by Sarah Rayne
He reached for her hand, and she took it at once. ‘I’ll miss it, too,’ she said. ‘I’ve never met anyone else I can be inconsequent with. I don’t exactly wish I wasn’t going to Paris, because it’s a good commission and it’ll be interesting work, and I know it’s only three and a bit weeks, but …’ She made what was almost an impatient gesture, and, as if determined not to accidentally talk herself into anything emotional, said, ‘Anyway, while I’m away, I’m having the bathroom refitted. You remember I knocked over that container of sulphuric acid while the plumber was trying to unbung the washbasin last week? It practically ate the carpet there and then, and corroded all the taps and pipes.’
Phin remembered this event vividly; in fact the thought of Arabella and an unstable bottle of sulphuric acid in the same room had haunted his dreams for several nights afterwards. But he only said, ‘Did the insurance company pay up?’
‘Practically the whole amount. So while I’m away, Toby’s arranging for all the refitting of the whole bathroom.’
‘Oh, God.’
‘No, it’ll be fine. They’re going to start the day after tomorrow, by which time I’ll be in Paris. Toby knows someone who’s started a DIY and plumbing company.’
‘I know he does,’ said Phin. ‘He wants me to have some new bookshelves built.’
‘What a good idea. I’m always tripping over piles of books in your flat – I usually trip as far as your bedroom, don’t I, although to be fair I don’t actually mind. In fact I’ll miss it rather a lot,’ said Arabella.
‘The tripping over?’
‘The bedroom.’ She looked at him from the corners of her eyes.
‘I’ll miss it, as well,’ said Phin.
‘Really, Phin?’
‘Oh, God, yes.’
She smiled, then said, ‘I might manage to dash back for one of the weekends. Or you might dash over. You won’t be perpetually immersed in Franz Liszt and the music halls, will you?’
‘I’ll come up for air if you’re around,’ promised Phin. ‘I do want to trace some of the acts in these posters and playbills, though.’
‘Let me find my glasses so I can have a better look at them.’ Arabella rummaged in her bag, and found the spectacles, which turned her from slightly dishevelled imp to untidily earnest academic. ‘Oh, yes, I can see them now. I love the names. Belinda Baskerville, the Gentlemen’s Delight. Dainty Dora Dashington … Oh, and is that one in that corner Scaramel?’ She leaned across the table to read it. ‘Yes, it is. It’s something about a “Triumphant return to London after her Parisian successes including her appearance at the Moulin Rouge”.’ She sat back, thoughtfully. ‘Interesting that she was in Paris.’
‘And that she performed at the Moulin Rouge,’ said Phin.
‘She was up there with the best of them, wasn’t she? I wonder if I could find any traces of her while I’m over there,’ said Arabella, thoughtfully.
‘It’d be a bit of a long shot, although …’
‘What is it?’ said Arabella, as he broke off.
‘I’ve just noticed a framed song-sheet in that corner,’ he said. ‘Over there on the left – d’you see it? Toby and I looked at several of the playbills and things, but we didn’t see that.’
‘Is it relevant to your street ballads?’ asked Arabella, turning to look. ‘Or is it just that any unexplained piece of music is the siren’s lure for you?’
‘Whatever it is, I think I’ll be lured,’ said Phin, getting up.
‘I’ll come with you. I’d better take these boots off altogether first, though. I don’t mind limping out to a taxi, all dot-and-carry-one,’ said Arabella, ‘but I’m blowed if I’ll limp across a restaurant for people to think I’m sloshed.’
‘They’ll think you’re a leftover from the hippie era,’ said Phin, as Arabella discarded the boots under the table and padded barefoot across the floor.
‘I’d rather be thought of as a leftover hippie than a wino. Is this the song-sheet? It looks as if it’s been torn, or as if it simply crumbled at the edges from age. Pity it’s lost the title.’
‘It’s very faded, as well – the actual music’s hardly visible.’ Phin peered as closely as he could at the framed song-sheet.
‘I shouldn’t think anyone could make out more than a couple of notes here or there,’ he said, regretfully.
‘The lyrics are readable, though.’
The lyrics were faded and damp-spotted in places, but, as Arabella said, they were readable.
Listen for the killer for he’s here, just out of sight.
Listen for the footsteps ’cos it’s very late at night.
I can hear his tread and he’s prowling through the dark.
I can hear him breathing and I fear that I’m his mark.
Now I hear the midnight prowl,
Now I see the saw and knife.
Next will come the victim’s howl.
So save yourself from him, and run …
… run hard to save your life.
Phin and Arabella looked at one another.
‘That’s possibly the eeriest thing I’ve ever heard,’ said Arabella, at last. ‘It’s almost a warning, isn’t it? Could it be the murder song the book mentioned? Late 1800s, wasn’t it?’
‘That’s a huge assumption to make,’ said Phin, still staring at the framed song. Even though the music notation had faded beyond legibility, he could almost conjure up its cadences. Prowling, menacing. Footsteps-in-the-fog music – music for killers hiding behind the bedroom door, or peering down from the attic …
And there, again, was that line. Listen for the killer.
‘But we could make a small assumption, couldn’t we?’ Arabella was saying, hopefully. ‘After all, this was Scaramel’s place, and the rumour was that she was tangled up in a murder, and that somebody wrote a song about it.’
‘A Welsh lyricist,’ said Phin, frowning. ‘But this mightn’t be anything to do with that. It might be one of those spoof horror things – a comedy turn. There were plenty of them. There’s that one about the Tower of London, and Anne Boleyn.’
‘With Her Head Tucked Underneath Her Arm, She Walks the Bloody Tower,’ nodded Arabella.
‘Yes, and there’s a really ghoulish one called “Eggs and Marrowbone”. But this might even be a saucy one, like Marie Lloyd’s stuff.’
‘What about the music publisher’s name?’ said Arabella, indicating the tiny print at the edge of the song-sheet. ‘Does that tell you anything?’
‘Not really. It’s Francis & Day,’ said Phin. ‘They were one of the leading music publishers from the 1870s on – actually they were very active in promoting music copyright. But this could be an old score published purely as a curio. Still …’ He glanced round the restaurant, then reached into his pocket for his phone.
‘What are you doing?’ demanded Arabella. ‘Oh, God, you’re not going to photograph it, are you? Phin, the camera will flash and people will see—’
‘I’m going to read the words aloud with the memo record on,’ said Phin. ‘I don’t think it’ll attract attention, and even if it does I’m not doing anything wrong. But in case I press the wrong button on the phone, or we get interrupted, can you possibly scribble down the words as well? You’ll do it quicker than I can.’
‘All right.’ Arabella scooted back to their table, seized a table napkin and foraged in her bag for a pen.
Phin repeated the song’s words into his phone, and as he reached the final line and put the phone away, Arabella said, ‘I’ve got it. Let’s finish our dinner, shall we, before it goes cold.’
Back at their table, she speared a piece of chicken with her fork, then said, ‘Are you going to talk to anyone while we’re here? About looking at any old archives? An owner or a manager or someone?’
‘Would you mind? I wouldn’t take long, but if I could arrange to have access to any old documents or records they might have stashed away …’ He looked back at the framed song-sheet.
‘Of course I wouldn’t mi
nd,’ said Arabella. ‘I’d have been surprised if you hadn’t wanted to do so. Are you going to say anything about that Liszten for the Killer sketch? Phin, is it coincidence, that line? “Listen for the Killer”?’
‘I don’t think I will,’ said Phin. ‘I can be quite open about the book on Liszt’s life, though. And I can say I’ve found some evidence of a friendship between Liszt and Scaramel. I could even produce Cosima’s letter as proof.’
‘Cosima? Oh, his daughter.’
‘Yes. Francesca Gaetana Cosima Liszt. But she was only ever known as Cosima. She married Richard Wagner,’ said Phin.
‘The Richard Wagner? The Flying Dutchman and The Ring Wagner?’
‘Yes.’
‘You can’t say she didn’t keep things in the family, that Scaramel,’ observed Arabella. ‘But it all sounds nicely scholarly, and it ought to add to your credibility.’ She looked round the restaurant. ‘There’s a lady at the desk over there. Black frock, and one of those faces that looks as if it belongs in a painting of Spanish olive groves. Or if you don’t want to approach her, we could go undercover,’ she said, hopefully. ‘Steal furtively down into the nether regions of the building while nobody’s looking. Although I don’t think I can be very furtive in one heelless boot.’
‘You aren’t really dressed for furtive stealing around, anyway,’ said Phin. ‘You should be in a balaclava and camouflage jacket. That’s not to say I don’t like the patchwork-patterned velvet jacket.’
‘The skirt doesn’t go with it, does it?’
‘Well …’
‘I thought it mightn’t, but I can’t get at the full-length mirror in my flat on account of the bathroom disaster – the bath’s still upended in the hall. Good thing I can get at the shower. Shall I come with you to talk to the olive-grove lady, or will I cramp your style if you’re going to exert your understated charm?’
‘I didn’t know I had any …’
‘It’s the eyes,’ said Arabella, regarding him. ‘Silver with black rims. I’ll bet Svengali had eyes like that. If he’d been real, I mean. I’ll stay here, shall I, and order some pudding. There’s a champagne soufflé which sounds nicely decadent. Oh, or something called Love’s Cartridges. It says it’s a kind of ice-cream pudding with cherry and violet glacé embellishments. It sounds quite suggestive. I bet it’d stop you being understated later on.’
‘What time did you say your flight is tomorrow?’
‘Not until midday,’ said Arabella, demurely.
‘That’s what I thought. Order two helpings,’ said Phin, getting up from the table. ‘We can test the effects when we get back to your flat.’
The lady whom Arabella had pointed out was called Loretta Farrant.
‘I’m the owner,’ she said, shaking Phin’s hand. ‘Well, I’m part-owner if we’re going to be accurate, along with my husband. But he’s not here tonight.’ This was said almost as an afterthought, as if the husband was not especially important. Closer to, the Spanish look was less noticeable; Loretta Farrant’s eyes were smaller and shrewder than they had looked from a distance, and her lips were rather thin. Even so, she was a striking-looking lady. Phin thought she was probably in her middle thirties.
He explained about his commission for the research on the Franz Liszt book, and about the tenuous link he had found between Liszt and Scaramel.
‘She was a music hall performer,’ he said. ‘And I’ve turned up fairly reliable information suggesting that Liszt admired her in his old age – and that she used to perform here when it was one of the old supper clubs.’
‘I don’t know about Liszt, but this certainly used to be a supper club – well, you can see that from the décor, I expect,’ said Loretta Farrant. ‘And there was indeed a performer here called Scaramel. I – that is, we – took over the place last year, and the legend was that Scaramel was the main attraction. The 1880s and 1890s – fascinating era, isn’t it? But this place was in a shocking state of dereliction, and the renovations took months – as well as a good deal of money. But I was determined to recreate as much of the original music hall as possible.’ Something flickered in her eyes, then was gone.
‘You’ve made a brilliant job of it,’ said Phin, pleased he could say this with complete honesty.
‘Thank you. It mattered to me to get it right.’
‘What I really want to ask,’ said Phin, ‘is whether there were any old records around? Or any old accounts or invoices that came to light during the renovations? I’m after anything that might turn up more information about Scaramel. Land deeds or anything like that when you took it on? Anything attached to the lease, maybe?’
And about whether Scaramel really committed a murder, and about that curious song hanging on the wall over there, he thought.
‘I had a new lease written when I took the place on,’ said Loretta, thoughtfully. ‘There weren’t any deeds with it, though, and I don’t think there was anything about previous occupants, either. Leasing isn’t like buying a property outright, is it, where you’d have lists of previous owners. Epitome of title, isn’t it called?’
‘Something like that.’
‘There are a couple of boxes of stuff still in the cellar, though. I threw some of the contents out – the really mildewed stuff, but I kept as much as I could, because – well, you never know, do you? And I think there were old papers relating to some of the properties in Harlequin Court itself. I’m sure the bookshop – Thumbprints – was mentioned a couple of times. It’s been there for well over a century. There were a good many old playbills and posters – we used the best of them for décor.’
‘Where did they come from?’
‘I forget exactly. I think a lot of them were already here – stored in the cellars.’
‘Would you be prepared to let me look through the boxes?’ said Phin, eagerly. ‘I wouldn’t take anything away, of course – but if I could make notes or take photos or copies? And I’d be sure to give the restaurant – and you and your husband, of course – acknowledgements in the eventual book.’
‘Would you really?’ Clearly, this snared her interest. She’s scenting a bit of publicity, thought Phin. And why not?
He said, ‘Yes, certainly, I would. The book’s commissioned and contracted, and it’s being written by a couple of very eminent musicologists. One’s attached to King’s College, Cambridge.’
‘I’m sure we can arrange for you to look at the old documents,’ said Loretta, apparently impressed. ‘They’re all in what used to be known as the deep cellar. I turned it into an office – it was the only bit of space we could utilize for that. But I’m not really supposed to let people – members of the public, I mean – down there, because of Health & Safety regulations. The thing is …’ She broke off, glancing round the restaurant, and said in a much lower voice: ‘The thing is that there’s an old sluice gate behind one wall. It’s all sealed off, of course, but there was an underground river beyond the gates. Not a pleasant thought, to have that behind your wall, is it?’
‘I shouldn’t think so at all.’
‘Still, whatever it was, it’s long since dried out – it’s what they call a ghost river. The channel’s still there, though, and you can see the course of the river on some of the really old maps. It ran south down St Martin’s Lane, and out into the Thames near the Embankment.’
‘Well, I promise not to investigate behind any walls,’ said Phin. ‘And I’d only need an hour or so, to see if there’s likely to be anything that might provide a definite lead to Scaramel.’ He spread his hands ruefully. ‘I don’t even know her real name,’ he said. ‘I don’t suppose you do, do you?’
‘No. Sorry. But the legend is that she was the typical East End girl who achieved a degree of fame and caught the eye of one or two prominent gentlemen of the day. Well, when I say eye …’ A shrug of amused tolerance. It was not quite a knowing wink, but Phin had the impression that she was drawing him into a vaguely sexual intimacy.
He said, politely, that he thought Scaram
el had had several lovers, and Loretta, clearly sensing his lack of response, changed tack.
‘I shouldn’t think that we’d be contravening too many bylaws if you went down there, Mr Fox,’ she said. ‘I’d have to be with you, of course … What about coming in tomorrow? We’re open between twelve and two, but it’s a very easy service for us – just a cold buffet, salad and sandwiches.’ Her eyes went to Arabella, who was in enthusiastic discussion with the waiter over the menu. ‘Will your companion be coming with you, Mr Fox?’
‘No. As a matter of fact she’s going to France tomorrow. She’ll be there for the best part of a month.’
‘I see,’ said Loretta. ‘Well, then, you could come in just after the lunch service. I could stay on to let you in. There’d be just the two of us.’
There was again the impression that she drew nearer to him, and Phin said carefully that it would be easier if he came a little earlier. ‘Perhaps around half-past one, just before you close?’ When there are people still around, he thought.
‘Yes, that would be all right. I’ll have the boxes ready for you.’
‘I have to say,’ said Arabella much later, ‘that those Love’s Cartridges seem to have been remarkably effective, don’t they? Not,’ she said, a smile in her voice, ‘that you’ve ever needed any help.’
Phin turned to look at her. Her hair, which had earlier been pinned into Arabella’s version of a chignon, was untidily spread over the pillow. The velvet jacket had been thrown over a chair in a corner of her bedroom, and the heelless boot kicked under the bed with its fellow.
‘It’s remarkable how quiet and … almost self-effacing you are most of the time,’ she said, studying him. ‘Even a bit reserved. But underneath that polite academic demeanour … Well,’ she said, with a pleased chuckle, ‘when it comes to the crunch – do I mean crunch? – you aren’t reserved or quiet or self-effacing at all. I always suspected you weren’t, all the way back to those days when I used to see you from the window of Toby’s flat. You’d come and go with an armful of books and a kind of abstracted look, as if you were thinking about some obscure scholarly point or trying to work out some frightfully arcane piece of research. And I used to think – he’d be really interesting to know; I bet there are hidden depths there. I was right, as well.’