by Sarah Rayne
The negotiations for the leasing of the Gallery had been conducted in London, with a body which was based in Galway and which was called the County Arts Association. Simkins of the bank, lugubriously reviewing finances and gloomily aware of the bank’s investment, had told Sir Julius that he thought this was the nearest thing to a governing board they would be likely to get.
‘They’re responsible for the actual letting,’ he had said. ‘And also for maintenance, although from the sound of things there isn’t any too much money for that.’
‘Of course,’ said the official whom Julius and Gerald Makepiece ran to earth in a small office on the main Galway road, ‘of course, there isn’t any too much money for maintenance.’
‘So we see,’ said Sir Julius, acidly. ‘The place is a disgrace and a scandal.’
‘Oh, it is,’ agreed the official, whose name was Flanagan, and who thought it a grand thing to be having this London company over here. ‘It’s a disgrace to us all, but we’re in the hands of the Dail Eireann, you see, there’s the problem.’
‘Government funding,’ said Sir Julius. It had a depressingly familiar ring.
‘And then of course, there’s Preservation Orders on the place till they’re coming out of its chimney pots,’ added Flanagan, cheerfully. ‘You’ve to go through fifty different societies and have a hundred surveyors in from heaven knows where before you can so much as change a light bulb. We’re tied hand, foot and whisker.’ He eyed them hopefully. ‘But if you could add your word to ours, I daresay we’d get a bit done to the place, you know. Just to spruce it up here and there.’
Gerald, possibly with the optimism of ignorance, suggested that it would not take very much to make the place inhabitable for the run of the show.
‘Oh, it would not,’ agreed Flanagan, pleased to find a kindred spirit.
‘Because we don’t want to undertake the entire restoration, you understand.’
‘Of course you don’t. Nor need to. It’s good, sound timber in there, in the main.’
Gerald murmured something about rising damp and roofs, and Flanagan at once said what was a bit of damp, for God’s sake; hadn’t all old properties a bit of damp? You’d cure that in a week once the heating was running.
‘And the roof’s sound, I know that, for we had to have it seen to two years since. But a bit of re-rendering to the outside – providing you comply with the Preservation Order – and maybe a scrub-down of the interior plasterwork and a lick of gilt paint where it’s peeled. That’d work wonders.’
‘We’ll consider it and let you know,’ said Sir Julius, leading Gerald out of the office before he could say anything that might be considered as having compromised finances the company did not have.
‘See here, Makepiece,’ he said, as they sped back to the theatre in the car they had hired for the duration, ‘see here now, we can’t have any talk about putting the place to rights ourselves. The lease we negotiated isn’t a fully repairing lease; that means we don’t have to touch a splinter of that rotting old hulk—’
‘I know what a fully repairing lease is,’ said Gerald, who did not but was not going to admit it.
‘—and the onus is all on the County Arts Association to make it – what’s the wording? – habitable and suitable for the performing of public performances of drama and the furtherance thereof.’
‘Yes, but they aren’t going to make it habitable and suitable for the furtherance thereof,’ pointed out Gerald. ‘They haven’t got the money to do it – you heard what Mr Flanagan said. They’re in the hands of their government. The Dail,’ he added, carefully pronouncing it as Mr Flanagan had, because when in Rome you had to do as the Romans did.
‘Publicity,’ said Sir Julius firmly. ‘That’s the thing we want. Publicity and sponsors. We’ll get the press on our side, and we’ll appeal to people’s better nature – we could employ a press agent to do it for us, in fact. There’re one or two very good ones over here—’
Gerald said he did not see the point of paying a press agent when it would be more straightforward to pay for the repairs.
‘No, but it would be cheaper in the long run. And with good planning we’ll have sponsors inside of a week, and very likely half a dozen specialist companies clamouring to do the actual work free.’
‘Well,’ said Gerald, doubtfully, ‘I should prefer to just do the work ourselves. I think it would be more dignified.’
‘Blow dignity,’ said Sir Julius.
By the time they reached their hotel, the minor difference of opinion was starting to escalate, Sir Julius still insisting that a properly orchestrated publicity campaign was the answer; Gerald maintaining that a judicious lick and a promise would do wonders.
‘Unfortunately,’ said Sir Julius, haughtily, ‘it is not customary practice in theatre circles to give a lick and a promise to buildings, especially when it is not the company’s responsibility. And, Mr Makepiece, it would be very expensive.’
Gerald drew himself up to his full height, and said, just as haughtily, ‘The expense, Sir Julius, need not weigh with me.’
They parted company, Julius telling himself he had reminded the silly little man that he was a person of some standing and prestige in his world; Gerald gleefully pleased at having emphasised his own superior wealth and open-handedness. He might even mention the fact to Gilly when she arrived here; generosity was an attractive feature – Mia had always said she liked a man to be generous. Oh, poor Mia. But life had to be lived, and it had been curiously comforting to find that after all Mia had not run off with another man, but had been killed by a calculating murderer who had coveted her. It made Mia seem doubly desirable and alluring: it almost made it seem as if she had driven some man mad with her charms, which was something Gerald could well believe, and which also reflected flatteringly on Gerald himself. He could almost imagine people pointing him out; perhaps saying, That’s the poor man who was married to that famous actress – the one who was killed for her beauty. He’s no Adonis, is he? they would say; but he must have something to have had a wife like that.
It had to be admitted that shocking as Mia’s death had been, it was a whole lot easier to grieve for a murderer’s victim than for a faithless wife.
Chapter Twenty-One
Flynn stood in the long, dimly-lit room beneath the Greasepaint Club, and felt the strangeness of the place ebb and flow all about him.
He had sufficient stage experience to know that a good deal of the atmosphere came from the setting – trappings, that’s all these are, he thought. Take away the sultry lighting and replace it with ordinary 100-watt light bulbs; tear down those stifling curtains, and what would you be left with? A large half-cellar under a slightly raffish Soho club.
But he’s a clever devil, whoever he is, thought Flynn. He’s set the stage exactly right, and he’s sold these people the idea of someone slightly mystical, slightly unearthly.
Even so, there was still something uncomfortable in here – something that had nothing to do with the macabre lighting or the velvet curtains and the solitary chair behind the long rosewood table. Rosewood, said his mind appraisingly. That didn’t come out of the Greasepaint’s ragbag lumber room. A bit of a hedonist, this villain. But he’s got style, thought Flynn.
Bill and the doorman, who had had to be brought in on the plot, were still being determinedly pessimistic, Bill prophesying all manner of unpleasant scenes, and the doorman pointing out that this was the creature hardened Soho pimps shuddered from, and that the buskers and the tough little Piccadilly hookers had dubbed the Shadow.
‘I don’t give a damn what they call him,’ said Flynn. ‘I’m going to find out who he is, or die in the attempt – no, all right, I didn’t mean that literally, Bill. See now, where will we have the hiding-place? It’s a pity you didn’t warn me the room hasn’t a cupboard to its name, because a cupboard would have been great.’
Neither Bill nor the doorman thought that anywhere down here would be great at all. They repeated their admo
nitions all over again, and the doorman pointed out that they could not take any responsibility for anything that might happen if Flynn was discovered. Bill, mindful of his slightly longer service and slightly heavier responsibilities, added that the Greasepaint and the management could not take any responsibility either. They reminded one another of Leila, poor silly cow, and said that wherever Mr Deverill hid, he would have to be very still and very quiet.
‘I’ll be as still as the night and as quiet as the dawn,’ agreed Flynn. ‘I’ll be as careful as a virginal nun with a— Will I be safe behind these velvet drapes, do you think?’
The drapes were the ones that were normally half-drawn across the door which was where the Shadow entered, and Bill and the doorman did not think that Mr Deverill would be safe behind them at all. They did not think he would be safe anywhere in this room tonight, in fact, although it was looking as if it was a waste of time to say so. And at least the curtains were thick and wide. The doorman explained worriedly about the Shadow’s entrance: they could not be sure that the curtains would not be disarranged when he came in. A remarkable entrance he made, so people said, not that people said much at all, on account of being afraid of the outcome. The Shadow did not like these meetings to be gossiped about.
Flynn said, ‘Oh, will you stop acting as if he’s Jesus Christ making his entrance for the Second Coming and Satan incarnate rolled into one! Listen now, could we draw this left-hand curtain a bit further back so that it’s across this recess here? If I stayed behind it I’d be able to see him come in and I’d have a fair view of most of the room as well, and I don’t believe anyone would suspect anything.’ He stood back, surveying the fall of the curtains critically.
‘You’ll hardly be a couple of feet away from him, Mr Deverill,’ said the doorman.
‘All the better. I’ll get a good look at him. We’ll have to cut a couple of spyholes in the curtain though – here and here, I should think, shouldn’t you? If I sit on the floor I’ll be below people’s eye-level. Bill, stand back and tell me if you can see me peering through.’
‘No,’ said Bill, after a suitable interval. ‘But you’ll have to be careful not to move.’
‘I know it. Listen, fetch me a bottle of whisky before curtain up, will you? If I’m to be stuck here half the night I’ll want something to keep me company.’
‘I’ll bring half a bottle,’ said Bill.
‘A quarter,’ put in the doorman, lugubriously.
‘Yes, or you’ll be three-parts drunk by the time the meeting starts,’ said Bill. ‘I know you, Mr Deverill.’ He went off to the main door that led to upper floors and his own domain, the doorman following, both of them agreeing that this was the wildest idea anyone had ever heard of, but that was the Irish for you.
The curtains smelt of stale cigarette smoke and cheap perfume, but they provided better cover than Flynn had hoped. There was sufficient space to sit on the floor in reasonable comfort providing he drew his knees up, and he could lean back against the wall. It was half past eleven. He unscrewed the top of the whisky bottle – at least Bill had made it a good malt even if he had only brought a quarter bottle – and took a long drink. The room settled into silence. Flynn could hear the steady ticking of the clock on the far wall. Tick-tick . . . Tick-tick . . . He was aware of his heart beginning to beat a bit faster than normal.
It was a quarter to midnight when the silence was disturbed by the first group of people coming in from the main part of the club. Flynn set down the whisky bottle, and froze into immobility.
The room filled up quite quickly, and in a much more orderly fashion than he had visualised. There was a low murmur of voices but it was a subdued murmur, and it was virtually impossible to hear what anyone was saying. None of these sounds were the sounds that Flynn had expected to hear, given the character of the people, given the nature of the venue. According to Bill this was a roomful of street girls and rent boys and street musicians. Probably there would be a few drug pushers as well. It was remarkable for such a gathering to be so quiet.
There were ten minutes to go. Flynn put his eye to the tiny spyhole, and saw that there were easily eighty to a hundred people in the room already. And they were still coming in. They were coming down the steps at the other end of the room, in twos and threes, the girls mostly in mini-skirts and low, clinging sweaters and high heels; the men wearing jeans or chinos, and leather or cheap velvet jackets. There was a sprinkling of drag artists and several people whom Flynn thought were professional buskers. They sat on the rows of chairs that Bill and the doorman had put out, some of them studiedly nonchalant, others quieter. The thought that this mysterious, hedonistic gentleman wielded a greater power than Flynn had bargained for, formed rather chillingly on his mind.
And then little by little, as the hands of the clock inched their way to midnight, the low murmuring died away and a waiting silence replaced it. Flynn could feel the blood pounding in his head, and he could almost hear his own too-fast heartbeats – damn, I’m as bad as the rest of them! But something very eerie was approaching. Flynn could feel apprehension filling up the low-ceilinged room; he could feel the silence becoming charged with nervous excitement. One minute to go, he thought, glancing across at the wall clock. Sixty seconds . . . fifty . . . There’s someone coming . . . Is there? Yes, I can hear soft footsteps. Someone’s just outside the door.
And then above the footsteps he heard a faint snatch of music – someone humming or someone singing very softly, so softly that it was as if the person was doing it unconsciously. This was so unexpected and somehow so bizarre that Flynn felt prickles of fear scud across his skin. The masked creature? Or only a stray passer-by, humming to himself as he wended his way home?
The tension in the room was so strong that the air was nearly shivering with it. And the footsteps were unmistakably approaching the door; they were in exact synchronisation with the ticking clock. Tick-tick . . . Pad-pad . . . Tick-tick . . . Tap-tap . . . They were in time with the low humming as well. Flynn frowned, trying to hear the melody more clearly, and then it came suddenly nearer, and he heard not only the tune, but the words.
O never go walking in the fields of the flax
At night when the looms are a-singing . . .
Flynn knew instantly what it was. He thought he should have been prepared, given the grisly nature of the Harlequin murders. The Shadow was singing the macabre lament from Tod Miller’s Dwarf Spinner, the chant that the evil Rossani sang as he padded after his victims, and that the BBC had tried to ban on Radio One, not so much because of its gruesome content, but more because of the dwarf magician’s exultant sensuality as he savoured his victims.
Rossani’s at work and he’s hungry for prey;
He’ll melt down your eyes and he’ll spin them for gold.
He’ll peel off your skin and he’ll sew him a cloak.
He’ll cut out your heart and he’ll weave it to gold.
He’ll grind down your bones and he’ll shred up your soul.
Flynn had never heard the original rendering, and subsequent recordings lost a good deal of the blood-thirsty voluptuousness. But on the opening night of the Dwarf Spinner this song had stopped the show, and even in the milk-and-water revivals it was powerful, sung by the tormented Rossani as he stood alone on a dimly-lit stage, spotlighted by a single crimson gel, the only musical accompaniment a sinisterly-throbbing bass-viol, and a rhythmic, low-key tapping of the base drum.
Heard like this, crouched in a dark corner of a dimly-lit room, the soft music thrummed with its own inner menace, and Flynn felt a lurch of fear again. But at least it proves the connection, he thought. This is the killer who butchered poor old Toddy Miller and that vain, silly Mia.
There was a faint movement in the shadows by the door, and as the chimes of midnight sounded, between one heartbeat and the next, he was there. Flynn had thought he was prepared and to some extent armoured, but his mind still jumped with surprise. It almost seemed as if the figure had materialised.
But he pushed this very disturbing thought away, and watched carefully as the orderly procession to the rosewood table began. He saw at once what Bill and the doorman had meant by calling it organised. It was very organised indeed; in fact it looked orchestrated. It’s some kind of accounting, thought Flynn. They’re all handing over money. Is that all he is, then? A highgloss pimp? Is this only a souped-up protection racket? Perversely he felt a stab of disappointment because it would be something of a let-down if this charismatic gentleman turned out to be nothing more than a common-or-garden Soho racketeer.
If he’d turn his head a bit I could get a better look at him, thought Flynn. Damn! Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to be behind the curtain after all! I’m behind him and I can only see the back of him. But then, as if in mocking response, the man did turn his head, and Flynn saw with a little thrill of repulsion that he was wearing huge-lensed, thickly-black glasses and that the lenses caught the dull light, turning them into hard, shell-like growths that gave an eerie impression of sight. Like a giant fly’s head, with enormous bulbous insectile eyes, thought Flynn, in appalled fascination. He’s like a mutant creature – something out of a necromancer’s crucible or an evil geneticist’s laboratory. Flowing Rastafarian-type plaits hung from beneath the slouch hat, covering most of the face, but Flynn, inching as far forward as he dared, could not make out anything behind the plaits.