Stagestruck

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 pounds, 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.

‘This isn’t a question about the garden,’ he said when his chance came. He introduced himself.

‘Detective superintendent? What on earth…?’

‘Following up on the fatality in the theatre.’

‘The dresser? Tragic, yes, but hardly a matter for the police. She took her own life.’

‘We still have to check in case it’s a suspicious death.’

‘I can’t see how. She jumped, obviously. And you’ve driven all the way here to talk to me?’

‘I was hoping to catch you at the theatre, but you’d left.’

‘There was no more I could do, I’m sorry to say.’ Francis Melmot made an effort to be more agreeable. ‘Extremely distressing, the whole thing. Shall we speak somewhere else? One’s voice carries in here.’ This was true, particularly as he was so tall that nothing obstructed his outflow of words.

Somewhere else: Diamond’s thoughts turned to the terrace and the famous lemon drizzle cake. Instead, Melmot steered him through a walled vegetable garden to an open area with a sunken lawn.

‘We use this as an open-air theatre for local groups. You’ve heard of Storm on the Lawn, I expect?’

‘No.’

‘Good Lord! Where have you been living? It’s been running more than ten years. The Youth Theatre summer school, a series of marvellous open-air productions at Prior Park. The first was loosely based on The Tempest. Hence the name Storm on the Lawn. It stuck and has been used as an umbrella title ever since. Well, the Melmot Hall open-air shows aren’t up to that standard. We get the local am-dram groups. Farce on the Grass, we call it in the family, whatever the show, and it’s usually the Dream. Muddy fairies and mosquitoes.’ He grinned. The extreme distress he’d mentioned seemed to have evaporated.

‘You’re heavily involved in the theatre,’ Diamond said.

‘Yes, everyone says I should have played some kind of sport, for obvious reasons, but I’ve always been drawn to the footlights. The trouble is that there aren’t many actors male or female comfortable going on stage with a beanpole like me, so I have to make my contribution in other ways. Even then, it’s difficult. Pity the unfortunate person seated behind me in the audience.’

‘So you became a trustee?’

‘When one is in a position to help out, one should, I feel.’

‘A responsibility, being chairman?’

‘Indeed, and much more so in times of crisis.’

‘I was told that the trustees had a hand in the casting of Clarion Calhoun.’

The first hint of ill humour surfaced on Melmot’s face. ‘Who told you that? Shearman, no doubt. Theatre politics. He’s touchy on this subject.’

So are you, Diamond thought. ‘But is it true?’

‘Broadly, yes.’

‘And is it usual for the board to make decisions like that?’

‘Commercial decisions. This was a commercial decision. She’s hugely popular, as I’m sure you’re aware. It was democratically decided. The trustees are realists. They know we need at least one sell-out production as well as the pantomime to stay solvent.’

‘You get Arts Council support?’

‘Not a penny. We’re truly independent, very good at fund-raising and constantly raising our sights.’

‘I Am a Camera is a sell-out, I was told.’

‘Absolutely.’

‘I was also told that Clarion can’t act.’

Melmot’s blue eyes bulged suddenly. ‘That’s hardly fair. She didn’t get the chance.’

‘I heard she was poor in rehearsal.’

‘That’s not unusual. You know the superstition. Bad dress rehearsal, good first night. She went through drama school.’

‘A long time ago. The critics would have savaged her. You were putting the theatre’s reputation at risk.’

‘You shouldn’t take everything Hedley Shearman says as gospel. His pride took a hammering. He thought he was in overall charge of the casting and he usually is. I don’t accept that Clarion was heading for poor reviews.’

‘I didn’t get it only from Mr Shearman,’ Diamond said. ‘Everyone I’ve spoken to says she was rubbish.’

‘The wardrobe mistress, I suppose,’ Melmot said. ‘Kate is not a happy woman. This is the problem. People are quick to take sides in a community like ours that lives off its nerves. You get cliques and conspiracies all the time. You’ve heard only one side of the argument.’

‘Are you telling me you had a hit on your hands?’

He gave an impatient sigh. ‘This isn’t getting us anywhere. Why don’t you concentrate on the matter in hand, the suicide?’

‘All right, let’s do that. It isn’t entirely clear why Denise Pearsall, an apparently well-adjusted, happy woman, decided to end it all.’

‘That’s plain enough, isn’t it? She was responsible for the damage to Clarion’s face. Apart from the personal tragedy, it has deeply worrying implications for the theatre.’

‘The possibility of a law suit?’

‘For obvious reasons, I’d rather not discuss that.’

‘Clarion seemed ready to discuss it when I spoke to her this morning.’

He took a step back and almost fell down the slope in his surprise. ‘You’ve seen Clarion?’

‘At Frenchay.’

‘I was told she was surrounded by security.’

‘She is. She wouldn’t want a visit from anyone else. She’s instructing her lawyers, she told me. Suing for disfigurement and loss of earnings.’

A sigh that was almost a groan marked Melmot’s reaction. ‘I feared as much. Years of good housekeeping and fund-raising could be undone by this.’

‘You heard about the caustic soda?’

‘Yes, I did, and I was speechless. Madness. I can’t think what drove the woman to it. She was with us for six years.’

‘Happy in her work?’

He gave a shrug that was meant to be reassuring. ‘There were some personal issues in the wardrobe department, but we’d dealt with them. By all accounts she was good at her job and in command, as you say. Was it a dreadful error? How could it possibly have happened?’

Crucial questions, as yet unanswerable, as Diamond showed by spreading his hands. ‘Let’s talk about Clarion. You said the decision to use her was democratic. Who was it who first suggested her for the part?’

‘I did.’

‘You?’

‘I’d better qualify that. I suggested her as a name for the summer season. The choice of play came later.’

‘What gave you the idea?’

He smiled. ‘I’m a fan.’ Difficult to credit, but the way his face had lit up seemed to make it believable that a middle-aged owner of a stately home should be into the pop scene. ‘Followed her career almost since she started. She’s an amazing performer. I remembered reading somewhere that she’d been through drama college and also that she thought Bath was the loveliest city in England. Putting two and two together, I mentioned her name at a board meeting and they were as excited about it as I was. The next thing was choosing a part that would tempt her and someone came up with Sally Bowles.’

‘Why didn’t you go for the musical?’

‘Cabaret? Far too expensive, and not her style of singing.’

‘So who made the approach?’

‘Yours truly.’ He smiled. ‘I can be persuasive.’

‘Had you met Clarion before?’

‘No, this was my chance. I asked her out to lunch in London and sold the idea to her. She leapt at it. Neither of us mentioned that it’s been a while since she had a big hit, but it was a factor. And she still had the acting bug. Tough negotiations followed with the agent, of course.’

‘Tilda Box. I met her at the hospital.’

‘You did?’ Melmot was beginning to treat Diamond with caution, if not respect. ‘Miss Box is a hard bargainer. Eventually we got the terms reduced to a realistic figure. God knows what we’ll have to pay now.’

‘Only if they can prove you were negligent,’ Diamond said. ‘I’m no lawyer, but these were special circumstances.’

‘Denise Pearsall was in our employment, unfortunately. If the fault was hers I can’t see us avoiding a substantial payout. Is there anything else you need to know? I really ought to be meeting my visitors.’

Diamond suggested walking back to the orangery, talking as they went. ‘When Clarion came to Bath to start rehearsing, was anyone with her?’

‘Tilda, making sure she was satisfied with the arrangements.’

‘No one else? Where did they stay?’

‘I don’t know about Tilda, but Clarion put up here for a couple of days.’

‘Here?’ Diamond pointed a thumb at the stately home. ‘You had her as a house guest?’

‘I suggested it early in the bargaining process, as an incentive. One of the things I know about millionaire pop stars is that it pleases them to mingle with old money. It makes them feel more secure.’

‘A couple of days, you said?’

‘Yes, when they started rehearsing until late she moved to the Royal Crescent Hotel.’

‘For you as a fan, it must have been a dream come true.’

The colour rose in the fan’s cheeks. ‘It was all very proper. My mother lives here too, you know.’

‘I met her when we arrived,’ Diamond said. ‘Famous for her cake.’

Melmot clicked his tongue. ‘Is that what she tells people as they arrive? She’s incorrigible.’

‘I was also told about your late father.’

‘The whole family saga? Oh my word. It makes one cringe. She’ll talk to anyone. Father had an accident while cleaning his shotgun. Mother was typically calm about the whole thing, I have to say. They weren’t close.’

Diamond could understand why. ‘Are any other members of your family living here?’

He shook his head. ‘Just mother and me. I’d offer to show you round, but I’m supposed to be available to answer questions about the plants and if you don’t mind I really ought to be more visible now.’

They’d reached the orangery. Diamond thanked him and went looking for Halliwell.

He found him at a table on the terrace overlooking the south lawn. He had a cup of tea in front of him and an empty plate that he slipped deftly under the saucer. ‘I thought if I waited here, guv, you’d come by sooner or later.’

Diamond pointed. ‘Was that the lemon drizzle?’

‘It was.’

‘Good?’

‘The best ever. I was lucky. I had the last piece. You can still get a cup of tea and a digestive biscuit.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘There could be flapjacks.’

‘I break my teeth on them.’ Muttering, he went over to where the tea was being served by the Wellow Women’s Institute.

‘I don’t want you thinking this has anything to do with the cake I missed out on,’ he said to Halliwell when he returned to the table, ‘but tomorrow morning you’re standing in for me at the post-mortem.’