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
‘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.
4
Hedley Shearman tried phoning Frenchay Hospital for the fourth time that afternoon and was told all calls about Clarion Calhoun’s condition were being referred to her agent, Tilda Box.
‘I’m not press,’ Hedley said. ‘I’m the director of the Theatre Royal. I have a right to know what’s going on.’
‘We’re not at liberty to say anything over the phone,’ the hospital spokesman said. ‘Ms Box is personally handling all enquiries. Would you like a note of the number?’
‘Personally’ turned out to be misleading. The agency had installed one of those infuriating filter systems. ‘If you are enquiring about Miss Clarion Calhoun, press four.’ When Hedley obeyed, he got an insipid rendering of Greensleeves for six minutes interspersed with assurances that he was moving up the queue, followed finally by another recorded message: ‘Miss Clarion Calhoun remains in Frenchay Hospital. There is no change in her condition. She is unable to speak on the phone or receive visitors. We thank her many friends and fans for their good wishes for her recovery and will update this message as and when we have more news.’ So much for the age of instant communication.
‘They’ve put up the shutters and I’m not sure why,’ he told Francis Melmot, the human steeple, who was back, making him feel even more like a dwarf.
‘Doing their job,’ Melmot said as if he had inside knowledge. ‘They don’t want hordes of fans trying to see her.’
‘Yes, but we’re not fans. We have every right to know what’s going on.’
‘Look at it from Clarion’s point of view. She’ll be distressed. The first instinct of any woman whose looks are blemished, however slightly, is to hide herself away. It’s understandable, Hedley. You drove her to the hospital. Just how badly is her face affected?’
