‘I know that. I was wondering if you remembered seeing anybody.’
‘I expect there were technical people. It was a first night, for God’s sake. I wasn’t registering who was here. I went straight to my room to prepare.’
‘That would have been early?’
‘Five thirty or thereabouts.’
‘Your dressing room is close to Clarion’s.’
Barnes frowned. ‘Does that make me a suspect?’
‘Not at all. You’ve no reason to harm her. Quite the reverse. I was wondering if you heard anyone visiting her.’
‘Certainly not. The walls in this old building are two feet thick. Anyway, I was concentrating on my role and, if you don’t mind me saying so, you should do the same. I don’t think you should play detective. It’s a job for an expert. Let’s hope we don’t have need of one.’
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.’