Introduction

Pop diva Clarion Calhoun has packed the house with a celebrity appearance in Bath's Theatre Royal production of I Am a Camera.  But within moments of her much-anticipated onstage appearance, she's pulled out of character as she screams and claws at her face. 

When tainted stage makeup is found to have caused the disfiguring burn, fingers point to her makeup artist.  Detective Peter Diamond investigates when the makeup artist is found dead, pushed from a catwalk far above the stage.  As Diamond digs deeper, he uncovers rivalries among the cast and crew and is forced to confront his own mysterious and deep-seated theatre phobia to find the killer.

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Excerpt

People keep asking me if I’m nervous.’
‘Really?’
This week’s star attraction gave a broad smile. ‘Believe
me, anyone who’s played live to a million screaming fans on
Copacabana Beach isn’t going to lose sleep over this.’
‘Right.’
‘As if a first night in an itsy-bitsy provincial theatre is going
to make Clarion Calhoun wet her pants.’
But the face told a different story. The woman waiting to
apply the make-up watched the confidence vanish with the
smile and spotted the tell-tale flexing of the muscles at the
edge of the mouth. Clarion was outside her comfort zone.
Acting was a different skill from pop singing. Because of
her inexperience she was getting special treatment from the
Theatre Royal. Almost all professional actors do their own
make-up. This one couldn’t be trusted to create a simple
nineteen-thirties look with nothing more technical than a
Cupid’s bow and kohl-lined eyes.
She was getting the nursemaiding in spades. ‘You’ll be a
knockout. They love you, anyway. A lot of the actors who
come through here have it all to prove. You’ve got it made.’
‘My fan base, you mean?’ Clarion looked better already.
‘Every ticket sold, they tell me.’
‘Right through the week. The management are over the
moon.’
The dresser unscrewed a new jar of cold cream and picked
up a sponge. ‘Your day make-up is gorgeous, but it won’t be
seen under the lights. Do you want to remove it yourself?’
‘Go ahead. I’ll think about my lines.’
Clarion meant the lines in the script, not her face. A few
more of those were revealed as the cleanser did its work. She
was past thirty and her days as a rock star were numbered. Time
to revamp her career. She was playing Sally Bowles in a new
production of I Am a Camera. With her name on the billing, it
was almost guaranteed a transfer to London later in the year.
A thin layer of moisturiser went on.
‘Remind me of your name,’ Clarion said. A touch of humanity.
They’d met before the dress rehearsal, but frequently the
leads treated everyone backstage like furniture.
‘Denise.’
‘So, Denise, how long have you been doing this?’
‘Working in theatre? Most of my adult life.’
‘Here in Bath?’
‘No, I’ve moved around. If I can be personal, your skin is
marvellous.’
‘It should be, all the money I spend on treatments. Is that
the colour you’re going to use on me?’
‘The foundation.’
‘I don’t want to look as orange as that.’
‘Trust me. You won’t.’
‘What is it – greasepaint?’
‘Glycerine-based cream. It’s going to feel dry. That’s why
I used a base of moisturiser.’
‘I may sound like a beginner, but this isn’t the first play
I’ve been in. I was drama trained before I got into the music
scene or I wouldn’t have taken this on. I always promised
myself I’d get back on the stage.’
Denise passed no comment as she smoothed on the foundation,
working it down the neck and as far as the cape.
‘Do you want to put some on my front? I wear that really
low gown in the second half and a little extra shadow in the
right place would be all to the good.’
‘Later. I’ll finish your face first.’ She did the shadowing and
highlighting. Then she used a plump rouge mop to brush
on some powder.
‘May I see the result?’ Clarion asked.
‘Not yet, if you don’t mind. Eyes and lips make all the
difference.’
In another ten minutes Clarion was handed the mirror.
‘Hey! Transformation. Sally Bowles.’ She switched to her
stage voice. ‘How do you do, Sally? I’m terribly glad to
meet you.’
There was also some nervousness in the audience. Towards
the back of the stalls, Hedley Shearman was fingering his lips,
trying not to bite his nails. The casting of Clarion Calhoun
wasn’t his doing. He gloried in the title of theatre director,
yet the decision had been made over his head, by the board
of trustees. Until now, he’d always had final approval of
the casting, and it had more than once earned him certain
favours. No such chance with this megastar, who treated him
no better than a call boy. Each time she looked at him he
was conscious of his lack of height and his bald spot.
Clarion’s name guaranteed bums on seats and a standing
ovation from her fans, but Shearman dreaded the critics’ verdict.
He cared passionately about the Theatre Royal – almost
as passionately as he cared about sex. In two hundred years
all the great actors from Macready to Gielgud had graced
this stage. This woman was expected to get by on that dubious
asset known as celebrity. True, she was a singer playing a
singer, but this was entirely an acting role. She’d learned her
lines, and that was the best you could say for her. Speaking
them with conviction was a difficulty that had become obvious
in rehearsal.
He only hoped her glamour would dazzle the critics. A
week with every seat sold, including matinees, was the pay-off,
whatever they wrote.
The lights were dimmed and the excited buzz of voices
stopped, replaced by a scratchy phonograph tune that nicely
evoked Berlin in the thirties. The curtain rose on Fräulein
Schneider’s rooming house, tawdry, of its time and place: tall,
tiled stove, pendulum clock, washstand, bed partly concealed by a curtain, Medici prints, wicker flower-stand, three-fold
screen, couch and chairs. The set designer was a professional,
thank God, and so was the head of lighting. The single shaft
of light on Isherwood focused attention for the speech that
set the tone for the entire play. Preston Barnes, the actor
playing Isherwood, had learned his craft at Stratford. Could
he compensate for Clarion’s wooden delivery? The irony was
that she was supposed to be animated, while Preston cultivated
the passivity of the camera.
The opening minutes couldn’t have been bettered. Preston’s
soliloquy was exquisitely done and so was the dialogue
with the landlady. Yet Shearman couldn’t ignore the fact that
everything was just building up to the entrance of the real star.
Immense anticipation.
And there she was.
A burst of applause from her fans.
Give Clarion her due. She moved with poise. She had the
figure, the strut, the sexuality of a night club singer, all the
attributes of a Sally Bowles. Until she opened her mouth.
Shearman slid even lower in his seat, trying to tell himself
his involvement made him hypercritical and no one else
would notice. It could be worse – couldn’t it? At least she
was delivering the lines.
Others in the audience were shifting in their seats. Someone
in the row ahead leaned to his companion and whispered in
her ear. The restlessness was infectious. Movement from an
audience so early in a play is unusual.
On stage, Clarion pulled a face.
Her mouth widened and brought creases to her cheeks. Her
eyebrows popped up and ridges spread across her forehead.
Shearman sat up again.
Nothing in the script called for her to grimace like that.
Sally Bowles was supposed to be in command, outspoken, a
girl about town, out to impress, demanding whisky and soda
when coffee was offered. Instead she was baring her teeth,
staring towards the wings as if she needed help.
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.
... view entire excerpt...

Discussion Questions

1. Stagestruck is the eleventh of a series featuring Peter Diamond, the Bath detective. What are the pluses and minuses for a reader of a series? Can Stagestruck be read with as much pleasure by someone who has not read any of the previous books?

2. There are elements of superstition (the butterflies) and ghost lore (the grey lady), each well known in the real Theatre Royal. Peter Lovesey uses them for atmosphere and suspense. Is this acceptable in a mystery where everything should have a rational explanation?

3. Do Diamond’s own problems – the phobia over entering the theatre – give the story another dimension or interfere with the plot? Does the visit to the old schoolmaster tell us anything about Diamond? Do we really want to know how the trauma all began in his childhood?

4. Can you think of some “red herrings” that Peter Lovesey introduces to distract and confuse the reader?

5. Is it a good idea for a writer to set the book in a real location rather than a made-up one, like Agatha Christie’s St Mary Mead? Were you given a sense of what the city of Bath must be like?

6. Ultimately, does the writer play fair? Does it please you if you saw through the plot and guessed who did it? Or would you rather be surprised?

Weblinks

»	Publisher's Book Info
»	Author Peter Lovesy's web site

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