalty could not have been more gracious.
‘I’m so glad, Marco,’ Peregrine said.
Trevor Vere whose age, professionally, was eleven, winked abominably across the table at Miss Emily Dunne who disregarded him. She did not try to catch Peregrine’s