Stagestruck

3

There were lunchtimes when Diamond escaped from Man-vers Street police station and found sanctuary in places where no one would bother his head about targets and budget reports and activity-based costing. The city of Bath had enough pubs to suit all his moods, from the Old Green Tree, sedate as a private club with its home cooking and wood panelling, to the garish Hobgoblin, where the boneshaking beat of heavy metal was enough to drive out anybody’s demons. Today he’d decided on the Garrick’s Head, adjoining the Theatre Royal. A couple of beers with the backstage lads would be an agreeable way to check Georgina’s story.

Originally – in about 1720 – the building had been a private house, the home of Beau Nash, the Master of Ceremonies who made the city fashionable. It became a drinking house in 1805 when the theatre was built next door. Outside, a bust of the actor David Garrick dignifies the façade, but Diamond wasn’t looking upwards. He stepped in, ordered his pint of British Red and took it to the black sofa under the window. The dark wood panelling, board floor and traditional fireplace fitted his expectation of what a public bar should be. He didn’t care for patterned wallpaper and fitted carpets. Even better, someone had left the Daily Telegraph on the sofa, so he opened it and read about the ‘indisposition’ of the star of I Am a Camera. Restrained, even by Telegraph standards. The tabloids no doubt trumpeted Clarion’s agony scream by scream.

He hadn’t yet briefed his team. Truth to tell, he wasn’t confident he had the facts straight. Illusion and special effects were the stock-in-trade of theatres, so he was wary of anything that happened on a stage in front of an audience, even when it was unscripted. Several hundred theatre-goers believed they’d witnessed an acutely painful and distressing incident and probably they had, but it couldn’t be taken as fact without investigation. Clarion’s burns were real according to the hospital reports, yet the way they had been inflicted gave cause for uncertainty. If, as everyone supposed, the make-up had caused the damage, why hadn’t she screamed in pain at the time it was applied, or immediately after?

His other concern was the possibility of fraud. By all accounts, Clarion the pop singer was on the skids and looking for alternative employment. She’d been hired by the theatre to play a nightclub singer. Typecasting, you might say, and a one-off. Did anyone expect she would go on to a second career in acting? As things had turned out, she’d done the minimum of acting and was expected to sue the theatre for a huge sum, enough for a long and comfortable retirement. Of course the scarring would need to be permanent to convince a court. A grim possibility: had she injured herself for the prospect of a multi-million-pound settlement?

Two conversations were in progress and one was getting interesting. Diamond put a hand over his ear to block out the woman at the next table talking about last night’s East-Enders and tried instead to listen to the man on a bar stool in dialogue with the barmaid.

‘It’s obvious she’s deeply troubled.’

He heard the barmaid say, ‘I wouldn’t know.’

‘You work here, love, so you can’t ignore it.’

‘Try me. She hasn’t been in for a drink.’

‘Don’t be like that,’ the man said. ‘Personally, I find the whole thing heartbreaking. She’s there on stage and this gorgeous man in one of the upper boxes seems to be giving her the come-on, so she tries to signal that she’s interested. In fact she’s a lot more than interested. She’s practically shinning up the curtain to get at him. And this meanie doesn’t even ask her out. He cuts her dead, so in desperation… we both know what she did.’

‘If you want to believe it.’

‘Now, come on. It’s common knowledge round here. Do you know which door she used?’

‘Door? Oh, I get you. No, and I haven’t asked.’

‘It may be the one behind you. I couldn’t stay in the job if I were you.’

‘It doesn’t bother me.’

‘If you saw her, it would.’

‘But I haven’t.’

‘Never smelt jasmine around the bar?’

The girl laughed. ‘You get all sorts of smells in this place. Why, is jasmine what she uses?’

‘Exclusively. I’ve smelt it myself.’

‘Where?’

‘In the corridor behind the royal circle.’

Curiosity got the better of Diamond. He turned in his chair. ‘I couldn’t help overhearing what you’re saying. This woman you’re talking about. Who is she?’

‘I wouldn’t call her a woman if I were you,’ the man said.

‘I misheard, then.’

‘The grey lady,’ the man said, smoothing his tie and treating Diamond to a dazzling smile. He didn’t fit Diamond’s image of a scene-shifter, but he seemed to know what he was talking about. ‘She’s our theatre ghost.’

‘Ah.’ Spooks didn’t interest Diamond, and the letdown he felt must have been obvious.

‘Don’t look so disbelieving,’ the man said. ‘She’s real enough. We know precisely when she topped herself and where.’

‘Tell him, then,’ the barmaid said, and winked at Diamond. ‘Pretend you’re shaking in your shoes.’

The man said, ‘She strung a rope over a door right here in the Garrick’s Head and hanged herself, in the year 1812.’

‘And came back as a ghost?’

‘Any number of people have seen her. Are you old enough to remember Anna Neagle? Probably not, if I’m any judge. Dame Anna had her feet on the ground if ever an actor did. She was playing in something in the nineteen-seventies and she and the entire cast saw the grey lady in the upper box, stage right, just as the curtain rose. Imagine that.’

‘They probably did.’

The barmaid cackled with laughter.

‘Be like that,’ the man said in an injured tone. ‘If you don’t want to know, why ask me?’ This had turned personal and he was ruffled.

Diamond gave an honest answer. ‘Just now I thought you were talking about Clarion Calhoun.’

‘That poor creature? There’s nothing spooky about her. I shouldn’t say this, but the accident is a blessing in disguise. She was dreadful in rehearsal.’

The barmaid said, ‘Titus, that’s unfair.’

Titus ignored her. His focus was sharply on Diamond. ‘Are you a fan, then? Without wishing to offend, you don’t look like one.’

Diamond was well practised at giving nothing away about himself. ‘I was just reading about it in the paper. They say she’s in hospital and receiving treatment for burns, so it must be serious.’

‘Yes, I shouldn’t have been flippant. No one wishes that on her. A visitor, are you?’

‘To the Garrick’s Head, yes.’

‘I thought I hadn’t seen you before. I’m Titus O’Driscoll, dramaturge.’

‘Peter Diamond.’ He played the last word over in his head. ‘What’s that – dramaturge?’

‘Consultant on the theory and practice of writing drama.’ Titus O’Driscoll paused for that to be savoured and for Diamond to volunteer more about himself, which he didn’t. ‘Do you have any theatrical connections, Peter?’

Everything up to now suggested that the man was gay and interested in finding out if Diamond was. He had himself to blame for getting on first-name terms. ‘No. I came in for a drink, that’s all. Were you in the audience last night?’

There was a disdainful sniff from the dramaturge. ‘I took a squint at the dress rehearsal and decided to pass my time more productively in here.’

‘But it’s clear you know what goes on in the theatre.’

The barmaid said, ‘And how! It keeps him going.’

Titus gave Diamond a sharp look. ‘You’re not press, by any chance?’

‘Lord, no.’

‘It was panic stations this morning,’ Titus said. ‘Absolute mayhem. The police were here, would you believe? Hedley Shearman, our theatre director, was having kittens.’

‘Why? Is he responsible?’

‘Quite the opposite. He didn’t want the Clarion woman playing on his stage, but they twisted his arm, saying that bringing in a pop star was a sure way to sell tickets. And now he’s having to make a show of sympathy for her whilst bracing himself for the lawsuit to come.’

‘Who did the arm-twisting?’

‘The trust. Certain of them, anyway. You know how theatres work? Most of them are run as charitable trusts and usually they keep at arm’s length, leaving the artistic decisions to the people who know, but if two or three individuals get together and want to wield power, they can. After a rather indifferent season, the pressure was on for a commercial success, so they leaned on Hedley to revive this clunky old play and give Clarion the star part. And to be fair it looked as if it was going to pay off. The pre-production publicity was sensational.’

‘They’ll be regretting it now.’

‘Too right they will. The box office is under siege with people returning tickets.’

‘The show’s continuing, is it?’

‘With the understudy, Gisella, yes. She’s a far better actor than Clarion, but nobody cares. It’s the end of the Theatre Royal.’

The barmaid said, ‘Don’t be so melodramatic, Titus. It hasn’t burned down, or anything.’

‘It may as well have.’

‘He’s like that,’ she said to Diamond. ‘Never looks on the bright side. When the Blues Brothers was on he was telling everybody they’d bring the house down, literally.’

‘It was only thanks to me that it remained standing,’ Titus said. ‘I was responsible for those notices in the foyer: “Due to the historic nature of this building kindly refrain from stamping.” My forethought saved us, without a doubt.’

‘Getting back to last night’s accident,’ Diamond said, ‘does anyone know the cause?’

‘If you ask me,’ Titus said, ‘it’s open to suspicion.’

‘Go on.’

‘Well, she was hopeless in the part and she knew it, and now she’s out of it and planning to sue.’

‘But there’s no argument about what happened, is there? She’s in hospital, so the injury must be real.’

‘That’s for the doctors to decide,’ Titus said.

‘Don’t you believe it?’

‘I believe this much: she’s displaying symptoms of some sort and the screaming was very convincing and the hospital are taking it seriously.’

‘By “symptoms” you mean the skin damage?’

‘Whatever that amounts to.’

‘It must be serious, for her to be kept in hospital,’ Diamond said, doing his best to keep this discussion going. ‘How do you get skin damage on the stage? I suppose it’s down to the make-up.’

Titus said in an interested tone, ‘Do you know about makeup, Peter?’

‘Not at all.’ Diamond had walked into that. He didn’t want to raise false expectations. ‘Hardly anything. I’m saying it’s a possible cause, no more.’

‘You could be right if something like chilli powder was mixed in with the foundation.’

‘Chilli powder?’ the barmaid shrieked in disbelief.

‘I don’t know for certain,’ Titus said. ‘Some irritant that would itch and bring her face up in blotches and make it impossible for her to continue.’

‘I’m speechless,’ the barmaid said. ‘How could she possibly get chilli powder in her make-up?’

‘Deliberately. She was looking for some reason to drop out of the play so she mixed it in herself. Unfortunately for her, the ingredients reacted badly and caused the burning.’

‘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 actually 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 Beau-ford 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.