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
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
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