Music Macabre

by Sarah Rayne

  Staring at the statements and then looking at Loretta’s columns of figures, Roland could almost hear Mother’s indrawn breath of disapproval at the idea of risking what looked like three-quarters of his entire legacy. But it was his legacy. It was his money, and that meant he could do what he wanted with it. The thought was a heady one.

  Even so, he said, ‘But weren’t we going to buy a house? This wouldn’t leave enough for that. Where would we live?’

  ‘We’d go on living in this flat for the time being,’ said Loretta, clearly surprised. ‘It wouldn’t be for ever.’

  They had lived in Loretta’s flat since Wynne’s death, although Roland was spending most weekends at Dulwich, sorting out her possessions. The sale was going through, and he had assumed that they would use the proceeds to buy a smaller house in the same area.

  He had, in fact, grown up in that part of London, and he had been articled at the nearby accountants’ office where he still worked. Mother had known someone at the firm and she had arranged it all, saying that accountancy was such a safe profession and Roland had always been so good with maths.

  ‘It will be just the thing for you, Roland,’ she had said, and had set up an interview for him there and then.

  Roland had gone to the firm straight from school. They had their own training programme, and he had gained diplomas and qualifications as he went along. It all meant he was used to travelling to and from home each day; the office was only two tube stops away, and he had generally gone home to have lunch with Mother.

  But it was a long, tiring journey between Loretta’s flat and the office, and Roland had looked forward to moving back to Dulwich. He had even earmarked a couple of houses they could view. Still, he supposed he owed it to Loretta to at least take a look at this derelict-sounding restaurant. Not that anything would come of it.

  SIX

  Loretta borrowed the keys that weekend, and took Roland to see Linklighters on Sunday afternoon.

  On the way there, she said, ‘You’ll be able to look beyond its present condition, won’t you – but of course you will; you have such a gift for seeing beyond the obvious to what’s real. Like you did with me.’ She smiled and slanted her eyes at him, pressing against him for a brief moment. Roland was grateful that for once his body did not betray him. The truth was that he was too worried about Linklighters to be giving way to unruly desires on Leicester Square tube escalator.

  ‘I know the alley looks a bit narrow and tucked away,’ said Loretta, when they reached Harlequin Court, ‘but the court itself is charming and beautifully quaint.’

  Roland did not think Harlequin Court was charming or quaint. He thought it was distinctly seedy. The shops that fronted the square had small-paned windows and there was the impression that their interiors would be cramped and dim. There was a conventional modern light at the entrance to the square, but within the square was only an old street gaslight that should have been rooted out decades ago. It would be dangerously easy to bump into it on a dark night. Was this really a place people would seek out in order to have a meal?

  Loretta said, ‘You can see how it must have looked, can’t you? And over here –’ she led him across the square – ‘over here,’ she said, on a note of pride, ‘is Linklighters Supper Rooms.’

  Roland stared in dismay at the door next to the bookshop which Loretta was unlocking. Most of the paint had peeled off it and there were faded fragments of old posters which probably went back decades, and might have advertised all kinds of questionable events. The door itself had a furtive air, as if it did not want to draw attention to itself or what lay behind it.

  ‘We’d have a new door, of course,’ said Loretta, pushing it open to reveal a flight of dark stairs. ‘Be careful how you go down, because there’s no electricity.’

  ‘None at all?’

  ‘There is electrical wiring, of course, but it’s turned off at the moment. Anyway, I think it was put in a long time ago, so it’ll have to be redone.’

  She’s talking as if it’s already been agreed, thought Roland, even more worried, but he said, ‘Let’s get inside. It’s starting to rain.’

  ‘Yes, all right. The stairs are a bit rickety, but we can have them ripped out and a new staircase put in. Don’t grab that railing, it’s coming away from the wall.’

  The rain spattered against the old door as they went down, and a smeary light came in through a narrow, very grimy window halfway down. Through this window and seen through the curtain of rain, Harlequin Court looked somehow older. The ground seemed to be uneven, almost as if it might be cobbled, and the streetlight took on a vaguely sinister appearance. Roland was grateful when Loretta took a couple of torches from her bag and handed him one.

  ‘This was the music hall itself,’ she said as they reached the foot of the stairs. ‘It’s much larger than you’d think from upstairs.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In its heyday it’d have been jam-packed with people – probably sitting in rows or on ledges or at round wooden tables. And there’d have been raucous music and loud singing, because the audience would have joined in with most of the songs,’ said Loretta. ‘Can’t you just imagine them – waving tankards of drink, and the men shouting lewd comments at the scantily dressed females on the stage?’

  She looked at him, her eyes bright, clearly wanting him to share the images, and Roland said, ‘It doesn’t sound very different from today’s pop festivals and club scenes.’

  ‘No. Nothing new under the sun.’

  There were no windows at this level, of course, but in the light from the torches it was easy to see that the place really was derelict. Roland was just thinking it was remarkable that it had not been broken into and used as a squat, and even wondering about rats, when the torch’s beam showed up a couple of tattered blankets and several greasy foil trays that had once contained curries and takeaways. Nearby were a number of empty beer bottles, along with several discarded condoms.

  ‘I suppose it’s better than strewing them all over the square outside,’ said Loretta, seeing Roland look at these. ‘Still, food, drink and sex. And a roof over your head. Covers all the basic needs, doesn’t it?’

  Roland moved the torch around. Cobwebs hung down in thick swathes and clung to the walls. The walls themselves had huge leprous patches and large sections of plaster had fallen away. There were gaping holes in the floor, and the whole place stank to high heaven.

  But Loretta was saying, ‘Isn’t it all brilliant? Can’t you see the potential? So much space, and—’

  ‘What’s that stuff spilling out of the walls? Like wire wool.’

  ‘Where? Oh, that. It’s a sort of wall stuffing. Apparently parts are the old wattle-and-daub construction – that’s kind of wooden strips made into a frame, then stuffed with clay and earth and crushed stone. It’ll be easy to rebuild those sections though. Try to look beyond the dereliction. There’s masses of room for – well, about a dozen small tables I should think, and three or four six-seaters. And it won’t be hard to recreate what the place used to be. That wall over there, for instance – you can still see bits of the old flock wallpaper. Fleur-de-lys. It’s grey now, but it would probably have been crimson originally – velvety and gorgeous. We’ll look for the nearest match.’

  ‘But some of the walls look as if they’re almost falling in.’

  ‘No, the builder says everywhere just needs properly replastering, and once that’s dried out and papered and painted, it’ll be fine. OK, maybe an odd ceiling joist here and there. And we can have the kitchens through this door here – you’ll have to prop it back, though.’ She shone the torch around. ‘Stoves against that wall, and hobs alongside. Plenty of space to put in cupboards, and a preparation area at the centre. Freezers and fridges in that recess. This would have been the backstage area, of course.’

  ‘Where was the stage?’ said Roland, looking back at the main room.

  ‘Long rotted away, but it would have been at that far end – can you see where I mean
? Can’t you? Well, never mind.’ She walked back across the floor, her footsteps echoing in the emptiness. ‘This other side is where the performers would have got ready. I don’t think there were dressing rooms as such, but there were a couple of rooms where they’d have changed and kept their props and things … Look out, there’s a hole in the floor … I said look out—’

  There was the sound of wood splintering and Roland let out a yelp. ‘My ankle’s bleeding,’ he said, bending over his foot. ‘And these are my new shoes. The leather’s all scratched.’

  ‘It’ll polish out, and your ankle’s only grazed.’ She turned away, clearly more interested in their surroundings. ‘Those recesses under the stairs open out and go quite far back,’ she said, pointing. ‘They’d convert beautifully into cloakrooms. The plumbing’s fairly ancient, but the basic pipework’s there and my plumber says he can lay new pipes.’

  My plumber. Again, there was the impression that she had already lined up a team of workmen who would leap into action when she gave the word.

  ‘What’s beyond that door by the stairs?’

  ‘There’re steps beyond it going down to a deeper level. It couldn’t be part of the restaurant, but spruced up it’d make a bit of an office. Or a storage place.’

  Roland walked across to the door and opened it, then flinched.

  ‘God, what’s that smell?’

  ‘Well, there’s an old sluice gate down there. Only a small one, though, and it can easily be walled off.’

  ‘Why is there a sluice gate?’ asked Roland, suspiciously.

  ‘Because there’s an old ditch down there. It’s long since dried out, though. Ghost river, they call it. The gate seals it off.’

  ‘Not if the stench is anything to go by, it doesn’t.’

  ‘If you must know,’ said Loretta, sounding a bit annoyed, ‘that ditch is the reason that the lease is being offered at an absolute knock-down figure.’

  ‘Dear God.’

  ‘The gate would have to stay and be reasonably workable, but the builders say they can put up a false wall – with one of those panels like you have across water tanks in airing cupboards, so the gate can be reached. Only larger, of course. And if we put a fire door at the bottom of these stone steps, the Health and Safety people will be perfectly happy,’ said Loretta, confidently. ‘I’ve checked that. I know it sounds a bit grim, but come down there with me now, and I’ll show you what can be done.’

  She took his hand, and led the way, shining the torch as she went. The stench increased as they went down the steps, and there was a faint dull echo of water dripping somewhere. Once at the foot, Loretta moved the torch across the stone walls, pointing out a section of wall on the far side.

  ‘The sluice gate’s through that narrow bit of opening,’ she said. ‘There’s a kind of inner cellar. If you go right up to that part of the wall, you can see straight in – you can see the gate itself.’

  ‘No, thanks. It looks as if somebody once tried to knock part of that wall away, though,’ said Roland.

  ‘I know. The stones are all jagged and broken up. But the builders can make that good, and they’ll plaster over everything.’

  Roland shivered and turned up his coat collar. ‘Can we go back upstairs now? And out into the fresh air, because if I stay down here any longer with this stench I’m likely to be sick.’

  As he went back up the steps he was thinking that this place was little more than a massive derelict cellar over an ancient ditch. Renovating it to match Loretta’s vision would eat up a very large portion of Mother’s money.

  But, even as he was thinking this, another thought was pushing upwards. Risky as this would be, mightn’t it be rather exciting? Loretta certainly thought it would, so perhaps Roland ought to try thinking of it in the same way. His life had not held much excitement so far, and he had always known that the people at his office had regarded him, albeit tolerantly, as a bit dull. But he had made them blink a bit by presenting them with Loretta, and he had enjoyed that. What would their reactions be if he casually announced he was opening a smart, trendy restaurant in the middle of London? And if that restaurant were to be a success …? After all, the money was his money.

  Standing in the semi-shelter of Linklighters’ door, Loretta unfurling an umbrella for the walk back to the tube, and rain washing bits of unsavoury debris into the gutters, the words danced temptingly across Roland’s mind. The money was his money. And it was his decision as to how it was spent.

  He looked back at Harlequin Court, and at the battered door leading down to Linklighters. Could it be done? Mother would have sneered and told Roland he was being a fool even to consider this. With the realization of how furious Mother would have been, something seemed to seize Roland’s mind and wrench it completely around, causing him to see the project from an entirely different angle. He was seeing how Harlequin Court could be tidied up, swept clean, and how Linklighters could be turned into a smart and comfortable restaurant, filled with people wanting a meal before an evening at the theatre, or a late supper afterwards. There would be lights glowing and nicely printed menus and thick carpets.

  That was the moment when he knew he was going to do what Loretta wanted.

  Loretta plunged into the Linklighters project enthusiastically. Roland must be company secretary, she said. He would be marvellous; he would know how to deal with the legal side and the finances. Roland did not know anything about the legalities of starting a business, but one of the partners at his office knew, and guided him through it. It was not necessary to tell Loretta about that.

  The solicitor, preparing the assignment of the lease, frowned over some of its requirements, and said it was to be hoped no major repairs were ever needed, because it would be a nightmare to decide who owned which bits. He dared say the entire court was very charming and picturesque, but parts of the foundations joined up, and it was impossible to say which bit belonged to which owner. It was to be hoped that Mr and Mrs Farrant did not find they were liable for the replacing of some ancient underground sewer pipe or a crumbling wall that might be propping up something overhead. As for the old ditch … He shook his head and said that ditch by itself was a lawyer’s nightmare.

  Loretta did not find any of it a nightmare. She glowed with excitement and energy, and she met builders and plumbers and interior designers. She came to bed every night wanting to talk about her plans, and wanting to make love fiercely and with an abandonment – and a frequency – that Roland had not really bargained for. Embarrassingly, there were one or two occasions when he was unable to get himself into a satisfactory state of arousal. Perhaps there were more than one or two. Nobody was keeping a tally, for goodness’ sake.

  SEVEN

  London, 1880s/1890s

  People in Rogues Well Yard and Canal Alley and the streets around were mildly interested to hear that there was to be a bit of a concert at the Cock & Sparrow on Saturday. Probably it would only turn out to be Bowler Bill and some silly girl he’d taken a fancy to, but who had a voice like a corncrake. Still, Old Shaky would most likely be there, plunking his banjo, and Rhun the Rhymer would be in his usual corner, wearing the long black overcoat that trailed the ground, his hair tumbling over the collar. Might be a bit of a sing-song. Might be a lively night, in fact.

  The Cock & Sparrow had put a poster on a wall about it. People who could read told people who could not what it said. Drinks would be half-price and there was to be a famous music hall performer. No, it was not Marie Lloyd, of course it was not, silly bugger, you wouldn’t expect Miss Lloyd to prance around the Cock & Sparrow, would you? But it was somebody quite well known. Hackney Empire, and Wilton’s and the Cambridge, and everything. Might as well go along to watch, specially with drinks half-price.

  Wives warned their husbands not to get soused, half-price drinks or no, and not to start fights, neither. Most of these gentlemen retorted with spirit that if you could not get sozzled after a week’s graft in the factory or down at the docks, or dragging a brewer’
s dray, you might as well curl up your toes and die. Fisticuffs might well develop, you could never tell. Then the Cock & Sparrow announced that anyone starting a fight or getting involved in one would be flung outside into the street and sluiced down with the overflow from the privies.

  It was thought most people would behave reasonably well, though, what with wanting to see this music hall female.

  She was called Scaramel, and people said they had heard of her, even if they had not, because you wanted folk to think you knew what went on in the world.

  The big upstairs room of the Cock & Sparrow had been opened up, which was not something that happened very often, and although there was no charge to go in, you had to write your name in a book at the door. If you couldn’t write – and no shame if you couldn’t! – somebody was there to write it down for you, and you could add your cross.

  Seats and tables were set out, and a small stage had been rigged up at one end. Scaramel, when she came out on to it, was certainly a looker, never mind who had or hadn’t heard of her. Some of the younger men cheered and whistled, and the older ones said, by God, you didn’t often see females the like of that, and would you look at that display of ankles. Older ladies sniffed that it was shameless, while the younger ones wondered, enviously, where Scaramel got her stockings, because they were thin as cobwebs, but very likely cost a week’s wages for the likes of most folk.

  Scaramel clearly enjoyed the cheers. She dropped a very saucy curtsey, Bowler Bill began playing and Old Shaky perched himself on the edge of the stage, and joined in.

  The first song was the Lily Morris one, ‘Why am I Always the Bridesmaid?’, very cheekily sung, with a good many bum-juttings and winks to the audience, which everybody cheered. Then they had ‘Hot Codlings’, with everyone shouting the last lines, and Rhun the Rhymer coming up with one or two versions of his own. After this was ‘The Putney Bus’, and then George Leybourne’s famous ‘Champagne Charlie’.

  When she finished this last one, Scaramel came to the edge of the stage, and put her hands on her hips and looked round. A sudden hush fell on the room, because anyone with half an eye – anyone who wasn’t half soused by then – could sense that something serious was going to be said.