‘It’s a period piece, I expect.’
‘Typical of Berlin in the thirties, is it?’
‘Probably,’ Ingeborg said and took a couple of steps towards it. ‘I don’t think it’s ugly. The tiles are quite pretty.’
‘But you wouldn’t want it in your living room. Is it real, or made specially?’
Dawkins spoke up. ‘It can’t be genuine.’
‘How do you know, cleverclogs?’ Ingeborg said.
‘The genuine kachelofen is built of masonry, to conserve the heat passing through. It would be too heavy for the stage. The tiles may be real.’ His expertise was impressive, but didn’t cut much ice here.
‘It looks real to me,’ Ingeborg said, with a wicked urge to prove him wrong. She reached for the handle of the small square oven set into the tiles and was shocked by the door coming away in her hand and falling on the floor. Dawkins had been right. It was wood, painted to look like metal. ‘Jesus, I’ve broken it.’
‘No, you haven’t,’ Diamond said. ‘Pick it up and push it back in the slot.’
He could have saved his breath. Ingeborg had suddenly become more interested in the space she’d uncovered. She reached inside. ‘Hey, what’s this?’
‘The powder box?’
‘No. Various bits of paper.’ She took out several sheets and glanced at the top one. ‘It’s only the stage plan for this set,’ she said in disappointment. ‘And a couple of pages from a script. I expect someone was cleaning up and put them in here rather than binning them.’
‘I don’t suppose they’re needed now,’ Diamond said.
‘I’ll put them back, in case.’ She was still holding one item, an envelope. ‘This looks like a letter. To All at the Theatre Royal.’
‘Is it sealed?’
‘No. Shall I see what’s in it?’
‘Let me,’ Diamond said.
She handed it across.
He took out a sheet of paper and gave it a rapid look. ‘This is a suicide note.’
15
My Dear Friends,
This theatre has been my life and you have been my family, all of you, for six happy years. I can’t thank you enough for all the warmth and support you have given me and the wonderful moments we shared. I had no idea everything would change overnight, but it has, through my own stupidity. I’m deeply sorry now about what happened to Clarion and I pray that it won’t be permanent. I hope by some miracle the theatre and all of you can survive this. But for me there can be no future in my beloved Theatre Royal, my home, and this is where I have chosen to put an end to it, backstage where I belong.
Please don’t mourn. No black clothes. No prayers at my funeral. If my ashes could be scattered in the theatre garden that would be more than I deserve.
Goodbye and blessings.
Denise
Diamond handed the note to Ingeborg. Fred Dawkins stood beside her and read the words at the same time.
‘Poor soul,’ Ingeborg said.
‘Brave soul,’ Dawkins said.
‘True.’
‘Blaming no one else.’
‘Yes, I’ve heard suicide called a coward’s way out, but I don’t agree with that.’
‘Even to think about one’s own funeral.’
‘It’s been written on a computer and printed out,’ Diamond said, unwilling to join in the fatalistic talk and already querying this as reliable evidence. ‘Suicide notes are usually written by hand.’
‘Guv, we’re in the computer age now,’ Ingeborg said. ‘No one writes anything by hand apart from shopping lists. If I were doing one of these I’d use my laptop. She’s signed it by hand.’
‘We’ll get the signature checked,’ he said and then as he thought about forensics, ‘If I’d been sharper, we wouldn’t have handled it. They can get prints from paper. Someone is going to rap my knuckles over this.’ With a shrug and a wry smile, he started to fold the note.
‘Don’t, guv,’ Ingeborg said. ‘The more you touch it, the less chance there is of finding anything. We need an evidence bag.’
‘Did anyone think of bringing one?’ he said with a look that said it was more their fault than his.
Dawkins was never stumped for a suggestion. ‘Place it between two of the other sheets of paper.’
‘Good thinking, Fred,’ Ingeborg said.
Outnumbered, Diamond didn’t argue.
The same evening when he called for Paloma, she was in her office scanning pictures of frock-coated Victorians for the costume designer of Sweeney Todd. ‘Could you lower the lid while I hold this engraving in place? Gently.’
The scanner hummed and another image was stored. The BLOGs would have more than enough authentic illustrations to work with.
‘Did I tell you my boss has made it into the chorus?’ Diamond said.
‘Georgina? Good for her. She’ll be one of the Fleet Street women in a bright bodice and skirt.’
‘More out of the bodice than in. She’s a well built lady.’
‘Front row for her, then. The BLOGs maximise their assets.’ She picked up a book and opened it at the page she wanted. ‘One more, and we’re done. I hope this damn show goes ahead. I’ve invested a lot of time in it.’
‘It’s on. The theatre has a future.’ He told her about Clarion deciding not to proceed with the lawsuit.
‘Sensible woman,’ Paloma said. ‘The only people who make money out of the courts are the lawyers. Who told you this?’
‘Francis Melmot, the chairman of the trust. They can’t believe their luck.’
Then he told her about finding the suicide note.
‘Not a bad day all round,’ she said. ‘The theatre is in the clear and the note proves what happened to Denise. Case closed.’
‘If the note is genuine.’
‘Why shouldn’t it be?’
‘For one thing it was hidden away inside a piece of scenery.’
‘But you explained about that. Someone found it lying about and tidied up. That German oven was a useful place to tuck some papers out of sight.’
‘Why would Denise leave her suicide note lying about?’ he said.
‘Come on, Peter. To be noticed. It’s a theatre. Where do you put something you want people to find? Centre stage isn’t a bad idea, is it? She was about to hurl herself off the gallery and hit the stage floor. I know she didn’t fall all the way, but that was clearly the intention. They’d find the body and see the note nearby.’
Put like that, it made sense.
‘Denise killed herself. It’s over, Peter. You can relax.’
How he wished he could. He’d been debating with himself whether to tell Paloma what he’d learned from Mike Glazebrook. There was a powerful instinct to stay tight-lipped and battle with his own demons. Innocent as he must have been at eight years old, he still felt tainted. On the other hand, he’d told Paloma about the panic attacks he’d been getting at the theatre. She was sure to ask at some point soon if he’d worked out why they happened.
Would he have confided in Steph, his wife?
Certainly.
Then why not Paloma?
‘I met someone I was at school with today.’ When he’d finished telling her, he felt some relief. It hadn’t been good to bottle it up.
Paloma had listened in silence, only her eyes expressing concern. ‘You don’t know for certain that the art teacher abused you,’ she pointed out.
‘I won’t unless I can let the memories in. My brain is acting as a censor. It doesn’t take a Sigmund Freud to work out that something deeply upsetting is locked in there. White was a convicted paedophile and he recruited us for that play I was in. My theatre phobia – or whatever we choose to call it – kicked in immediately after that weekend.’
‘But do you really want to remember?’
‘It’s more than a want. It’s a need. I have to overcome this, not have it forever as a no-go area.’
‘The school friend…?’
‘Mike Glazebrook.’
‘He told yo
u Flakey White didn’t abuse him. Do you believe him?’
‘Yes, he convinced me.’
‘Yet you feel sure you were taken advantage of? Why you?’
‘I’ve thought about this. Paedophiles are devious. If I was the kid he set out to entrap, he may have used Mike as a cover, so that it wasn’t obvious, to let me feel safe knowing there was another boy. Our parents would also be more confident if there were two kids, not one.’
‘Where do you think the abuse happened?’
‘Don’t know. His car? The changing room at the hall? I can’t – or won’t let myself – remember.’
‘But you’re sure it took place?’
‘It’s the only explanation. I don’t scare easily, Paloma. This has undermined me.’
‘Is White still alive?’
The question unsettled him. Up to now he’d been focusing on the past. ‘No idea. He’d be over seventy.’
‘Plenty of people are. You’re in the police. They keep track of sex offenders, don’t they? You could find out. You could meet him.’
She was pushing him to the limit and he wished he hadn’t started this. ‘I don’t know if I could trust myself. He’d deny it, anyway.’
‘Some way, you need to know the truth. It’s a festering wound, Peter. If you can find him, it’s the best chance you’ve got. Do you know his real name?’
‘It was something fancy. Morgan O. White, I think.’
‘That should make him easier to find.’
‘I expect he changed his identity. Most of them do.’ He was putting obstacles in the way and it did him no credit.
‘But the Sex Offenders Register would list all the names he’s used.’
‘You have a touching faith in the system,’ he said. ‘He was convicted in the sixties, thirty years before the register was started and it isn’t retroactive.’
‘There must be criminal records.’
‘You’re right. They’re kept at Scotland Yard by the National Identification Service.’ Keen to bring this conversation to an end, he added, ‘I’ll call them from work tomorrow and get them to run a check. Let’s go for a meal and talk about other things.’
‘You’ve got your mobile. Why not do it now?’
She could have been Steph talking. After a moment’s hesitation he reached into his pocket.
Once he’d passed the checks on his own identity, the information was quick in coming. The helpful civil servant at the Yard told him that Morgan Ogilby White, a teacher, aged thirty-one, had been convicted on three counts of indecency with minors at Winchester in 1965 and sentenced to five years, of which he had served three in Shepton Mallet prison. The offences had been committed at a private school in Hampshire called Manningham Academy. White must have moved there from the junior school in Kingston where Diamond had known him. He’d been released on probation in 1968.
Hearing the details like this made it more real than getting it at third hand from Glazebrook’s Mum.
‘Is that it?’ he asked.
The voice said, ‘That’s all we have.’
‘I was expecting more.’
‘He hasn’t re-offended – under that name, anyway. Paedophiles are crafty at changing their identities and re-offending, as you know.’
‘I was hoping to trace him.’
‘Difficult. You could try the probation service. But your best bet would be the police authority where he offended. Before the new legislation came in, they kept their own intelligence on sex offenders.’
The house was more than three-quarters full that evening. Not bad, considering how bleak the prospects had been after Clarion had left the cast. Although numerous fans had returned their tickets on the Tuesday, the generous reviews and news coverage of Gisella’s success as understudy had boosted sales and numbers of those empty seats were filled.
Chairman Melmot had made sure everyone knew of Clarion’s decision not to sue. The mood backstage was upbeat as the countdown to curtain up was relayed at intervals over the tannoy. Gisella herself couldn’t wait to go on stage. She’d heard that a casting director from the National had come to see her as Sally Bowles. They were looking for someone to play the main role in a revival of Irma la Douce. If she was asked, it would be a huge opportunity, she’d informed the other leading actors. Preston, as usual, was incommunicado an hour before the show, so she’d pushed a note under his door. She didn’t have any worries about him. He could be relied on to give a strong performance. An actor was allowed to be self-absorbed off stage as long as he played his part like a professional. Whatever his secret pre-show build-up might consist of, it worked. The way Gisella saw it, Preston’s Isherwood was a perfect foil for her Sally Bowles.
Little Hedley Shearman looked in at one stage with a bunch of roses when Gisella was doing her make-up. ‘You look radiant,’ he said. ‘These are for you, my dear.’
She thanked him for bringing them up, assuming they’d been left by some admirer at the stage door.
‘They’re from me,’ he said with a smirk, ‘to spur you on.’
‘Oh… well, thanks.’ A guarded response. She hadn’t enjoyed him pawing her the day before.
He continued, oblivious. ‘We’re expecting a VIP out there tonight.’
‘I heard. Don’t make me nervous.’
‘You’ll be marvellous, no question.’ And now he revealed the reason for the flowers. ‘How about a spot of supper afterwards? I know what you actors are like. You’ll be on a high. You can’t face sleep for hours.’
‘Thanks for the offer,’ she said, ‘but I don’t like eating late. I’ll just have a sandwich at the hotel. And I have no problem sleeping, as it happens.’
‘Can I join you?’ He grinned. ‘For the sandwich, I mean. I’m supposed to be dieting.’
‘Mr Shearman – ’
‘Hedley to you.’
‘Hedley, please don’t take this personally, but I don’t want company tonight or any night.’
This awkward exchange was quickly forgotten as the beginners left the dressing rooms to take their positions. The buzz of expectant conversation out front had been audible over the tannoy and was exciting to hear from the wings. The old theatre with its gilded panels, crimson drapes and crystal chandelier created an ambience. Every performance started with favourable conditions for a good hearing. The anticipation on both sides of the curtain was positive.
Preston Barnes was already in his usual place at the table on stage, having his appearance checked by Belinda, the make-up girl. Gisella tried to catch his eye to check that he’d seen her note, but he didn’t look her way. His concentration was total, almost intimidating.
In the wings the large woman playing Fräulein Schneider waited with the lace tablecloth she would set in preparation for Sally Bowles. Everyone in the cast spoke of her as Schneider, rather than using her own name. She had an air of overweening importance on and off stage. All the other actors were lesser lights so far as she was concerned.
‘And curtain up,’ came the voice of the DSM from the prompt corner. Thursday’s performance got under way. No evening in the theatre is ever exactly like another, even though the cast speak the same lines and make the same moves. This night would stand out.
I Am a Camera was written as a three act play, but in the modern theatre a single interval is preferred, so the decision had been made to stop once, at the close of Act One, and run Two and Three together, dimming the lights between to show the passage of time. Act One ends with Sally Bowles, who is pregnant, about to go to an abortionist recommended by Fräulein Schneider. Isherwood is not the father, but he offers first to marry her and then to pay for the operation.
Shortly before the interval curtain was lowered, Schneider had an exit, followed soon after by Sally. On each other evening they had gone straight to their dressing rooms to prepare for the second half. Tonight, in the wings, Schneider blocked Gisella’s way. Something was clearly wrong. She was out of character and apparently eager to speak. Gisella’s first thought was that s
he must have committed some gaffe, missed a cue or blocked a sight line. It was soon clear something else was wrong.
‘Did you see it?’ Wide, startled eyes locked with Gisella’s.
‘See what?’
‘Out there. The top box, stage right.’
Gisella’s role was so demanding that she never had a chance to look anywhere beyond the footlights. She was aware of the audience, as any actor is, yet her concentration had been all on what was happening on stage. ‘I wasn’t looking.’
Schneider’s part involved a lot of business moving about the set, tidying up, picking garments off the floor, answering doorbells, so that was how she had opportunities to sneak a look at the auditorium. ‘I didn’t believe my own eyes,’ she said, ‘but there’s no question. Look at me. I’m not suggestible.’
This had seemed self-evident up to now.
‘I don’t know what this is about,’ Gisella said, ‘but I must get to my room. If you don’t mind -’
‘The lady in grey. She was there.’
There was a pause while Gisella tried to overcome her disbelief. ‘The theatre ghost?’
‘Staring at me, watching.’
‘That’s what an audience does. They stare at us all.’
‘She was not flesh and blood. She was quite alone.’
‘In the box? I expect it’s just some member of the public.’
‘The boxes haven’t been used all week,’ Schneider said. ‘The sight-lines are too restricted. That box is where the ghost is always seen. I promise you, she was there, pale as death, and all in grey. What does it mean if you see her? Is it bad luck?’
‘I’ve no idea, but…’ Gisella looked around for support, anything to shake off this crazy woman. The curtain had just come down and Preston Barnes was walking off.
Schneider caught him by the arm. ‘Did you see her?’
‘Who?’
‘The grey lady.’
He wasn’t as polite as Gisella. ‘Let go of me.’
‘The theatre ghost.’
‘For Christ’s sake, I don’t have time to piss around.’ With that, he marched on, past them both.
Stagestruck Page 21
