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  ‘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 postmortem.’

  10

  Late the same afternoon in Manvers Street, Diamond shut himself in his office and sank into the armchair he rarely used. On the face of it, the case could now be closed. Denise’s suicide could only mean she held herself responsible for the damage to Clarion’s face. What other interpretation could be put on it? By some freakish oversight she had used caustic soda with the regular make-up. It was unlikely to have been deliberate. Nobody knew of any feud between them. Everyone spoke of her as a balanced, conscientious member of the full-time staff, good at her job. Her horror at what had happened must have driven her to take her own life.

  It was tempting to leave the lawyers to discover the truth about the scarring episode and argue over who was responsible. They were going to make a long-running, expensive court action out of it for sure. He’d only been drawn into this at Georgina’s insistence, and she would be content if Sweeney Todd went ahead as scheduled. There was no reason why it shouldn’t. The legal process would be slow to start.

  But his self-respect as a detective wouldn’t let him walk away. There ought to be a better explanation. He reached for one of the forensic textbooks on the shelf behind him. What would be the use of caustic soda in a theatre? Presently he learned that sodium hydroxide, as it was known to the scientists, was much more than a remedy for blocked drains. Destructive as it was to human tissue, it had useful applications, mainly because of its action on unwanted fats and acidic materials. Soap manufacturers depended on it for converting fat, tallow and vegetable oils. It was used in the processing of cotton and the dyeing of synthetic fibres, in the manufacture of pulp and paper, biodiesel and PVC. The recycling industry needed it to de-ink waste paper. Incredibly even food producers and water-treatment firms made use of the stuff.

  For all that, he thought, the simple power to unblock drains seemed the best bet. A theatre with eleven dressing rooms – most with shared washing facilities – was certain to experience problems with waste water. Actors would be showering and washing away hair and make-up after every performance. It would be an ill-prepared theatre that didn’t have drain-cleaning products at the ready. A cheap, effective product such as caustic soda might be preferred to something with a fancy name that cost three times as much.

  But where had Denise picked up the chemical, and why? He’d found none in her house. The theatre cleaning staff would have a store somewhere. He was wondering if supplies of the stuff also lurked in her workplace among the clutter of the wardrobe department, where costumes were laundered daily and drains might well need unblocking. Equally, some might be tucked away under a sink in one of the dressing rooms she visited.

  The biggest mystery was how she could have made the mistake. Pure caustic soda came in sturdy containers with child-proof lids and a printed warning. Could a professional like Denise have muddled one with a tin of talc? The fine, white powder might appear similar, but the packaging was distinctive.

  Early on, he’d speculated whether someone else had tampered with Denise’s make-up and this still seemed possible. Various people were unhappy that Clarion had the starring role. If one of them had decided to injure her and put her out of the play, they knew she was the only cast member being made up by Denise. Doctor the make-up and it was obvious who would take the rap.

  This line of thought presented two problems he hadn’t resolved: opportunity and timing. First, Kate in wardrobe had said Denise arrived with her black leather make-up case and didn’t open it or leave it lying around. She went straight from the wardrobe room to Clarion’s dressing room. And second, there had been a delay of at least twenty minutes before Clarion reacted.

  There had to be a way through this. Deep in thought, he clasped his hands behind his neck and stared at the ceiling. Finally he tapped the chair arm and stood up. He was no Sherlock Holmes. He needed to ask for a second opinion.

  He got up and put his head around the door. ‘Is Ingeborg still about?’ She could well have gone home. It was late in the afternoon and she always got in early.

  The only response came from Sergeant Dawkins, still at his desk in the hideous check suit. ‘Did you wish to see her?’

  ‘That’s the general idea.’

  ‘Will anyone do?’

  ‘If I’d wanted anyone, I’d have said.’

  ‘I’m ready for any assignment.’

  ‘You’re not, dressed like that,’ Diamond told him. ‘And there ain’t no assignment, as you put it.’

  ‘Am I grounded?’

  ‘If that’s how you want to think of it, yes. On essential office duties, as I told you. Do you know where Inge is?’

  ‘Does that make me a groundling, I wonder?’

  ‘Fred, I’m too busy for word games.’

  ‘I’ve also been busy. I transferred all the witness statements to the computer as instructed. My “to do” list is now a blank.’

  ‘Did she say where she was going?’

  ‘She did not and I didn’t ask.’

  ‘But she hasn’t gone home?’
>
  ‘With all due respect, that’s not a question you should ask a groundling about a colleague.’

  ‘For crying out loud, man, I’m not checking up on her.’

  ‘An informed guess, then. She may have gone to powder her nose.’

  Powder her nose? Which century was this stuffed shirt living in? ‘I give up.’

  This was the moment Ingeborg came through the door.

  ‘In here,’ Diamond said like a headmaster, pushed to the limit.

  Ingeborg shrugged, looked towards Dawkins for a clue as to what was wrong, and followed Diamond into his office.

  ‘If I have to put up with that pillock much longer, I’m taking early retirement,’ he told her.

  ‘I thought it was me in the firing line,’ she said. ‘He’s not too bad if you make allowance.’

  ‘Believe me, I’ve made all I can manage. I want to tap your brain. I had a thought about the dead butterfly we found in Clarion’s dressing room. The reason I asked you to collect it the other night was simply to avoid an outbreak of hysteria. You know what theatre people are. The butterfly curse, and all that garbage. The obvious explanation is that the thing flew in from outside, got trapped and died, right?’

  ‘That was my reading of it,’ Ingeborg said.

  ‘There is another possibility, of course: somebody put it there.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Out of mischief, or worse.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘To add to the panic over what happened to Clarion.’

  ‘Who’d want to do that?’

  ‘Someone with a grudge against the theatre, or the management, giving the impression the play was cursed.’

  She was frowning. ‘Denise, you mean? What would be the point of that?’

  ‘I don’t know. This is why I’m asking for your thoughts.’

  She twisted a coil of blonde hair around her finger and then let it go. ‘If she did, I can’t think why. Damaging Clarion’s face was enough to jinx the production without this extra touch.’

  ‘Let’s take another option then,’ he said. ‘Someone else planted it.’