Authors: Peter Lovesey
Stage fright?
You don’t expect it on the professional stage, not in such extreme form. Her eyes bulged and she was taking deep breaths.
Preston Barnes as Isherwood had spoken a line and Clarion needed to respond. She didn’t. A voice from the wings tried to prompt her, but she appeared dumbstruck. Gasps were heard from the audience. Few things are more destructive to drama than an actor drying.
Barnes improvised a line to cover the silence. It brought no response from Clarion.
She put her hands to her face and clawed at her cheeks. Her make-up would be ruined, but that didn’t seem to be a concern.
She was way out of character now. Nothing the other actors could do would rescue the scene. There was a bigger drama on stage.
And now Clarion screamed.
This wasn’t a theatrical scream. It was piercing, gut-wrenching, horrible. The sound echoed through the theatre, shocking everyone in it, from backstage to the box office.
Someone had the good sense to lower the curtain.
Even the house lights coming on didn’t bring relief. Behind the curtain more convulsive shrieks could be heard.
By the time Hedley Shearman got backstage, Clarion had been helped to her dressing room. Doubled forward in an armchair, she was still crying out as if in severe pain, the sound muffled by a towel pressed to her face. The room was full of people wanting to help and uncertain what to do. A St John Ambulance man was talking to Clarion, but she was too distressed to answer. The man turned to Shearman and said, ‘We should get her to hospital.’
To his credit the little theatre director rose to the challenge, saying he’d drive her to the Royal United himself. Aware of his other responsibility, to the shocked audience still out front, he asked if the understudy was ready to go on. He was told she was already getting into one of the Sally Bowles dresses and could be on stage inside five minutes. An announcement would be made to the audience that Clarion was unwell and unable to continue, but the play would resume shortly.
No one understood what was wrong. The entire theatre was awash with theories. An extreme form of stage fright? Food poisoning? Mental breakdown? Drugs? An allergic reaction?
Clarion’s dresser Denise did her best to comfort the star in the back seat of the Jaguar as Shearman drove at speed to the hospital.
There, still clutching the towel to her face, Clarion was met by the triage team and rushed inside to be assessed.
Not long after, a doctor invited Shearman and Denise into a side room.
‘She appears to have come into contact with some irritant that inflamed her skin. There’s considerable damage to the face and neck. Did her role in the play call for anything unusual to touch her?’
Shearman shook his head. ‘Nothing I’m aware of.’
‘I’m thinking of special effects. Smoke, dry ice, any sort of vapour produced mechanically?’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘Do you know if she recently used a cosmetic that was new to her? Stage make-up, perhaps?’
Shearman, alarmed, turned to Denise. She reddened and shrugged. ‘She didn’t do her own make-up. I looked after her.’
‘You never know with skin,’ Shearman said, to close that avenue. ‘What’s all right for one person can produce a reaction in someone else.’
‘We don’t think it’s allergic,’ the doctor said. ‘We’ll get a dermatologist to look at her, but our first assessment is that these are acid burns.’
‘
Acid
?’ Shearman said, horrified. ‘There’s no acid in stage make-up.’
Denise, saucer-eyed, shook her head.
‘I’m telling you what we found,’ the doctor said. ‘She may have to be transferred to the burns unit at Frenchay.’
‘I can’t understand this. It makes no sense at all.’
‘It’s not our job to make sense of it,’ the doctor said. ‘We deal with the injuries that are presented to us. All we want to find out is the likely source of the damage so that we give the right treatment.’
CLARION’S AGONY ON STAGE ran next morning’s tabloid headline. The theatre was besieged by reporters, distressed fans and, it has to be said, ticket-holders wanting refunds. Upstairs in his office, Hedley Shearman was urgently conferring with Francis Melmot, the Chairman of the Theatre Trust. Silver-haired and silver-tongued, Melmot, at six foot eight, towered over the stumpy theatre manager.
‘The latest is that she’s being treated at Frenchay Hospital, where they have a burns unit,’ Shearman said. ‘The skin damage is severe, I’m sorry to say, and could be permanent.’
‘Hedley, this is irredeemably dire,’ Melmot said. ‘How could it have possibly have happened?’
In the privacy of his office Shearman could be frank. ‘The obvious explanation is that her skin reacted adversely to the make-up. The burning is all on her face, neck and upper body, the areas that were made up. She rubbed some of the stuff off with a towel and they’re having that analysed.’
‘You’ve spoken to the make-up person, of course?’
‘Denise Pearsall.’
‘She’s a dresser, isn’t she?’
‘Yes, but she was specially assigned to do the whole thing, costume, make-up, confidence-giving. If you remember, you said Clarion must be feather-bedded.’
‘Oh, I’m responsible, am I?’
‘Denise is in shock. Can’t think how it happened. She used her own make-up on Clarion. She’s been with us for years, as you know.’
‘What was it – theatrical make-up?’
‘The same stuff they all use. Tried and tested, used in theatres up and down the country.’
‘But was it new?’
‘Well, yes. It’s not good practice to use something that’s been in contact with another actor.’
‘So it’s possible it was a bad batch – the fault of the manufacturer?’ For Melmot, this was all about apportioning blame.
‘I find that hard to believe. The hospital were talking of acid burns. Acid isn’t used in cosmetics. I can understand something being wrong with the mix, only not enough to cause such a violent reaction. Denise is devastated.’
‘If this disaster is down to her, I’m not surprised,’ Melmot said.
Shearman didn’t like the way this was heading. ‘I didn’t say it was Denise’s fault. She’s a trusted member of the team.’
‘Someone is responsible. You say she’s devastated. I’m devastated, too. We could find ourselves being sued for a small fortune. A large fortune if Clarion is permanently scarred. She’s a mega earner and no doubt she had contracts lined up for months ahead.’
‘It’s too early to talk of legal action.’
‘It isn’t. This could bring us down, Hedley. I’m bound to report to the trustees.’
‘They’ll have read the papers like the rest of us.’
‘I must still inform them properly.’
Shearman’s world was imploding. He had status in this theatre, the best job he’d ever had. Sensing he was about to be unfairly blamed, he surprised himself with the force of his anger. ‘I’d like the board to know I was bulldozed into this. I didn’t like the idea of engaging the bloody woman. She’s no actor. Certain people insisted she was box office. It couldn’t go wrong, they said, but it has, spectacularly.’
Melmot chose to ignore the outburst. ‘When the make-up woman –’
‘The dresser.’
‘When she saw Clarion in the dressing room before the show, was she in any discomfort?’
‘No – and she was fine while she was waiting to go on. The first signs of anything going wrong were on stage.’
‘How long after she was made up?’
‘Twenty minutes, at least. If there was going to be a reaction, why was it delayed? I’m mystified.’
‘Have you impounded the make-up?’
Shearman clapped his hand to his head. ‘God, you’re right. I must see to that. I’ll speak to Denise. We’ll confiscate everything that was used last night and lock it in the safe.’
His phone beeped. He snatched it up and said without waiting to hear who was on, ‘I told you I’m in a meeting.’
The switchboard girl said, ‘The police are downstairs, sir.’
‘The police? That’s all we need.’
Melmot was already moving to the door. ‘I must leave you to it, old man. Urgent calls to make.’
H
edley Shearman’s job was all about telling others what to do. He prided himself on his social skills. He told the police in a calm, considerate way that they weren’t needed.
The senior of the two uniformed officers, a sergeant whose bearing suggested he was nothing less than a chief constable, said, ‘It’s not your call, sir.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘We don’t work for you.’
‘I’m aware of that, but this is my theatre. I’m the director here.’
The sergeant said to his female colleague, ‘He’s the director here. We’re in the right place, then.’
It sounded like sarcasm. Already under strain, Shearman said with more force than the first time, ‘But you’re not needed.’
‘Like London’s Noble Fire Brigade?’
‘What?’
‘Belloc.’
‘I beg your pardon.’
The sergeant chanted, ‘“Until Matilda’s Aunt succeeded in showing them they were not needed.”’
‘I’m a busy man.’
‘Then permit me to introduce Constable Reed. Reed can write at speed, so Reed is needed. Oh, yes, there is a need for Reed.’
The young policewoman looked at Shearman and winked, as if asking him to make allowance. To confirm that this was for real, she had opened a notebook and was writing in it.
‘And I’m Sergeant Dawkins,’ the ponderous introduction continued, ‘in pursuit of the truth, and as the poet said, “Beauty is truth, truth beauty, that is all ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.” So I’m needed also. Dawkins and Reed, addressing the need. We’re here about the occurrence last night.’
Out of all the verbiage one word struck home, and to Shearman’s ear it carried dangerous overtones. ‘Occurrence?’
Sergeant Dawkins said, ‘In your theatre, on your stage.’ Then he had the cheek to reach into one of the model stage sets on Shearman’s bookcase and touch the figure of an actor, tipping it over, face down.
Shearman was incensed. He wanted to tell this smart-arse to go to hell, but you don’t say that to a policeman. ‘You didn’t have to do that. I know what you’re talking about and I wouldn’t call it an occurrence.’
‘What would you call it, then?’
‘I don’t know. It didn’t amount to anything.’
‘An incident?’
‘Nothing like that. One of the cast was taken ill, that’s all.’
‘Occurrence.’ Dawkins made a horizontal gesture with his right hand like a cricket umpire signalling. Then he repeated the movement six inches higher. ‘Incident.’ Then higher again. ‘Offence. Occurrence, incident, offence.’
‘It’s not an
offence
, for God’s sake. Anyway, we’re dealing with it ourselves.’
‘I bet you are.’
Blatant insolence. If this man had been on the theatre staff he wouldn’t have lasted a moment longer. ‘It’s the responsible thing to do,’ Shearman said.
‘Dealing with it?’
‘Of course. That’s my job.’
‘And we investigate. That’s our job.’
‘But I didn’t send for you.’
Sergeant Dawkins parted his lips in a grin that revealed sharp canines. ‘If we waited to be invited, we wouldn’t get out at all.’
Shearman felt as if he’d strayed into a play by Samuel Beckett. ‘So on whose authority are you here?’
‘Take your pick.’
He hesitated, wary of a trap. ‘My pick of what?’
‘Avon and Somerset Police. The Home Office. Her gracious Majesty.’
Either the man was a crank, or he was trying to wind Shearman up for a purpose. ‘Who, precisely, sent you?’
‘Are you thinking we came of our own volition? Are you thinking of us as ambulance chasers?’
Shearman gave up. The whole conversation was surreal.
‘Rest assured,’ Dawkins said. ‘We’re not ambulance chasers. We’re at the receiving end.’
‘There’s no point in this. I don’t follow what you’re saying.’
‘We don’t follow either.’
‘Follow what?’
‘Ambulances.’
‘It wasn’t me who mentioned ambulances.’
‘We follow up. Follow up occurrences. Or incidents. Or offences. When an occurrence is deemed to be an offence you really do have something to be concerned about. Any unexplained injury of a serious nature that shows up in A & E gets referred to us and we follow up. Were you present at the occurrence yourself?’
That word again. Shearman’s mind was made up. He refused to submit to interrogation by these two. They had to be challenged here and now. ‘This has gone far enough. I intend to speak to your senior officer.’
Dawkins was unmoved. ‘You’ll be wasting your time and ours, sir. There’s a chain of command and it’s cast iron solid, from the Chief Constable all the way down to PC Reed. We’re ordinary coppers doing our job and our superiors back us every interview of the way. So let’s get down to question and answer, shall we? Did you see what happened last night?’
A straight question, and no mention of an occurrence. Perhaps it signalled a change of approach. Reluctantly, Shear-man gave Dawkins the benefit of the doubt. The wise option might be to get this over quickly and send them on their way. ‘I’m always in the audience on first nights.’
Constable Reed continued making notes, her hand moving at prodigious speed.
‘You don’t have to write all this down.’
‘You’re a witness,’ she said. ‘You just confirmed it, sir.’
‘But nothing of a criminal nature took place.’
Sergeant Dawkins said as if Shearman had just sprung the trap, ‘Who mentioned crime? Not one of us. A crime is an offence.’
Constable Reed seemed to be putting every word in her notebook.
Shearman made a huge effort to be reasonable. ‘Look, everyone here is extremely concerned about what happened and I’m going to carry out a rigorous enquiry.’
‘So are we,’ Dawkins said. ‘Rigorous and vigorous. And so are the press by the looks of it. Have you seen all the news-hounds downstairs?’
‘That means nothing. It’s a matter of public interest when a celebrity of Miss Calhoun’s stature is unable to go on. Nobody’s broken the law.’
‘We don’t know that, do we – or do we?’ the sergeant said, his eyebrows arching. ‘She’s in hospital with burns.’
‘You don’t have to tell me,’ Shearman said. ‘I drove her to A & E myself. In the theatre we’re a family. We look after our own, and, believe me, we’re taking this seriously, but I want to spare Clarion the added distress of a police investigation. Surely you understand that?’