Stagestruck

by Peter Lovesey

  ‘Except…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘If you used something different last night.’

  ‘I didn’t. All the pots and sticks were freshly opened, but exactly the same brand. We’ve used it for years in this theatre and never had any problems.’

  ‘It was Clarion who had the problem,’ Dawkins said.

  ‘That’s what I meant.’ She sank her face into her hands and sobbed. ‘Oh dear, I feel dreadful about it.’

  The damage to Clarion’s face was referred the same day to the head of Bath’s CID, Detective Superintendent Peter Diamond, a man well used to dramas, but not of the theatrical sort. He wasn’t by any stretch of the imagination a theatre-goer. He was already putting up barriers.

  ‘We’re in danger of getting ahead of ourselves, aren’t we, ma’am?’ he said to Georgina Dallymore, the Assistant Chief Constable. ‘How do we know it wasn’t an accident?’

  ‘There are grounds for suspicion,’ she said, bringing her lips together in a way that didn’t invite debate. ‘I’m not proposing a full-scale investigation yet, but we must be primed and ready to spring into action. If this is a crime, it’s a particularly nasty one. The poor woman may be scarred for life.’

  ‘As bad as that?’

  ‘So the papers say. In case you’re about to remind me that you specialise in murder, I must tell you that this is a kind of death.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘The end of her show business career. She’s very well known.’

  He nodded, thinking she was making a meal out of this. ‘Even I’ve heard of Clarion Calhoun. Daft name, but you don’t forget it.’

  ‘She’s brilliant at what she does. It’s not my kind of singing, but I can’t deny her talent. The tabloid press are out in force. If there was foul play, we must get onto it before they do. We can’t tag along behind.’

  Pressure as always, he thought. One of these days she’ll tell me to take my time over a case. And pigs might fly.

  He hadn’t yet fathomed Georgina’s interest in the matter. She was talking as if she had a personal stake.

  ‘What’s Clarion saying?’ he asked. ‘Does she blame anyone?’

  ‘She’s refusing to be interviewed. The official line is that she’s in no state to receive visitors. Her lawyers have brought in a private security firm to guard the hospital room.’

  ‘Lawyers are involved already?’

  ‘Anything like this and they home in like sharks. They’ll sue the theatre for millions if it can be held responsible.’

  ‘The theatre can’t afford millions. Are they insured?’

  ‘I hope so, or Bath may end up with no theatre at all.’

  Even Diamond regarded that as not to be contemplated. He’d survive, but the city would be a poorer place.

  Georgina said, as if reading his thoughts, ‘To me, it would be a personal loss.’

  He lifted an eyebrow.

  ‘I joined the BLOGs this year,’ she said.

  ‘Really?’ he said, not impressed. ‘Rather you than me, putting your private life on the internet.’

  ‘Not blogging,’ she said. ‘Singing. The Bath Light Operatic Group. You know I’ve been in various choirs. Well, I thought I might go solo this year, in a small way. I’m hoping to get a part in Sweeney Todd, their annual musical. They take over the Theatre Royal for a week in September.’

  That was the hidden agenda, then. The BLOGs could not be deprived of their week on the professional stage. Diamond had a vision of Georgina as Mrs Lovett, the pie lady. He did well to keep his face straight.

  She continued, ‘If, God forbid, the dear old theatre were to shut down, we’d all be devastated.’

  ‘It won’t come to that,’ he said in an automatic response.

  She said through her teeth, ‘It had better not. I hope you can steer a way through this mess.’

  ‘Me, ma’am?’

  ‘It won’t be easy.’

  He could see that. A victim unwilling to speak. An injury of uncertain origin. And a potential law suit. ‘Whoever takes it on,’ he said, meaning anyone except himself, ‘getting started won’t be easy. Everyone’s going to be on their guard.’ ‘Uniform managed to get some interviews at the theatre this morning.’ ‘That’s something, then. Who did we send?’ ‘Sergeant Dawkins.’ Diamond’s face creased as if caught by a sudden Arctic gust. ‘Him, of all people? That’s not good.’ ‘What’s the matter with Dawkins?’ ‘How long have you got? Five minutes in his company would tell you. He keeps asking to join CID. He thinks it’s personal each time I turn him down.’ ‘And is it?’ Diamond blew a soft raspberry. ‘He’d be a nightmare.’ Georgina said, ‘My contacts with him have always been agreeable. In my estimation he’s a man of culture.’ In Georgina’s estimation most policemen were not cultured,

  and some were uncouth, Peter Diamond more than most. ‘Opinionated.’ ‘I don’t hold that against him. But enough of Dawkins.

  It’s your case from now on. Handle it with kid gloves, Peter.’ His case? This wasn’t how she’d started. Hadn’t she talked about being primed and ready to spring?

  ‘I’d rather not. Theatre people aren’t my cup of tea.’ How feeble was that? He berated himself as the words came out. Working in a theatre is your worst nightmare. Tell her there’s no way you’re getting lumbered. But he was too late.

  ‘They’re very friendly,’ she said. ‘That’s half the problem. I’ll delegate.’ ‘What?’ ‘A good opportunity for one of my more experienced people.’ ‘No.’ A flat, unqualified negative. ‘I want you for this, Peter.’ He changed tack. ‘I’ll call in forensics, then.’ She gave a gasp of disapproval. ‘We’re not being as obvious as that. The make-up is being analysed in the hospital lab. There was a towel Clarion pressed to her face after she left the stage. Quite a lot of the greasepaint, or whatever she was wearing, rubbed off. They need to know if it was contaminated in some way, so that they can give the right treatment. We’ll find out soon enough.’

  ‘It’s strange,’ he said, getting drawn in, in spite of all his misgivings.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘If the make-up was responsible, why didn’t it hurt her when it was first put on? She got on the stage before the pain kicked in. She must have been made up – what? – ten minutes earlier. Twenty? If it was acid, or something, you’d expect her to have been screaming long before she made her entrance.’

  ‘It is rather hard to understand,’ Georgina said.

  ‘To me it sounds more like an allergic reaction that took time to develop.’

  ‘If that’s all it was, we can breathe again. I hope you’re right, Peter. But can a skin allergy be as violent as that? Does it actually burn the flesh?’

  3

  There were lunchtimes when Diamond escaped from Manvers Street police station and found sanctuary in places where no one would bother his head about targets and budget reports and activity-based costing. The city of Bath had enough pubs to suit all his moods, from the Old Green Tree, sedate as a private club with its home cooking and wood panelling, to the garish Hobgoblin, where the boneshaking beat of heavy metal was enough to drive out anybody’s demons. Today he’d decided on the Garrick’s Head, adjoining the Theatre Royal. A couple of beers with the backstage lads would be an agreeable way to check Georgina’s story.

  Originally – in about 1720 – the building had been a private house, the home of Beau Nash, the Master of Ceremonies who made the city fashionable. It became a drinking house in 1805 when the theatre was built next door. Outside, a bust of the actor David Garrick dignifies the façade, but Diamond wasn’t looking upwards. He stepped in, ordered his pint of British Red and took it to the black sofa under the window. The dark wood panelling, board floor and traditional fireplace fitted his expectation of what a public bar should be. He didn’t care for patterned wallpaper and fitted carpets. Even better, someone had left the Daily Telegraph on the sofa, so he opened it and read about the ‘indisposition’ of the star of I Am a Camera. Restrained, eve
n by Telegraph standards. The tabloids no doubt trumpeted Clarion’s agony scream by scream.

  He hadn’t yet briefed his team. Truth to tell, he wasn’t confident he had the facts straight. Illusion and special effects were the stock-in-trade of theatres, so he was wary of anything that happened on a stage in front of an audience, even when it was unscripted. Several hundred theatre-goers believed they’d witnessed an acutely painful and distressing incident and probably they had, but it couldn’t be taken as fact without investigation. Clarion’s burns were real according to the hospital reports, yet the way they had been inflicted gave cause for uncertainty. If, as everyone supposed, the make-up had caused the damage, why hadn’t she screamed in pain at the time it was applied, or immediately after?

  His other concern was the possibility of fraud. By all accounts, Clarion the pop singer was on the skids and looking for alternative employment. She’d been hired by the theatre to play a nightclub singer. Typecasting, you might say, and a one-off. Did anyone expect she would go on to a second career in acting? As things had turned out, she’d done the minimum of acting and was expected to sue the theatre for a huge sum, enough for a long and comfortable retirement. Of course the scarring would need to be permanent to convince a court. A grim possibility: had she injured herself for the prospect of a multi-million-pound settlement?

  Two conversations were in progress and one was getting interesting. Diamond put a hand over his ear to block out the woman at the next table talking about last night’s East-Enders and tried instead to listen to the man on a bar stool in dialogue with the barmaid.

  ‘It’s obvious she’s deeply troubled.’

  He heard the barmaid say, ‘I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘You work here, love, so you can’t ignore it.’

  ‘Try me. She hasn’t been in for a drink.’

  ‘Don’t be like that,’ the man said. ‘Personally, I find the whole thing heartbreaking. She’s there on stage and this gorgeous man in one of the upper boxes seems to be giving her the come-on, so she tries to signal that she’s interested. In fact she’s a lot more than interested. She’s practically shinning up the curtain to get at him. And this meanie doesn’t even ask her out. He cuts her dead, so in desperation… we both know what she did.’

  ‘If you want to believe it.’

  ‘Now, come on. It’s common knowledge round here. Do you know which door she used?’

  ‘Door? Oh, I get you. No, and I haven’t asked.’

  ‘It may be the one behind you. I couldn’t stay in the job if I were you.’

  ‘It doesn’t bother me.’

  ‘If you saw her, it would.’

  ‘But I haven’t.’

  ‘Never smelt jasmine around the bar?’

  The girl laughed. ‘You get all sorts of smells in this place. Why, is jasmine what she uses?’

  ‘Exclusively. I’ve smelt it myself.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In the corridor behind the royal circle.’

  Curiosity got the better of Diamond. He turned in his chair. ‘I couldn’t help overhearing what you’re saying. This woman you’re talking about. Who is she?’

  ‘I wouldn’t call her a woman if I were you,’ the man said.

  ‘I misheard, then.’

  ‘The grey lady,’ the man said, smoothing his tie and treating Diamond to a dazzling smile. He didn’t fit Diamond’s image of a scene-shifter, but he seemed to know what he was talking about. ‘She’s our theatre ghost.’

  ‘Ah.’ Spooks didn’t interest Diamond, and the letdown he felt must have been obvious.

  ‘Don’t look so disbelieving,’ the man said. ‘She’s real enough. We know precisely when she topped herself and where.’

  ‘Tell him, then,’ the barmaid said, and winked at Diamond. ‘Pretend you’re shaking in your shoes.’

  The man said, ‘She strung a rope over a door right here in the Garrick’s Head and hanged herself, in the year 1812.’

  ‘And came back as a ghost?’

  ‘Any number of people have seen her. Are you old enough to remember Anna Neagle? Probably not, if I’m any judge. Dame Anna had her feet on the ground if ever an actor did. She was playing in something in the nineteen-seventies and she and the entire cast saw the grey lady in the upper box, stage right, just as the curtain rose. Imagine that.’

  ‘They probably did.’

  The barmaid cackled with laughter.

  ‘Be like that,’ the man said in an injured tone. ‘If you don’t want to know, why ask me?’ This had turned personal and he was ruffled.

  Diamond gave an honest answer. ‘Just now I thought you were talking about Clarion Calhoun.’

  ‘That poor creature? There’s nothing spooky about her. I shouldn’t say this, but the accident is a blessing in disguise. She was dreadful in rehearsal.’

  The barmaid said, ‘Titus, that’s unfair.’

  Titus ignored her. His focus was sharply on Diamond. ‘Are you a fan, then? Without wishing to offend, you don’t look like one.’

  Diamond was well practised at giving nothing away about himself. ‘I was just reading about it in the paper. They say she’s in hospital and receiving treatment for burns, so it must be serious.’

  ‘Yes, I shouldn’t have been flippant. No one wishes that on her. A visitor, are you?’

  ‘To the Garrick’s Head, yes.’

  ‘I thought I hadn’t seen you before. I’m Titus O’Driscoll, dramaturge.’

  ‘Peter Diamond.’ He played the last word over in his head. ‘What’s that – dramaturge?’

  ‘Consultant on the theory and practice of writing drama.’ Titus O’Driscoll paused for that to be savoured and for Diamond to volunteer more about himself, which he didn’t. ‘Do you have any theatrical connections, Peter?’

  Everything up to now suggested that the man was gay and interested in finding out if Diamond was. He had himself to blame for getting on first-name terms. ‘No. I came in for a drink, that’s all. Were you in the audience last night?’

  There was a disdainful sniff from the dramaturge. ‘I took a squint at the dress rehearsal and decided to pass my time more productively in here.’

  ‘But it’s clear you know what goes on in the theatre.’

  The barmaid said, ‘And how! It keeps him going.’

  Titus gave Diamond a sharp look. ‘You’re not press, by any chance?’

  ‘Lord, no.’

  ‘It was panic stations this morning,’ Titus said. ‘Absolute mayhem. The police were here, would you believe? Hedley Shearman, our theatre director, was having kittens.’

  ‘Why? Is he responsible?’

  ‘Quite the opposite. He didn’t want the Clarion woman playing on his stage, but they twisted his arm, saying that bringing in a pop star was a sure way to sell tickets. And now he’s having to make a show of sympathy for her whilst bracing himself for the lawsuit to come.’

  ‘Who did the arm-twisting?’

  ‘The trust. Certain of them, anyway. You know how theatres work? Most of them are run as charitable trusts and usually they keep at arm’s length, leaving the artistic decisions to the people who know, but if two or three individuals get together and want to wield power, they can. After a rather indifferent season, the pressure was on for a commercial success, so they leaned on Hedley to revive this clunky old play and give Clarion the star part. And to be fair it looked as if it was going to pay off. The pre-production publicity was sensational.’

  ‘They’ll be regretting it now.’

  ‘Too right they will. The box office is under siege with people returning tickets.’

  ‘The show’s continuing, is it?’

  ‘With the understudy, Gisella, yes. She’s a far better actor than Clarion, but nobody cares. It’s the end of the Theatre Royal.’

  The barmaid said, ‘Don’t be so melodramatic, Titus. It hasn’t burned down, or anything.’

  ‘It may as well have.’

  ‘He’s like that,’ she said to Diamond. ‘Never looks
on the bright side. When the Blues Brothers was on he was telling everybody they’d bring the house down, literally.’

  ‘It was only thanks to me that it remained standing,’ Titus said. ‘I was responsible for those notices in the foyer: “Due to the historic nature of this building kindly refrain from stamping.” My forethought saved us, without a doubt.’

  ‘Getting back to last night’s accident,’ Diamond said, ‘does anyone know the cause?’

  ‘If you ask me,’ Titus said, ‘it’s open to suspicion.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, she was hopeless in the part and she knew it, and now she’s out of it and planning to sue.’

  ‘But there’s no argument about what happened, is there? She’s in hospital, so the injury must be real.’

  ‘That’s for the doctors to decide,’ Titus said.

  ‘Don’t you believe it?’

  ‘I believe this much: she’s displaying symptoms of some sort and the screaming was very convincing and the hospital are taking it seriously.’

  ‘By “symptoms” you mean the skin damage?’

  ‘Whatever that amounts to.’

  ‘It must be serious, for her to be kept in hospital,’ Diamond said, doing his best to keep this discussion going. ‘How do you get skin damage on the stage? I suppose it’s down to the make-up.’

  Titus said in an interested tone, ‘Do you know about makeup, Peter?’

  ‘Not at all.’ Diamond had walked into that. He didn’t want to raise false expectations. ‘Hardly anything. I’m saying it’s a possible cause, no more.’

  ‘You could be right if something like chilli powder was mixed in with the foundation.’

  ‘Chilli powder?’ the barmaid shrieked in disbelief.

  ‘I don’t know for certain,’ Titus said. ‘Some irritant that would itch and bring her face up in blotches and make it impossible for her to continue.’

  ‘I’m speechless,’ the barmaid said. ‘How could she possibly get chilli powder in her make-up?’

  ‘Deliberately. She was looking for some reason to drop out of the play so she mixed it in herself. Unfortunately for her, the ingredients reacted badly and caused the burning.’