‘Difficult on a carpet.’ But the showman in Sergeant Dawkins couldn’t resist. He performed a few stylish steps, a double turn and a slick finish. No question: he’d done this before. He was a good mover.
Ingeborg clapped and Diamond gave a grudging nod. ‘Where did you learn?’
‘The obvious place.’
There was never a straight answer from this man.
‘It was a simple question, Fred.’
‘Let me hazard a guess about you, guv. In your youth you spent Saturday mornings kicking a football in the park.’
‘Sometimes.’
‘My parents sent me to dance school. At the time I didn’t appreciate the opportunity, but later I saw some Fred Astaire films and took it up again.’
‘Top Hat?’
‘That was one of them.’
Diamond was more at ease now. ‘And less well known, Flying Down to Rio, The Gay Divorcee, Follow the Fleet?’
Surprised that he could reel off all these titles, Ingeborg said, ‘Are you a dancer as well, guv?’
‘Get real, Inge.’
‘You seem to know a lot about it.’
‘Old films, I know about. If you haven’t seen Astaire dancing with Ginger Rogers, I’m sorry for you.’ Now that he’d started, Diamond couldn’t suppress the nostalgia. ‘He would have danced all over this set, and I mean all over – the sofa, the chairs, the bed.’ He looked around the set and his eyes lighted on the tiled stove. ‘The only thing that might have defeated him is that ugly great object. Does it have a part in the play?’
‘It’s a period piece, I expect.’
‘Typical of Berlin in the thirties, is it?’
‘Probably,’ Ingeborg said and took a couple of steps towards it. ‘I don’t think it’s ugly. The tiles are quite pretty.’
‘But you wouldn’t want it in your living room. Is it real, or made specially?’
Dawkins spoke up. ‘It can’t be genuine.’
‘How do you know, cleverclogs?’ Ingeborg said.
‘The genuine kachelofen is built of masonry, to conserve the heat passing through. It would be too heavy for the stage. The tiles may be real.’ His expertise was impressive, but didn’t cut much ice here.
‘It looks real to me,’ Ingeborg said, with a wicked urge to prove him wrong. She reached for the handle of the small square oven set into the tiles and was shocked by the door coming away in her hand and falling on the floor. Dawkins had been right. It was wood, painted to look like metal. ‘Jesus, I’ve broken it.’
‘No, you haven’t,’ Diamond said. ‘Pick it up and push it back in the slot.’
He could have saved his breath. Ingeborg had suddenly become more interested in the space she’d uncovered. She reached inside. ‘Hey, what’s this?’
‘The powder box?’
‘No. Various bits of paper.’ She took out several sheets and glanced at the top one. ‘It’s only the stage plan for this set,’ she said in disappointment. ‘And a couple of pages from a script. I expect someone was cleaning up and put them in here rather than binning them.’
‘I don’t suppose they’re needed now,’ Diamond said.
‘I’ll put them back, in case.’ She was still holding one item, an envelope. ‘This looks like a letter. To All at the Theatre Royal.’
‘Is it sealed?’
‘No. Shall I see what’s in it?’
‘Let me,’ Diamond said.
She handed it across.
He took out a sheet of paper and gave it a rapid look. ‘This is a suicide note.’
15
My Dear Friends,
This theatre has been my life and you have been my family, all of you, for six happy years. I can’t thank you enough for all the warmth and support you have given me and the wonderful moments we shared. I had no idea everything would change overnight, but it has, through my own stupidity. I’m deeply sorry now about what happened to Clarion and I pray that it won’t be permanent. I hope by some miracle the theatre and all of you can survive this. But for me there can be no future in my beloved Theatre Royal, my home, and this is where I have chosen to put an end to it, backstage where I belong.
Please don’t mourn. No black clothes. No prayers at my funeral. If my ashes could be scattered in the theatre garden that would be more than I deserve.
Goodbye and blessings.
Denise
Diamond handed the note to Ingeborg. Fred Dawkins stood beside her and read the words at the same time.
‘Poor soul,’ Ingeborg said.
‘Brave soul,’ Dawkins said.
‘True.’
‘Blaming no one else.’
‘Yes, I’ve heard suicide called a coward’s way out, but I don’t agree with that.’
‘Even to think about one’s own funeral.’
‘It’s been written on a computer and printed out,’ Diamond said, unwilling to join in the fatalistic talk and already querying this as reliable evidence. ‘Suicide notes are usually written by hand.’
‘Guv, we’re in the computer age now,’ Ingeborg said. ‘No one writes anything by hand apart from shopping lists. If I were doing one of these I’d use my laptop. She’s signed it by hand.’
‘We’ll get the signature checked,’ he said and then as he thought about forensics, ‘If I’d been sharper, we wouldn’t have handled it. They can get prints from paper. Someone is going to rap my knuckles over this.’ With a shrug and a wry smile, he started to fold the note.
‘Don’t, guv,’ Ingeborg said. ‘The more you touch it, the less chance there is of finding anything. We need an evidence bag.’
‘Did anyone think of bringing one?’ he said with a look that said it was more their fault than his.
Dawkins was never stumped for a suggestion. ‘Place it between two of the other sheets of paper.’
‘Good thinking, Fred,’ Ingeborg said.
Outnumbered, Diamond didn’t argue.
The same evening when he called for Paloma, she was in her office scanning pictures of frock-coated Victorians for the costume designer of Sweeney Todd. ‘Could you lower the lid while I hold this engraving in place? Gently.’
The scanner hummed and another image was stored. The BLOGs would have more than enough authentic illustrations to work with.
‘Did I tell you my boss has made it into the chorus?’ Diamond said.
‘Georgina? Good for her. She’ll be one of the Fleet Street women in a bright bodice and skirt.’
‘More out of the bodice than in. She’s a well built lady.’
‘Front row for her, then. The BLOGs maximise their assets.’ She picked up a book and opened it at the page she wanted. ‘One more, and we’re done. I hope this damn show goes ahead. I’ve invested a lot of time in it.’
‘It’s on. The theatre has a future.’ He told her about Clarion deciding not to proceed with the lawsuit.
‘Sensible woman,’ Paloma said. ‘The only people who make money out of the courts are the lawyers. Who told you this?’
‘Francis Melmot, the chairman of the trust. They can’t believe their luck.’
Then he told her about finding the suicide note.
‘Not a bad day all round,’ she said. ‘The theatre is in the clear and the note proves what happened to Denise. Case closed.’
‘If the note is genuine.’
‘Why shouldn’t it be?’
‘For one thing it was hidden away inside a piece of scenery.’
‘But you explained about that. Someone found it lying about and tidied up. That German oven was a useful place to tuck some papers out of sight.’
‘Why would Denise leave her suicide note lying about?’ he said.
‘Come on, Peter. To be noticed. It’s a theatre. Where do you put something you want people to find? Centre stage isn’t a bad idea, is it? She was about to hurl herself off the gallery and hit the stage floor. I know she didn’t fall all the way, but that was clearly the intention. They’d find the body and see the note nearby.’