Stagestruck

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.’

‘But I’m with you.’

She smiled. ‘Has that ever got in the way of police business?’

They walked in silence for a short way, each reflecting on that last remark. They’d reached the other end of the gardens and the towpath stretched ahead through an eighty-metre tunnel under Beckford Road. There was light at the end, but it was not an inviting place to walk through. ‘I’m not proud of this,’ he said, ‘but to tell you the truth I don’t like going into that theatre. It has an effect on me.’

‘I noticed, the only time we’ve been there together,’ she said. ‘You made a huge effort that evening, didn’t you? I appreciated it.’

‘It’s not as if I’m a wimp. I’ve attended some gruesome scenes in my time and not turned a hair. Step in there and I can’t wait to get out. I’m sure my body temperature drops several degrees.’

‘Is it just the Theatre Royal?’

‘Any theatre.’ He sniffed. ‘But we don’t have to talk about my hang-ups.’

‘There must be a reason for it.’

‘Whatever it is, it’s deep-seated. My parents gave up trying to take me to pantomimes.’

‘You must have had a bad experience as a child.’

‘If I did, I don’t remember. No, it’s more about my personality. Theatre is make-believe and I’ve never wanted to have anything to do with it. I’m a logical guy. I prefer the real world.’

She shook her head. ‘Forgive me for saying this, Peter, but that’s bunk. You’re rationalising, giving in to this hang-up, as you call it.’

He was silent. Not many people could talk to him like that and get away with it.

‘And you’re missing so much. For me, that moment when the house lights start to dim is magical. I’d hate to be deprived of it.’

‘Bully for you and I understand why, but it doesn’t alter the feeling I get each time I go there.’

‘How are you going to head this investigation, then?’

He laughed. ‘With difficulty.’

‘Would you like to overcome your problem?’

Now he exhaled sharply. He was wary. ‘I’m not sure. What do you have in mind?’

‘I know someone who helps people with phobias – ’

‘I wouldn’t call it a phobia,’ he said at once, ‘and I certainly don’t want to see a shrink.’

‘Raelene isn’t a shrink. She’s an earthy Australian, probably the wisest person I know. She can help you, I feel sure, but you have to be willing to unblock whatever it is that your brain is hiding from you.’

‘I don’t want to do this.’

‘Fair enough. Think it over.’ She looked away, across the canal, and changed the subject. ‘I may be stating the obvious, but could the Clarion incident be a case of stage fright?’

He shook his head. ‘The burns must be genuine, or she wouldn’t have been moved to Frenchay.’

‘I mean if she was terrified of appearing, really terrified, she could have induced the burns herself. How’s this for a theory? She makes her entrance, does the screaming fit, gets off the stage and covers her face with the towel, giving her the chance to apply some chemical that burns.’

‘There must be less painful ways.’

‘It would explain the delay in her reaction. You said the make-up was thought to be the cause, but if that was the case, she’d have been hurting before she got on stage.’

‘You’re quite a sleuth yourself,’ he said. ‘Yes, the delay has to be explained, but until we get the make-up analysed we won’t know for sure.’

‘You must be champing at the bit.’

‘We’re ready to go, yes.’ They had almost reached Candy’s footbridge, spanning the canal and the railway. ‘Shall we change the subject?’ he said. ‘What’s the project that’s taking up so much of your time?’

‘Oh, it’s a costume piece. Sweeney Todd.’

Outside the Theatre Royal was a Morris column, one of those cylindrical billboards common in Paris and beloved of Proust. It was plastered with posters of I Am a Camera showing Clarion smoking a cigarette in a holder. Leaning nonchalantly against it, waiting for Ingeborg, was Keith Halliwell. He had borrowed a camera from one of the police photographers and was carrying a professional-looking shoulder bag that was supposed to be filled with camera equipment. In reality it contained his raincoat and the camera. He wouldn’t know how to change a lens or what to do with a light meter.

‘Yoo-hoo.’ Ingeborg stood only a pace away from him, making a circling movement with her hand.

He hadn’t spotted her in the crowd in front of the theatre. She had her hair pinned up and was wearing a black velvet skirt, the first time he’d seen her in anything but jeans.

‘Did you get the tickets?’ She sometimes forgot she was the DC and he the DCI, but it was obvious that on the present mission she would have to take the lead.

‘Royal circle, back row.’

‘Shall we do the biz first? I’ve brought my old press-card.’

‘Will I need one?’

‘Not if you tag behind me with the camera in your hand. Where is it?’

‘In the bag.’

‘No use there. The whole point is to have it on view. Let’s check the notices in the foyer.’

Halliwell wasn’t sure why. He thought they were supposed to try and get backstage before the show. But Ingeborg found what she was looking for, a board with an announcement that for this performance the part of Sally Bowles would be played by Gisella Watling.

They left the foyer. Outside again, they turned right, past the drinkers outside the Garrick’s Head. The stage door stood open, but didn’t look like an invitation to go in. They went up some stairs to the point where you had to declare yourself or turn back. Ingeborg tapped on the window and a heavy-jowled, unfriendly face appeared. ‘Press,’ she said in a matter-of-fact tone, allowing a glimpse of her card. ‘May we go in?’

‘Who are you?’ the doorkeeper asked.

‘Ingeborg, independent.’ She made it sound as if Borg was her surname and the Independent was her employer. A national paper had to be treated with respect by any provincial theatre.

‘The press night was yesterday.’ Not a lot of respect there.

‘I know, but yesterday the story was all about Clarion,’ Ingeborg said. ‘Tonight it’s Gisella.’

‘Who?’

‘The understudy playing Sally Bowles.’

‘The curtain goes up shortly. She won’t want to do an interview now.’

‘Not an interview. We’re taking some pictures backstage for an exclusive. It’s all been cleared. We won’t get in the way.’

‘No one cleared it with me.’ The voice was deeply discouraging, and it added, ‘I’m not the regular man, you know. I work for the security team. Everything has to authorised with us.’

‘Didn’t she let you know? So much on her mind, poor lamb. It’s been that sort of day for us, too. We were only given the job this afternoon.’

Halliwell had to admire Inge’s sales pitch, and some of it was the truth. She must have learned how to blag in her days as a hack.

She then excelled herself by asking this plonker if they could get a picture of him in uniform to go with the feature she was writing.

‘You don’t want me in your paper,’ he said in a tone disclosing he wouldn’t mind at all.

‘Keith, why don’t you get the picture of – what’s your name, sir?’

‘Charlie Binns.’

‘Of Charlie Binns, while I go ahead and let Gisella know we’re here. We don’t want her panicking tonight, of all nights.’

The man had bought it. He was fastening his silver buttons. ‘I’d better put my cap on.’

And now it was up to Halliwell to work the camera. He wasn’t even sure which button to press. He was struggling to get the thing out of its case.

‘I’ll leave you guys to it,’ Ingeborg said, ‘if you wouldn’t mind letting me through, Charlie.’

The man adjusted his peaked cap, the door was unfastened and Ingeborg went backstage.

Halliwell touched each button he could see and one of them produced a flash. ‘All in order,’ he managed to say and pointed the lens at Charlie Binns and pressed the same button again. ‘Nice one.’

‘So when will it appear?’ Binns asked.

‘Could be in the magazine this weekend. The editor decides.’ Halliwell was improvising quite well himself. ‘May I go through now?’

He was admitted to a passageway with several noticeboards. At the far end Ingeborg was talking to a large-bosomed woman who didn’t look as if she was about to go on stage. She had a modern hairstyle with blonde highlights and was in a low-cut top and jeans. She was holding a dress on a hanger.

‘This is my photographer,’ Inge said as he approached. ‘Keith, this is Kate, who runs the wardrobe department. I was asking which dressing room Gisella uses now, and she’s still in number eight upstairs. I thought we might get a picture of the number one room first.’

‘That’s stage left, on the prompt side,’ Kate from wardrobe told them, pointing. ‘Are you sure you have permission to be here?’

‘Yes, we have clearance from Mr Binns on the stage door.’

‘Keep your voices down, then, and don’t go anywhere near the stage.’ She headed off in the other direction.

‘Do we really want a picture?’ Halliwell asked Ingeborg as they made their way up the corridor. ‘I’m not even sure if there’s film in the camera.’

People mostly dressed in black were moving about with a sense of urgency as curtain up approached.

‘We only need to get in there. Instructions from the guv’nor.

He called me on the way here. You wear specs sometimes,

don’t you?’

He didn’t follow her thread. ‘For distance, yes.’

‘Did you bring them?’

He patted his pocket. ‘I manage pretty well without them, but I thought I might need them for the play.’

‘Are they in a case?’

He nodded, still mystified.

‘Not one of those soft ones?’

‘Metal.’

‘Ideal. Well done.’

He didn’t ask why.

Quicker than expected, they were approaching the back of the stage itself. There was no other way forward, so they crossed behind the scenery, trying to look as if they had a function in the production. Above them was the cavernous fly tower with its complicated system of grids and catwalks. They turned right towards the wings where someone was perched on a higher level looking at a screen and working a console. Stagehands hurried past.

Praise be: a sign pointed to dressing rooms 1-7. Ingeborg gave a thumb up.

She was off again like the White Rabbit. When he caught up with her she had opened the door of number one and gone in. No one was inside. Some clothes were on a hanger beside the dressing table. ‘We’re looking for a dead butterfly.’

‘You’re kidding.’

‘Them’s the orders.’

Halliwell said no more. If the boss had asked them to find a dead butterfly, so be it. He had faith in Diamond’s decisions.

‘It should be on the sill, or the floor, if it’s blown off, so look where you’re treading,’ Ingeborg said. ‘Voilà.’ She pointed to the window. A small, speckled butterfly was lying on the sill. ‘Definitely dead, I’d say. This is where your specs case comes in useful.’

‘Yes?’ He took it from his pocket and removed the glasses.

‘A perfect little coffin,’ Ingeborg said as she gently slid the tortoiseshell off the sill and into the case and snapped it shut. ‘Keep it level at the bottom of your bag and it shouldn’t get too shaken up.’

Then a voice shocked them both by saying, ‘Beginners, please.’ It came from a loudspeaker attached to the wall.

‘Should we get to our seats?’

‘Still got a couple of things to check,’ Inge said.

‘What things?’

She crossed to the door and looked out. Other dressing-room doors were opening and actors emerging dressed in thirties’ costumes. ‘Let’s hang back a moment,’ she said. ‘I’d like to meet Clarion’s dresser if possible.’

‘Is that another request from the guv’nor?’ Halliwell asked. He had a suspicion Ingeborg was acting on her own initiative here.

‘The one who did the make-up.’

‘I know who you mean, but is that a good idea? She’s the main suspect and we’re not acting officially.’

‘He asked us to check if she turns up.’

‘That isn’t the same as meeting her. We could blow the investigation doing that.’

She saw sense. ‘Let’s find out from someone else, then.’

‘After the show has started.’

They waited in the dressing room with the door ajar. The passageway went quiet and the only sound was the voice over the tannoy giving the countdown as curtain up approached and came. The play itself began to be broadcast, a man talking about Berlin.

‘Time to move,’ Ingeborg said.

She seemed to have an inbuilt compass as well as a strong impulse to get results and Halliwell found himself trailing behind her, avoiding eye contact with everyone else who came by. Everyone backstage had a job to do, a sense of purpose. Any intruder would stand out.

Dialogue was being spoken and it wasn’t over the sound system. Halliwell was alarmed to find himself on the prompt side of the wings only a few yards from the actors speaking on stage. Several people were standing in the shadows, watchful and waiting. He recognized one of the actors he’d seen leaving a dressing room. A young woman of elfin size was facing the man, using a soft brush on his face. She looked too young to be the dresser, Denise – but then this was territory peopled by the young. Anyone over forty, as Halliwell was, stood out.

He touched Inge’s arm and gestured to her to move back a few yards. Any closer and they’d get in the way of the performance.

The actor getting the last-minute dusting must have heard his cue, because he eased aside the handmaiden with the make-up brush and stepped behind a set of double doors. A doorbell was rung. The actors could be heard reacting and the doors opened and a buxom female actor carrying a tray with a beer bottle and glass came through. She spoke loudly in German to the waiting man and he responded. Their off-stage voices would have carried to the audience. It was strange to see and hear it from this side of the scenery. The doors opened again and the actor on stage said, ‘Fritz.’ The cue for the waiting actor to make his entrance. The woman with the tray followed him back on.

This was all too close to the action for Halliwell’s liking. He’d taken another step back into the shadows. But as the dialogue on stage developed, Inge was stepping over cables, homing in on the young girl with the make-up brush. At heart, she was still a journalist eager for a story. She tapped the girl on the shoulder.

There was a whispered exchange that Halliwell couldn’t hear. Then Inge turned away and returned to where Halliwell was waiting.

‘Let’s go.’

She led him right around the back of the stage to the opposite side, up a staircase and through a door. Nothing was said until they were through the stage door and in the street, where she took the mobile from her bag.

‘I’m calling the guv’nor,’ she said. ‘They’re all on extra duties. Denise didn’t show up tonight. This has got serious.’