Killer Dolphin by Ngaio Marsh

‘Shakespeare.’ What gall!”
    “
He
did that sort of thing. You might as well say: ‘Oo-er! To cast Henry VIII!’ Come on: who
would
you cast for Shakespeare?”
    “It sticks out a mile, doesn’t it?”
    “Elizabethan Angry, really isn’t he? Lonely. Chancy. Tricky. Bright as the sun. A Pegasus in the Hathaway stable? Enormously over-sexed and looking like the Grafton portrait. In which I entirely believe.”
    “And I. All right. Who looks and plays like that?”
    “Oh God!” Jeremy said, reading the casting list.
    “Yes,” Peregrine rejoined. “What I said. It sticks out a mile.”
    “Marcus Knight. My God.”
    “Of course. He
is
the Grafton portrait, and as for fire! Think of his Hotspur. And Harry Five. And Mercutio. And, by heaven, his Hamlet. Remember the Peer Gynt?”
    “What’s his age?”
    “Whatever it is he doesn’t show it. He can look like a stripling.”
    “He’d cost the earth.”
    “This is only mock-up, anyway.”
    “Has he ever been known to get through a production without creating a procession of dirty big rows?”
    “Never.”
    “Custom-built to wreck the morale of any given company?”
    “That’s Marco.”
    “Remember the occasion when he broke off and told latecomers after the interval to sit down or get the hell out of it?”
    “Vividly.”
    “And when the rest of the cast threw in their parts as one man?”
    “I directed the fiasco.”
    “He’s said to be more than usually explosive just now on account of no knighthood last batch.”
    “He is, I understand, apoplectic, under that heading.”
    “Well,” said Jeremy, “it’s your play. I see you’ve settled for rolling the lovely boy and the seduced fair friend and ‘Mr. W.H.’ all up in one character.”
    “So I have.”
    “How you dared!” Jeremy muttered.
    “There have been madder notions over the centuries.”
    “True enough. It adds up to a damn good part. How do you see him?”
    “Very blond. Very male. Very impertinent.”
    “W. Hartly Grove?”
    “Might be. Type casting.”
    “Isn’t he held to be a bad citizen?”
    “Bit of a nuisance.”
    “What about your Dark Lady? The Rosaline? Destiny Meade, I see you’ve got here.”
    “I rather thought Destiny. She’s cement from the eyes up but she gives a great impression of smoldering depths and really inexhaustible sex. She can produce what’s called for in any department as long as it’s put to her in basic English and very, very slowly. And she lives, by the way, with Marco.”
    “That might or might not be handy. And Ann H?”
    “Oh, any sound, unsympathetic actress with good attack,” Peregrine said.
    “Like Gertie Bracey?”
    “Yes.”
    “Joan Hart’s a nice bit. I tell you who’d be good as Joan. Emily Dunne. You know? She’s been helping in our shop. You liked her in that T.V. show. She did some very nice Celias and Nerissas and Hermias at Stratford. Prick her down on your list.”
    “I shall. See, with a blot I damn her.”
    “The others seem to present no difficulty, but the spirit sinks at an infant phenomenon.”
    “He dies before the end of Act I.”
    “Not a moment too soon. I am greatly perturbed by the vision of some stunted teen-ager acting its pants off!”
    “It’ll be called Gary, of course.”
    “Or Trevor.”
    “Never mind.”
    “Would you give me the designing of the show?”
    “Don’t be a bloody ass.”
    “It’d be fun,” Jeremy said, grinning at him. “Face it: it
would
be fun.”
    “Don’t worry, it won’t happen. I have an instinct and I know it won’t. None of it: the glove, the theatre, the play. It’s all a sort of miasma. It won’t happen.”
    Their post box slapped.
    “There you are. Fate knocking at the door,” said Jeremy.
    “I don’t even wonder if it might be, now,” Peregrine said. “However, out of sheer kindness I’ll get the letters.”
    He went downstairs, collected the mail and found nothing for himself. He climbed up again slowly. As he opened the door, he said: