‘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
‘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.’
