Stagestruck

by Peter Lovesey

  ‘So he takes it to have been an accident?’

  ‘Indeed, preferring accident to incident.’

  To stop Dawkins from starting on another tedious bout of wordplay, Diamond said, ‘You also spoke to the dresser.’

  ‘Ms Denise Pearsall, yes. Six years’ experience at the Theatre Royal. She made up Ms Calhoun. When I say “made up” I don’t mean – ’

  ‘What’s she like?’

  ‘As a dresser? I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘In interview, I mean. What impression did she make?’

  ‘Anxious, nervous, on her guard.’

  Who wouldn’t be, faced with you? Diamond thought. ‘Suspiciously so?’

  ‘Difficult to tell. In her position, anyone would be entitled to feel vulnerable. If there is blame, she is the prime candidate.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘However…’ A finger went up.

  Diamond had to wait. The man was like an actor playing to an audience of one.

  ‘However, one other thing of interest emerged.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘On Sunday they had a dress rehearsal in full make-up. Nothing untoward was reported.’

  ‘Worth knowing,’ Diamond said, nodding.

  Dawkins almost purred at the praise. ‘May I therefore…’

  ‘Therefore what?’

  ‘Look forward to a transfer?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘Pardon me, but you appeared to approve of my report.’

  ‘When you finally got round to it, yes,’ Diamond said. ‘You were simply doing your job, a uniformed officer’s job. It wasn’t a secret test for CID, whatever you may have thought.’

  Dawkins looked as if he’d walked into a punchbag. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I made myself clear. This isn’t a job interview. It’s routine.’

  ‘But you sent for me.’

  ‘To get your report, yes.’

  ‘The mere facts?’

  ‘Right. Have I got through to you?’

  Dawkins shook his head. ‘If you had wanted the facts, you needn’t have asked me. You could have got them from PC Reed. She writes everything down.’

  Diamond smouldered inside. How he wished he’d thought of that.

  Backstage in the theatre, the male lead was the first to arrive for the next performance. Short for a leading actor and with a nose a pigeon could have perched on, he’d had to settle for character parts for most of his career. The role of Christopher Isherwood, a man of slight build and less than slight nose, presented a fine opportunity to get the name of Preston Barnes in lights, second only to Clarion Calhoun’s. The resemblance to Isherwood was striking, and he’d cultivated his hair to get the authentic parting and cowlick. ‘Has Basil been sacked?’

  Hedley Shearman, on patrol in the dressing room area in case Denise Pearsall arrived, was thinking of other things. ‘Basil?’

  ‘The stage-door keeper. Some jobsworth is on the door. Very officious.’

  ‘I’ve installed a security man, for all our sakes. Basil will be back when the present emergency is over.’

  ‘Is that what it is – an emergency?’

  ‘It is for the management. Something went badly wrong last night, and we can’t risk a repeat.’

  ‘A repeat? God help us all if it happens a second time. Do you blame Basil, then?

  ‘I don’t blame anyone. It was unfortunate, that’s all.’

  ‘It was bloody unfortunate in performance, I can tell you. I’m pretty experienced at covering up when other actors miss their lines, but that was impossible. If you ask me, there was something dodgy with the make-up. The rest of us used our own and we were all right.’

  ‘Did Clarion say anything about it before you went on?’

  ‘I didn’t see her. I’m on stage when the play opens, as you know. The first I knew there was anything wrong was when she came on and missed her cue and started grimacing. I gave her the line again and she screamed in my face. How is she now?’

  ‘Progressing, I understand, but we ought to assume she won’t be back this week. Are you okay playing opposite Gisella?’

  Barnes gave a shrug. ‘She was adequate last night. Better than Clarion has ever been in rehearsal. Between you and me, we were saved from being savaged by the critics. But the play won’t transfer now. We’ll all be looking for work after Saturday night.’

  ‘You’ll be snapped up,’ Shearman said.

  ‘Do you think so?’ Barnes enjoyed that. The vanity of actors is legendary, and he was a prime example. ‘I’ll be glad to get a normal haircut. This silly Isherwood look is too much. I can’t think why he persisted with it for so long.’

  ‘You look the part, that’s for sure,’ Shearman said, eyeing him.

  ‘It doesn’t come without years of experience. Character is the actor’s overarching responsibility. I inhabit the role I’m playing and the resemblance is created in the process.’

  ‘Like one of those TV impressionists?’

  Barnes winced at the suggestion. ‘I was thinking of the late Sir Alec Guinness. It’s from inside, you know. It isn’t the hairstyle or the make-up. It’s the self-belief. Speaking of which, I must get to my dressing room and begin my preparation.’

  He’d spoken before of his preparation. He arrived early and spent at least an hour in contemplation ‘connecting emotively with the role’, as he put it. His door was closed to everyone.

  ‘When you arrived last night, was anyone about?’ Shearman asked.

  ‘Who do you mean?’

  ‘Denise, for example.’

  ‘The dresser? I’ve no idea. She doesn’t look after me. I’m perfectly capable of dressing myself. I wear that grubby sports coat and revolting blue shirt and all I have to think about is changing my tie.’

  ‘I know that. I was wondering if you remembered seeing anybody.’

  ‘I expect there were technical people. It was a first night, for God’s sake. I wasn’t registering who was here. I went straight to my room to prepare.’

  ‘That would have been early?’

  ‘Five thirty or thereabouts.’

  ‘Your dressing room is close to Clarion’s.’

  Barnes frowned. ‘Does that make me a suspect?’

  ‘Not at all. You’ve no reason to harm her. Quite the reverse. I was wondering if you heard anyone visiting her.’

  ‘Certainly not. The walls in this old building are two feet thick. Anyway, I was concentrating on my role and, if you don’t mind me saying so, you should do the same. I don’t think you should play detective. It’s a job for an expert. Let’s hope we don’t have need of one.’

  5

  Lately, instead of meeting for pub meals, Diamond and Paloma Kean had taken to going for walks. The suggestion had come from Paloma after Diamond boasted that he hadn’t needed to buy a new belt for some years. She’d pointed out that it wasn’t the size of belt that mattered, but the bulge above it. They still had the pub meals, but now they walked first, on the understanding that they finished at a recommended watering hole. He hadn’t yet given up pies and chips and she was tactful enough not to suggest it.

  That evening found them on the Widcombe Flight, which has nothing to do with aircraft. They were walking the towpath of the Kennet and Avon Canal, tracking the seven locks built in the early eighteen hundreds to drive the waterway uphill, out of central Bath and eventually all the way to Reading. Their objective was not so far off: the George Inn at Bathampton.

  His friendship with Paloma was still just that. Neither of them wanted to co-habit. They slept together sometimes, finding joy, support and consolation in each other’s company. You could have taken them for man and wife, but you would have been wrong. Diamond’s marriage to Steph had been written in the stars and her sudden, violent death had made a void in his life that no one could fill. He would go to his grave loving her still.

  Paloma’s situation couldn’t have been more different: she’d gone through a disastrous marriage to a
man in the grip of a gambling compulsion. She had tried all ways to reform him and not succeeded. Through her own efforts at building up a business they had stayed afloat financially and raised a son, but ultimately Gordon had dumped her for an older, richer woman willing to fund his bets. Her son, too, was irreparably lost to her. After the divorce she had immersed herself in her career, amassing a unique archive of fashion illustrations used by film and television companies around the world. The business had become the source of her self-esteem. She trusted it, identified with it. She couldn’t imagine marrying another man.

  Their conversations didn’t often touch on business. The history of costume had little in common with crime. But this evening it dawned on Diamond that his tour backstage might amuse Paloma, so he told her about the ghost hunt, quite forgetting that she must have helped the Theatre Royal with research for costume dramas.

  He told it well, the story of the grey lady, making it last from Abbey View Lock to the tunnel under Cleveland House.

  ‘She didn’t materialise, then?’ Paloma said as they entered the stretch through Sydney Gardens.

  He laughed. ‘Ghosts don’t appear for me. I’m not psychic.’

  ‘Good thing. I wouldn’t want to be around you if you were. What were you doing at the theatre?’

  ‘Didn’t you hear about Clarion Calhoun?’

  She’d been working long hours on a major project and missed the whole story, so he updated her. ‘It may come to nothing,’ he said finally, ‘but my boss Georgina has an interest in keeping the theatre going, so…’

  ‘She’s an enlightened lady.’

  He smiled to himself.

  ‘And you chummed up with Titus?’ Paloma said.

  ‘I don’t know if “chummed up” is the right way to put it. He offered the ghost hunt.’

  ‘He must have taken to you.’

  That nettled him. ‘If he did, I didn’t encourage him.’

  ‘I’m teasing. I’ve met Titus. I’ve researched costumes for several of their productions and he always wants to be involved.’

  ‘As the resident dramaturge?’

  She laughed. ‘Right. He takes himself seriously, but then most of them do.’

  ‘Is his health okay?’

  ‘My word, you’re sounding serious now.’

  ‘Now come on. I’m not looking for a date with the guy. The reason I asked is that he fainted in the number one dressing room.’

  Her smile vanished. ‘Poor Titus. What is it – his heart?’

  They were passing under the first of the cast-iron Chinese bridges. Along this stretch the canal curved through the gardens.

  ‘I hope not, for his sake. I helped him out of there and back to the Garrick’s Head and he seemed to be getting over it.’

  ‘Did this happen suddenly?’

  ‘We were talking normally, as I recall. It was the room Clarion had used, so I was looking to see if any traces of the make-up were left. There was nothing obvious on the dressing table or under it. I went to the window and found a dead butterfly on the sill. I mentioned it to Titus and that was when he passed out.’

  ‘You’re kidding.’

  ‘I’m not saying the butterfly had anything to do with it.’

  Paloma was wide-eyed. ‘I bet you any money it did. What sort of butterfly?’

  ‘Not rare. Orange and yellow with black smudges. Tortoiseshell, isn’t it?’

  ‘You’re sure? And it was dead?’

  ‘Well dead.’ He turned to look at her. ‘Does it matter to anyone except the butterfly?’

  ‘It explains why Titus fainted. Didn’t he tell you the story of the butterfly and the Theatre Royal?’

  ‘It didn’t come up, no.’

  ‘It’s more impressive than the grey lady, take my word for it. And it’s always a tortoiseshell.’

  ‘Go on. Scare me.’

  ‘Years ago, before the war, a family called Maddox held the lease and ran the theatre and each year they put on a marvellous pantomime that ran for three months, almost through to Easter. Nellie Maddox made the costumes and Reg and his son Frank wrote the shows and produced them. They had a terrific reputation and the big variety stars queued up to get a part. In 1948 they put on Little Red Riding Hood and there was a dance scene, a butterfly ballet, dancers in butterfly costumes moving around a big gauze butterfly that lit up and glittered.’

  ‘It caught fire?’

  ‘No. But during rehearsals a real butterfly, a dead tortoiseshell, was found on the stage and shortly afterwards Reg Maddox, who was working the lights, suffered a heart attack and died.’

  ‘I think I can see where this is going.’

  ‘As a mark of respect they decided to cut the ballet from the pantomime. But just before they opened, a tortoiseshell was spotted backstage.’

  ‘Another?’

  ‘But this one was alive.’

  He was frowning. ‘This was the pantomime season. Funny time of year to see a butterfly, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Totally, but there it was, fluttering about. Everyone got very excited and said it must be a sign from Reg. They reinstated the butterfly ballet and the show was a big hit.’

  ‘Nice story.’

  ‘There’s more. The Maddox family decided to keep the gauze butterfly for good luck and it’s been hanging in the fly tower almost ever since. You can see it to this day. The reason I say “almost” is that when the theatre was refurbished in 1981 they removed it so it wouldn’t get damaged.’

  ‘And it fell on someone and killed him?’

  ‘Peter, I don’t think you’re taking this seriously.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘In all the clearing up, the workmen found an old store cupboard with a wooden box inside. When they opened the lid, six tortoiseshells flew out. Inside they found a photo of Reg Maddox.’

  ‘Spooky.’ He tried to sound convinced.

  ‘Isn’t it? A butterfly has appeared for almost every panto they’ve put on.’

  ‘In the depth of winter?’

  ‘It’s taken to be an omen of success. Sometimes they appear on stage. When Leslie Crowther was in Aladdin one Boxing Day, the butterfly actually perched on his left shoulder. At the end of the show he told the audience why it was so special.’

  ‘Always a tortoiseshell?’

  ‘Always. Most of the stars will tell you their butterfly story if you ask. Honor Blackman, June Whitfield, Peter O’Toole.’

  ‘O’Toole? What was he doing in pantomime?’

  ‘Sorry. I’m not telling it right. In his case it was Jeffrey Bernard Is Unwell. But this was in October, when the butterfly season is supposed to be over. On the opening night he was on stage and the butterfly settled on the newspaper he was reading. Being such a pro, he ad libbed a chat with it, saying it was welcome to stay there if it didn’t get pissed and make a noise. When it finally fluttered off, it got a round of applause.’

  ‘That was a first, I reckon.’ He was starting to be impressed. ‘The butterflies are a tad more persuasive than the grey lady.’

  ‘Only a tad?’

  ‘I can believe in butterflies out of season. I’ve seen them myself. Never thought of them as good omens, but why not? Actors are superstitious, aren’t they?’

  ‘You’re not wholly convinced, then?’

  ‘I’m an old sceptic, as you know. Something is going on, for sure. What matters is that people in the theatre believe it. And I suppose if a live butterfly is good news, a dead one isn’t. I can see why Titus fainted.’

  ‘Does he remember why?’ Paloma asked.

  ‘He didn’t say a word about it, and he’s not the sort to keep quiet. I expect the fainting acted like concussion and blotted out the immediate memory.’

  ‘It’ll prey on his mind if it does come back to him.’

  ‘What do you think? One dead butterfly. Is it like Death knocking on your door?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Paloma said. ‘We’re only too pleased to spot the good omens, but if we believe them we ought to
be concerned about the bad ones. Have you told anyone?’

  ‘No, and I don’t think I will.’

  ‘What about the butterfly? Is it still there?’

  ‘It will be unless the cleaner has been by. I wonder how long it’s been there. Apparently the room was full of people trying to be helpful after Clarion got hurt. Someone will have noticed, surely. From all you’ve just told me, plenty of people have heard the story.’

  ‘Everyone who works there gets to hear it.’

  Diamond found himself thinking about the mischief that could be done among superstitious theatre people. One dead butterfly could create quite a panic. ‘I wonder if the understudy has moved into the number one dressing room. It’s a status thing, I believe.’

  ‘They may not want the room disturbed,’ Paloma said. ‘Like a crime scene.’

  ‘But it isn’t a crime scene. There’s no official investigation. The management were playing it down this morning.’

  ‘They would, wouldn’t they?’

  ‘Carry on as usual. The show must go on. That’s why I’m thinking the understudy may have moved in.’

  ‘On the other hand, if they’re playing it down they may decide to keep the room undisturbed in case Clarion gets over her problem and is ready to return before the end of the run.’

  ‘How long is the run?’ His brain was racing.

  ‘Only a week. They move on to some other theatre after Saturday night.’

  ‘I doubt if she’ll be back.’ He took the mobile from his pocket. ‘Do you mind? I need to call Ingeborg urgently.’

  Paloma sighed and shook her head. Their walks were supposed to be the chance to get away from it all. And how ironic that she’d bought him the phone as a present. ‘Go on. It must be important.’

  He got through and issued instructions to Inge.

  After the call was over, Paloma said, ‘You could have gone yourself instead of sending Ingeborg.’