Stagestruck

by Peter Lovesey

  ‘Caustic soda in the make-up?’

  Shearman fingered his tie as if it was choking him.

  They returned to the scene of the fatal incident.

  High in the fly tower, photographs were still being taken of the body, but Dr Sealy was back on ground level. ‘We’ll have her down presently and I’ll do the autopsy tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Anything I should be told?’ Diamond asked.

  ‘Not really. The cervical spine appears to have snapped at the point where she hit the metalwork. Death would have been immediate.’

  ‘Time?’

  Sealy looked at his watch. ‘Two twenty.’

  ‘Ten minutes ago?’ Diamond said in disbelief.

  ‘The legal time of death, when I confirmed that life was extinct. If you’re asking for the estimated time, the moment she died, you’re asking for the moon, old boy. I took a temperature reading, but it means very little really. There’s obvious hypostasis in the arm that hung down, so I can tell you it was some hours ago, but how many is another question.’

  ‘Will you know any better tomorrow?’

  ‘Frankly, I doubt it.’

  ‘Where would I be without your expert help?’

  Sealy gave a shrug. ‘Now who do I see about those complimentary tickets?’

  Kate, in wardrobe, sighed heavily. ‘Denise was my senior dresser. I can’t think what drove her to this.’

  ‘She used this room as her base, I was told.’ Diamond couldn’t see where. He was wedged between an ironing board and a washing machine. Every surface was covered in layers of dress materials. Racks of costumes, hatboxes piled high, wigs on dummy heads and sewing machines filled all the other space.

  ‘She did, but you wouldn’t know. She always brought her own things with her and took them away at the end of the show.’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘Her bags, I mean, with all she needed. Dressers are expected to deal with any emergency from a missing button to a false moustache that won’t stick.’

  ‘Make-up?’

  ‘In rare cases, yes.’

  ‘Like Clarion?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did Denise supply the make-up for Clarion?’

  ‘That’s right. Her own. She had a special bag for it.’

  ‘Describe this bag, would you?’

  ‘Black leather, rather like an old-fashioned doctor’s bag, with all the pots and brushes inside. I expect you’ll find it in her house.’

  ‘We already searched. It isn’t there.’

  ‘In her car, then.’

  ‘Do you know where she parked?’

  ‘Anywhere she could. Finding a place is a lottery at this time of year, with all the summer visitors.’

  He looked across the heaps of costumes and materials. ‘I was wondering if she left a note somewhere.’

  ‘A suicide note? I haven’t found one. I don’t think she’d leave it here. Things get covered over. I’m always losing scissors.’

  ‘It’s worth a check.’

  ‘If it’s anywhere, it would be somewhere near the door where you’re standing. She’d hang her coat there and chat, just like you are.’

  He didn’t class his questions as chat. After lifting everything within reach and finding no note he asked, ‘Did she seem anxious about anything?’

  ‘Anxious? Not Denise. She wouldn’t mind me saying she was as tough as old boots. She’d done all sorts. At one time when she couldn’t get theatre work she helped out an undertaker’s, prettifying the departed for their relatives to see them. She also toured with a theatre company in Bosnia when the war was going on. And when she was just a slip of a girl she was involved with a prison drama group in Manchester, murderers and rapists. She was no wimp, bless her.’ She produced a tissue and blew her nose, but Diamond had the impression it was more about self-pity than sympathy. The loss of the senior dresser would add to the workload.

  ‘Did she talk to you about the current production?’

  ‘I talked to her. As one of the dressers she works for me, you see.’

  The pecking order again. ‘Are there others?’

  ‘Usually, yes, but not for this production apart from one little student who helps out. There are only seven actors and not many costume changes.’

  ‘Did Denise have anything to say about the casting?’

  ‘We consulted over the costumes and make-up.’ A guarded answer.

  ‘Yes, but did she say anything about I Am a Camera? Personalities, the actors in particular? You can be frank with me.’

  The last words were a mistake. Kate shook her head before he’d finished saying them. He had an instinct that this big-eyed, blousy woman who didn’t like being known as the wardrobe mistress would be a rich source of gossip if only he could tap into it.

  ‘Come on, Kate,’ he said. ‘You just told me she liked a chat. You both had to work with the same set of people. Actors are fascinating to be around, aren’t they?’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ she told him, rolling her eyes, and then appeared willing to say more now that the focus had shifted from Denise. ‘They’re like kids, most of them. It’s all “me, me.” And if they’re not full of themselves they’re sucking their thumbs in a corner, wanting to be mothered. It depends.’

  ‘How was Clarion getting on with everyone?’

  ‘Clarion?’ She spoke the name as if it had no connection to the cast. ‘All right.’ Said without conviction.

  ‘Nervous?’

  ‘She was confident in one way, used to dealing with people, but it stood out a mile that she was terrified of acting. She’s used to going in front of an audience, huge audiences sometimes, but not speaking lines. She kept telling us she’d had drama training, and I think she was trying to convince herself more than us. She wasn’t much good in rehearsal.’

  ‘Forgetting her lines?’

  ‘More the way she spoke them. Trying too hard. It’s not an easy part, Sally Bowles.’

  ‘Was there a sense that the play was going to flop?’

  Kate hesitated. He’d pressed too hard again. No one admits they’re involved in a turkey until it’s too late.

  ‘More nervousness than usual, then?’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘And how was Denise taking it? Was it personal for her?’

  She was even more twitchy now that Denise’s name had come up again. ‘What do you mean – personal?’

  ‘She worked here a long time. She was proud of the theatre, wasn’t she?’

  ‘It was a job like any other. There’s this idea that theatre people are like a family. Sentimental tripe.’

  ‘You get dysfunctional families.’

  ‘Too true.’ She busied herself brushing the front of a jacket with such sudden force that it was a wonder the lapels stayed put. ‘But we’re professionals and we do the job we’re paid to do, or try to.’ There was strong resentment here, but what about he couldn’t tell.

  ‘If a play flops, you all work hard for small audiences and a blasting from the critics,’ he said. ‘I get the impression there was a lot of nervousness about this one. I’m wondering if Denise took it to heart.’

  ‘She felt we’d been short-changed with Clarion getting the role, and quite a number of us shared her opinion.’

  ‘But then it’s all over at the end of a week,’ he said. ‘Didn’t justify killing herself. Was she well balanced?’

  ‘I always thought so.’

  ‘Maybe there were other strains in her life.’

  She was shaking her head before he’d got the words out. ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘Was she romantically involved with anyone?’

  ‘In the theatre?

  ‘Or outside.’

  ‘If she was, she never said a word about it. I’m sure I’d know. I’ve talked to her often enough about my own love life. It’s a standing joke that I wear my heart on my sleeves. Sleeves – geddit? Being upfront, as I am, I find encourages other people to share their secrets.’

 
People’s self-image is often at variance with reality. Diamond wouldn’t have called this lady upfront. ‘She lived alone.’

  ‘Her choice. Some of us think a man is for pleasure, not for life.’ Surprisingly in the circumstances, she was giving Diamond the eye. Maybe that was what she meant by upfront.

  ‘Did she have any other secrets I should know about?’

  ‘What are you hinting at? She wasn’t gay. Plenty of people in this profession are, but Denise wasn’t.’

  ‘On Monday when the play opened, did she call in here?’

  ‘Always does, about six, in time to deliver the costumes to the actors. She was no different from usual, just anxious about the first night, as we all were.’

  ‘Can you recall what was said?’

  ‘Not much. She was doing the rounds of the dressing rooms. It’s not a time for chat. I think we both said we hoped it would go better than the dress rehearsal. When the time came to sort Clarion out, she picked up her case and tootled off, as calm as a lake in heaven.’

  ‘Her case. You’re speaking of the make-up case?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I want to be clear about this. Denise arrived with the makeup. Had she come straight here from her car?’

  ‘I assume so. She was still wearing her coat. Like I said, she always hung it on the door behind you.’

  ‘So no one could have tampered with the make-up before she got to Clarion’s dressing room?’

  ‘That’s for certain.’

  Useful information. Suspicious as always, he’d been toying with the possibility that some other person could have added caustic soda to the make-up before the show. This seemed to scotch the theory. ‘Did you see her after the incident on stage?’

  ‘No, she went to the hospital with Clarion. I was way too busy helping Gisella. There was a swift decision to get her on as understudy, and my job was to get her into one of the Sally Bowles costumes.’

  ‘And make her up?’

  Kate shook her head. ‘She was playing Natalia, so she was done already.’

  ‘She performed well, I gather?’

  ‘She was marvellous, considering. We had an ASM understudying her part – two small scenes – and she had to step up as well. Fortunately for me they’re similar in build. All it needed was some pinning here and there.’

  ‘What troubles me about all this,’ Diamond said, ‘is the phrase you used just now. You said when Denise left this room to go and see Clarion, she was “calm as a lake in heaven”.’

  ‘It’s Gilbert and Sullivan,’ she said. ‘I forget which one. Just a phrase that came to mind. Put it this way. She was her normal, placid self, well in control. What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘I’ll tell you. She was on her way to smear caustic soda on Clarion’s face and cause acute pain and third-degree burns, so how could she be so calm?’

  ‘You’ll have to work that out for yourself.’

  One thing he had worked out. The wardrobe mistress and the dresser had not been on the best of terms.

  9

  Diamond had a strong dislike of being fobbed off. After seeing Kate in wardrobe, he asked to meet Francis Melmot and was told that the chairman was unavailable for the rest of the day. ‘What does that mean?’ he asked Shearman. ‘I assume he has a prior engagement.’ ‘Priority over the police? I don’t think so. What do you know about his plans, anyway?’ ‘I’m just passing on the information. He’s out of reach.’ ‘Climbing the Matterhorn, is he?’ ‘What?’ ‘Channel swimming? Bungee jumping? How is he out of reach?’ ‘All I can tell you is what he said to my secretary before he left the building.’ ‘So he was here today?’ ‘And yesterday. And the day before. The chairman is taking a keen interest in what’s happened.’ ‘So keen that he clears off as soon as the police arrive.

  Does he work for a living?’ ‘He has a number of directorships, I know for certain.’ ‘You’d better give me his phone number.’ On trying the number, he got a recorded message telling him what he’d already heard: that Mr Melmot was unavail

  able. He had the same result from the mobile. ‘Where does he live?’ he asked Shearman. ‘I don’t think that’s wise.’ ‘I didn’t ask if it was wise.’

  Shortly after, with arms folded and jaw jutting in Churchillian defiance, Diamond was driven by Keith Halliwell through the leafy lanes of Somerset towards Wellow, about five miles south of the city. They were looking for Melmot Hall, where Melmots had lived since the Restoration.

  For Diamond, getting out of that theatre was like being released from some hypnotist’s instruction. Only now did he fully understand the paralysing effect the place had on him. This couldn’t go on. If he didn’t deal with it, he’d be forced to drop the case.

  ‘Funnily enough,’ Halliwell said, trying to lighten the mood, ‘I’ve never been to Wellow.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have much cause,’ Diamond said. ‘It’s not the crime capital of the south-west.’

  The sat-nav directed them through the quiet village and across the Wellow Brook towards the unexpected, a line of parked cars stretching to infinity, making two-way traffic an impossibility.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Halliwell said, slowing up.

  ‘We are,’ Diamond said, still in warlike mode. ‘We’re going on. If anything comes the other way, they’ll have to reverse.’

  Knowing you didn’t argue with the boss when he was like this, Halliwell moved the car on fifty yards to an imposing gateway with stone eagles: the entrance to Melmot Hall.

  A line of cones barred anyone from driving in.

  ‘He is playing hard to get.’

  Forced to move on, they despaired at the sight of more cars parked solidly along the left side of the narrow road.

  ‘You could have set me down by the entrance,’ Diamond said.

  ‘Sorry, guv.’

  Much to Halliwell’s relief another driver moved out and left a space. He reversed in promptly and opened his door.

  Diamond didn’t move. ‘How am I supposed to get out?’ His side of the car was against the hedge. A slimmer passenger might have managed it. His deputy had the tact not to say so.

  ‘Can you slide across and use my door?’

  ‘And damage my wedding tackle on your gear lever? No thanks.’

  Halliwell drove out again to allow the big man to alight without mishap. The car was parked for the second time and they walked back to the entrance. Inside, people were strolling around the edges of an immaculate lawn in front of a large gabled house with tall Tudor chimneys. Halfway along the drive an elderly woman in a straw hat and pale yellow muslin dress was seated behind a trestle table. ‘You’ve brought some sunshine with you, gentlemen,’ she said when they reached her. ‘Two? That’ll be six pounds, please.’

  ‘Sorry to disappoint you, but it won’t,’ Diamond said. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Aren’t you here to visit the garden?’

  ‘We’re visiting the owner, Mr Melmot. Is he home?’ He thought the name would get them in, but it didn’t.

  She eyed them with suspicion. ‘I’m Mrs Melmot and I don’t recall meeting you. Everyone has to pay today. It’s all for charity. Teas are being served on the terrace.’

  Halliwell had picked a pamphlet off the table. He passed it to Diamond. It was about openings in Somerset under the National Gardens Scheme.

  ‘We didn’t come to see your garden, ma’am,’ Diamond said.

  ‘I guessed as much by the look of you,’ Mrs Melmot said in a tone that wasn’t complimentary, ‘and you’re not the only ones. They come from miles around for a slice of my famous lemon drizzle cake, but the entrance fee is the same whatever you’re here for.’

  ‘Is your husband on the premises?’

  ‘I hope not. He’s dead.’ She announced it as if talking about a felled tree, in the matter-of-fact tone of the well-raised Englishwoman.

  There wasn’t anything adequate Diamond could say, so he waited for her to speak again.

  ‘He shot himself in 1999. Six poun
ds, please.’

  After another pause, Diamond said, ‘It must be your son we’ve come to interview. Sorry about the misunderstanding. I haven’t made myself clear. We’re police officers.’

  ‘Do you have a warrant?’ she asked, unfazed. She’d evidently watched police dramas on TV.

  ‘We don’t require one. We want to speak to Francis Melmot, that’s all.’

  They could have ignored her and stepped past, but in this quintessentially peaceful setting it seemed churlish to cause a scene. Actually one was brewing behind them. Some American visitors had been kept waiting in line. One of them asked what the hold-up was.

  ‘These gentlemen seem to think they can come in without tickets,’ Mrs Melmot said.

  ‘It’s for charity, for Christ’s sake, and cheap at the price,’ the man said, handing across a twenty-pound note. ‘Here, this should take care of it, and let’s all get started while the weather holds.’

  ‘That isn’t necessary,’ Diamond said, but the money was already in the cashbox. Mrs Melmot was no slouch with the cash. She’d also pressed yellow stickers on their lapels and their sponsor was pocketing his change. This farce had gone too far to reverse.

  ‘Settle up with the gentleman, Keith, and I’ll see you right.’ He marched up the drive towards the entrance porch and was stopped by a man in a green blazer with both hands raised.

  ‘The house isn’t open, sir.’

  ‘Are you the owner?’

  ‘I’m staff. Mr Melmot is in the orangery, around the building to your left.’

  ‘What’s he wearing? We haven’t met.’

  ‘You can’t miss him.’

  This begged a question Diamond didn’t ask.

  Now that the awkwardness of arriving was over, he found himself mellowing a little. He couldn’t fail to respond to the glories of an English garden on a summer afternoon, a precious break from the dark confines of the theatre. The owners of all those cars were scattered across several acres of lawn and it didn’t seem crowded. His mood was improving by the minute.

  He found the orangery, a large octagonal Victorian structure. No oranges were visible, but there was a sizeable lemon tree and a sizeable man – around six foot eight – in a white linen jacket and pink shirt was standing beside it speaking to visitors with an air of authority. Showing patience that was unusual for him, Diamond awaited his turn.