Stagestruck

by Peter Lovesey

‘If it was self-inflicted, she’ll have no claim against the theatre,’ Diamond pointed out.

  The barmaid laughed again. ‘There you go, Titus. You’ve proved yourself wrong.’

  Diamond didn’t gloat. He’d already decided Titus might be a useful ally. Whatever his duties as the dramaturge amounted to, he appeared to have some status in the theatre. There was one small concern, the risk of raising unreal expectations. ‘We were just exploring theories. What Titus was saying sounds possible.’

  ‘You see?’ Titus seized on it at once. ‘When people listen carefully, they discover truth in my remarks. Peter, how would you like to join me on a ghost hunt?’

  ‘The grey lady?’ He gave a token smile, about to turn the offer down. ‘Inside the theatre, you mean?’ Instinctively he baulked at the prospect and it wasn’t the ghost that troubled him. Old reactions were stirring, a profound resistance to stepping inside the place. Yet as a professional he knew he ought to take up this chance. ‘Would they allow us in?’

  ‘My dear, I’m on the strength. I can take you in.’

  He turned a deaf ear to the ‘my dear’ and swallowed the rest of his beer and with it some of his anxiety. ‘All right, Titus. You’re on.’

  The barmaid had seen all this with amusement and drawn her own conclusion. ‘Mind how you go,’ she warned Diamond. ‘Watch out for things that go bump.’

  Titus led the way outside, left into Saw Close and through one of the arched entrances to the theatre foyer. Inside, people were queuing at the box office on the left, although whether to buy tickets or return them was not clear. Various others, probably press, filled most of the remaining space, looking bored. With a curt, ‘Do you mind?’ Titus made a beeline for the steps to the royal circle entrance. He had such an air of authority that no one challenged him or took photos and no one gave Diamond a second look.

  If they had, they would have seen his face taut with stress.

  Titus tapped out a code on the digital lock and pushed the door open. ‘I’ll begin by showing you the corridor where she’s often been sighted.’

  Diamond followed, deeply uncomfortable. The magic of theatre had always eluded him. His mother had never tired of telling friends and family how she’d taken the children to a theatre in Llandudno for a birthday treat only to have young Peter make a scene of his own even before the curtain went up. It wasn’t as if it had been Dracula; it was a seaside variety show. He’d run out of the theatre and couldn’t be persuaded to go back in. Years later, he’d been caned at grammar school for escaping from a trip to see Julius Caesar, a set work for his English Lit exam. He’d failed the exam as well. He’d told himself he wasn’t minded to believe in people dressed oddly and speaking lines against painted backdrops. There was drama enough in the real world. He didn’t have to go to the theatre to experience it. But in his heart he knew there was something else behind his unease, something visceral.

  In the low-ceilinged corridor, Titus spoke in a hushed tone. ‘The door to your right is the bar. Let’s see if it’s open.’

  ‘Good suggestion,’ Diamond said.

  ‘The door, I mean. We won’t get a drink at this time of day.’

  They went in and switched on some lights. Diamond’s spirits lifted a little. This could be a saloon bar in any classy pub. He could forget where he was.

  Titus stepped inside, took up a stance with hands clasped and launched into his tour guide routine. ‘I’m taking us back to June, 1981, the week before the theatre was closed for the major renovation. A production of the Albee play, Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? with Joan Plowright and Paul Eddington. The audience are streaming in here at the interval. Suddenly a woman screams, points at that wall behind you and demands to know what is wrong with the wallpaper. Everyone looks and sees an uncanny spectacle. The wall is shimmering as if in a heat haze.’

  A summer evening, Diamond was thinking. All those people packed into this small bar.

  ‘Ah, but that is followed by a sudden icy draught. All the heads turn, sensing that something not of this world has rushed past them to the door. In its wake is a distinct smell of jasmine perfume.’

  ‘The grey lady?’ All of this build-up demanded a polite response and he supplied it.

  ‘The doors are flung open and then banged shut. In the corridor, one of the cast is walking by and she steps in here, ashen-faced, and asks what on earth it is that has just swept past her.’

  ‘Impressive,’ Diamond said, still playing along. ‘Were you present?’

  Titus smoothed his hair. ‘Too young. But there were numerous witnesses still around to attest to what they experienced.’

  ‘Can’t be dismissed, then.’ That was more than enough of indulging Titus. ‘Where next? The dressing rooms? Was she ever seen there?’

  ‘Before that, allow me to show you the box where she was seen by Dame Anna.’

  Leaving the bar, they crossed the corridor to the circle itself. The horseshoe-shaped auditorium was in darkness. Its crimson, cream and gold decorations were just discernible, the silk panels, gilded woodwork, garlands and crystal chandelier giving a sense of the antique theatre that this was, essentially no different from the interior known to the actors who first played here in the reign of George III. Without an audience, and with the curtain down, the space looked smaller than Diamond remembered from his one previous visit. Anyone but he would have been thinking this was the prettiest theatre in the kingdom. His main thought was how quickly he could get out. To his embarrassment he was starting to get the shakes.

  ‘The house curtains were a gift from Charlie Chaplin’s widow, Oona,’ Titus said. ‘Chaplin loved this theatre. If you look in the corners you’ll see his initials in gold thread.’

  Diamond muttered something in courtesy, but couldn’t bring himself to look at the curtains.

  Titus flitted down the steps of the centre aisle and beckoned to Diamond to join him at the front of the circle. Nobody else seemed to be about. In this light, and without an audience, it was more claustrophobic than Diamond remembered from his only other visit, when he’d summoned the inner strength to take his friend Paloma Kean to see An Inspector Calls.

  Making a huge effort, he joined Titus and forced himself to look at the upper box where the grey lady was alleged to appear. ‘You told me the story in the pub,’ he reminded him. ‘You don’t have to repeat it.’

  ‘Don’t worry, there’s another version,’ Titus insisted on saying. ‘Some believe she wasn’t an actress, but one of the audience who occupied the same box night after night to watch the actor she adored. Which do you prefer?’

  His thoughts were in ferment. The ghost wasn’t high in his priorities. ‘I don’t have a view. Whatever you say.’

  ‘Some say the man was killed in a duel, but I think that’s over-egging it.’

  ‘I agree. Shall we move on now?’

  ‘I hope I’m not boring you. Each of the boxes is endowed, you know. The grey lady box is named in memory of Arnold Haskell, the balletomane. Do you enjoy the ballet, Peter?’

  ‘Not in the least. It isn’t my thing at all.’

  Titus chuckled at that. ‘You’d be happier in the Jolly box, I dare say.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The one on the prompt side, named after Jolly’s department store.’

  ‘That I can relate to,’ Diamond said. ‘I wouldn’t expect to see a ghost in the Jolly box.’

  ‘And this will intrigue you. The one opposite is the Agatha Christie. You may not expect to see a ghost there, but you might find a bunch of suspects, or even a murderer.’

  ‘Did Agatha Christie sponsor it?’

  ‘Her grandson, in her memory. Dame Agatha died some years before the renovation. There are no reported sightings of her ghost.’ He turned to face Diamond. ‘Do you believe in the supernatural, Peter?’

  ‘I keep an open mind.’ A touch of mischief made him add, ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘Me? I’m a firm believer,’ Titus said.

  ‘Have you a
ctually seen the grey lady?’

  ‘I’ve sensed her presence and smelt the jasmine more times than I care to remember.’

  ‘I don’t think I’d know one perfume from another.’

  ‘Believe me. I can tell.’

  Diamond did believe him.

  It was a huge relief to quit the auditorium. Ghosts weren’t the problem.

  At the end of the dress circle corridor, Titus used the code system to open a door marked private and started confidently down some uncarpeted stairs. ‘She’s been known to terrify actors in their dressing rooms,’ his voice carried up the staircase to Diamond. ‘And that’s before anyone has told them about her.’

  ‘Incredible,’ Diamond said, taking the steps with care. He wished no disrespect to Dame Anna Neagle or any other actors, but he knew they thrived on publicity. The sighting of a ghost was a sure way to get a mention in the local press and possibly the nationals, too.

  ‘Incredible, indeed. You’ll say that again when you view the dressing rooms.’

  ‘I can’t wait.’ Actually he felt more at ease now he was out of the auditorium. He needed to be alert for this part of the tour, a chance to see where Clarion had got ready for her performance.

  They were backstage now and it became obvious that Titus wasn’t just an armchair dramaturge. He knew his way around this place. ‘We’re fortunate in having eleven dressing rooms on three floors, and most of them are big enough for several actors,’ he said. ‘It means when you put on a small play like I Am a Camera, with a cast of seven, there’s no need to double up unless the actors prefer to share. If it were me, I would be happy to fraternise. I’m sociable by nature, as you may have gleaned.’

  ‘Which room was Clarion’s?’

  ‘The number one, naturally, with shower and WC ensuite, although I think the number two is more luxurious. However, this is known as the Alec Guinness because Sir Alec himself endowed it.’ Titus opened a door. ‘Voilà. Pause for a moment and reflect on all the great bottoms that have warmed the seat of that chair.’

  It was not a thought Diamond cared to dwell on. ‘Clarion must have felt honoured to be in here.’

  ‘Or intimidated.’

  ‘True.’ Spacious, and with a huge dressing table and ornate gilt mirror, the room would surely have satisfied the most exacting of actors. A chandelier, chaise longue, wash basin with gold fittings, draped curtains, vases of flowers, electric kettle and a view from the window of the lawn fronting Beauford Square. For Diamond, it came as a relief to see daylight.

  ‘It cost Sir Alec rather more than he’d bargained for,’ Titus said. ‘When he first stepped in here to inspect the decor, the paint hadn’t dried. He didn’t know and got a patch of red on his cashmere overcoat. He was gracious enough to dismiss it with a theatrical aside that he would have made an appalling Macbeth.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ The point of the story escaped Diamond. No doubt a man of culture would have appreciated it.

  ‘“I am in blood stepp’d in so far,” et cetera,’ Titus murmured, more to himself than his companion.

  Diamond crossed the room for a closer look at the dressing table. He was starting to function again as a detective, the thing he was paid to do. ‘I don’t see any make-up here.’

  ‘Clarion didn’t need it,’ Titus said. ‘The dresser was under instructions to make her up and she would have brought her own.’

  ‘And taken it away after.’ He bent to look more closely at the surface.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Titus asked.

  ‘Checking to see if there’s any residue.’

  ‘Oh, I shouldn’t think so.’ Titus stepped over and put out a hand to check for dust.

  Diamond grabbed him by the wrist. ‘Don’t.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Could be a crime scene. We don’t want your prints all over it.’ He wished he’d sounded less like a policemen.

  ‘I would never have thought of that,’ Titus said, giving him a long look before adding, ‘That’s a firm grip you’ve got, Peter. Strong hands.’

  Diamond backed away and looked at some clothes hanging on the wall. ‘I suppose these belong to her. She’ll have been wearing her stage costume when she was taken to hospital.’

  ‘Yes, they can’t be the understudy’s. Gisella has her own room on the OP side, number eight, the Vivien Leigh. Would you like to see which of the others are open?’

  ‘Not yet.’ He hadn’t given any thought to security. Dressing rooms were like hotel rooms for the duration of a run. Actors would be entitled to lock up when they were out of the building. ‘Is there a key?’

  ‘Clarion will have one and so will the cleaning staff.’

  ‘I don’t see her bag here. I suppose someone was thoughtful enough to see that it travelled in the ambulance with her. The place ought to be locked.’

  ‘Because it could be a crime scene?’ Titus said, echoing Diamond’s words, and with heavy irony. There wasn’t much doubt he’d guessed the real incentive behind this tour.

  At this point it didn’t matter. Diamond got on his knees and looked under the dressing table and the chaise longue. A tissue with some makeup left on it might have dropped out of sight in the confusion. But it hadn’t. Or the cleaner had been by.

  ‘What are we looking for now – a hidden clue?’ Titus asked.

  Diamond hauled himself upright. ‘You’re thinking I’m here on false pretences, aren’t you? I didn’t say what my job is and I didn’t say it was anything else. You were kind enough to suggest a short tour and I took you up on it. I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong idea.’

  ‘No offence taken,’ Titus said. ‘Is the ghost hunt at an end?’

  ‘Thank you. It is.’ He moved across to the sash window. ‘Here’s a small tragedy.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  He pointed to a dead butterfly on the sill. ‘Looks to me like a tortoiseshell.’

  Titus gave a gasp, rolled his eyes upwards and fainted.

  4

  Hedley Shearman tried phoning Frenchay Hospital for the fourth time that afternoon and was told all calls about Clarion Calhoun’s condition were being referred to her agent, Tilda Box.

  ‘I’m not press,’ Hedley said. ‘I’m the director of the Theatre Royal. I have a right to know what’s going on.’

  ‘We’re not at liberty to say anything over the phone,’ the hospital spokesman said. ‘Ms Box is personally handling all enquiries. Would you like a note of the number?’

  ‘Personally’ turned out to be misleading. The agency had installed one of those infuriating filter systems. ‘If you are enquiring about Miss Clarion Calhoun, press four.’ When Hedley obeyed, he got an insipid rendering of Greensleeves for six minutes interspersed with assurances that he was moving up the queue, followed finally by another recorded message: ‘Miss Clarion Calhoun remains in Frenchay Hospital. There is no change in her condition. She is unable to speak on the phone or receive visitors. We thank her many friends and fans for their good wishes for her recovery and will update this message as and when we have more news.’ So much for the age of instant communication.

  ‘They’ve put up the shutters and I’m not sure why,’ he told Francis Melmot, the human steeple, who was back, making him feel even more like a dwarf.

  ‘Doing their job,’ Melmot said as if he had inside knowledge. ‘They don’t want hordes of fans trying to see her.’

  ‘Yes, but we’re not fans. We have every right to know what’s going on.’

  ‘Look at it from Clarion’s point of view. She’ll be distressed. The first instinct of any woman whose looks are blemished, however slightly, is to hide herself away. It’s understandable, Hedley. You drove her to the hospital. Just how badly is her face affected?’

  ‘I couldn’t see. For one thing I was driving and for another she kept the towel pressed to her face.’

  ‘Surely you got a better look when you got to A & E?’

  ‘No, they took her straight inside, still covering up. But it must have been seri
ous for them to transfer her to Frenchay.’

  ‘They’d be ultra-careful with a patient as famous as Clarion.’

  ‘I don’t know if that’s true. They make their decisions entirely on medical grounds, don’t they?’

  ‘Hedley, if I was a young doctor presented with a superstar hysterical about the state of her face I’d be only too pleased to refer her to someone else.’

  ‘What are you suggesting – that she might not be as badly hurt as we fear?’

  ‘That’s a possibility.’

  ‘A hope, more like. They’ve retained her in Frenchay and all I get on the phone is that there’s no change.’

  ‘No change from what? Red cheeks?’

  ‘It must be more serious than that. One of the cast tried visiting her this morning and was turned away by a security guard.’

  ‘I wouldn’t read too much into that. These celebs surround themselves with security.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘She’s buying time while she considers her next move.’

  This possibility plunged Shearman into greater panic. ‘I think we’ve got to get our own house in order. I had to speak to Martina, the press officer. She was giving statements off the cuff. A few words out of turn and we could find we’re admitting to negligence.’

  Even Melmot’s self-possession took a knock. ‘There’s no question of that, is there?’

  ‘I’m afraid there is – if, as we suspect, the make-up caused the damage. The police spent some time questioning Denise Pearsall. She’s gone home, very anxious.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. Is she coming in tonight?’

  ‘She has to. Gisella the understudy will need all the support we can give her.’

  Abruptly Melmot changed tack. He was all vigilance now. ‘Be sure to see Denise the moment she arrives and impound her make-up. We don’t want anyone else ending up in Frenchay.’

  ‘Gisella’s a professional,’ Shearman said. ‘She’ll do her own make-up.’

  Melmot gave him a sharp look. ‘I hope you’re not implying that Clarion was out of her depth.’

  ‘That’s not what I said.’

  ‘You’re right about publicity. Make it clear that no one speaks to the press except the press officer and she must get everything vetted by you. Incidentally, what did you say to the police this morning?’