Ghost Song

by Rayne, Sarah

  Hilary said, ‘Isn’t it a bit suspicious that there were no records?’

  ‘No, not necessarily. The land was probably never registered. Nowadays there’s a requirement to register any parcel of unregistered land if there’s a change of ownership, but that didn’t come into force until the late 1980s. And it doesn’t sound as if the theatre has changed owner for a very long time. It sounds as if Madeleine Ferrelyn inherited direct from her father—’

  ‘Who died in the late 1950s.’

  ‘Yes. That means he could have owned it since the early part of the twentieth century.’

  ‘Even as far back as 1914,’ said Hilary. ‘We’ve all speculated a bit about it, you know.’

  ‘Of course I know. That’s human nature.’

  ‘But we didn’t know there was a definite restriction in force.’

  ‘I’ve never known the exact terms of it. I’ve always assumed it was some eccentric who owned it and that it never would reopen.’

  ‘And now this,’ said Hilary, glancing at the letter.

  ‘As you say, now this. At least we know the owner’s name at last, although not much more than that. But clearly I’ll have to go down to Somerset to see her.’ She paused. ‘Would you like to come with me?’

  It was obvious Hilary had not been expecting this. She looked startled, and then said, ‘Oh. Yes, I would like to. Very much.’

  ‘Good. Two heads are better than one for these things, and it sounds as if Madeleine Ferrelyn might want to involve us in the actual reopening which would be a plum for us. But if she intends it to be a living theatre again she’ll want ideas and proposals. That’s never been my strength, but it’s one of yours. Could you draft a few ideas?’

  ‘Yes, I could,’ said Hilary with unmistakable enthusiasm. ‘I’d love to.’

  ‘Good.’ Shona stood up. ‘I’m a strong believer in striking while the iron’s hot, so I’ll phone her now and find out when she’d be free. We ought to be able to get there and back in a day if we set off early enough.’

  She went into her office, closing the door, and Hilary, determined not to listen, opened a new blank screen on the computer, typed in the heading, ‘The Tarleton’, and enthusiastically began to make notes.

  ‘It’s more or less fixed,’ said Shona, coming out fifteen minutes later. ‘But she’s asked if it can be tomorrow.’

  ‘As soon as that?’ Hilary was a bit taken aback.

  ‘I hadn’t expected it, either. I rather got the impression that having made up her mind to deal with this peculiar situation, she wants to get to grips with it before she can get cold feet. I don’t see why we couldn’t go out there tomorrow, though. I’ve got another meeting with the radio people at ten tomorrow—’

  ‘The Edwardian spa plays,’ said Hilary, remembering.

  ‘Yes, and I can’t cancel it because it’s important to us. But we could set off about twelve, have lunch on the road, and be in Somerset about four.’

  ‘That would mean an overnight stay.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Shona slowly. ‘Mrs Ferrelyn has offered to put us up for the night, but I’m a bit hesitant to accept until we know more about her. Also, she mentioned not being in very good health. There’s bound to be a local pub or a Travelodge or something. What about it, Hilary? Could you be available so quickly? Is there anything here you can’t put on hold? Or anything at home?’

  ‘I’d put anything on hold for the Tarleton, anyway,’ said Hilary at once. ‘I’d camp out in a field for it if I had to. Thank you very much for involving me.’ Her eyes were shining and Shona could see she was already conjuring up ideas. Hilary said, ‘What did Madeleine Ferrelyn sound like?’

  ‘Elderly, certainly. But not noticeably frail or affected by any illness. Brisk and intelligent, in fact. She says she has a few ideas she’ll put to us, but she’s out of touch with modern theatre and modern marketing, so she’ll leave most of it to us.’

  ‘That’ll be good,’ said Hilary at once. ‘Did she mention her father? The owner who created the restriction?’

  ‘No, and I didn’t ask. Can I use this phone to call her back to confirm? She says it’s a three-hour journey, but I think we’d better allow a good four; it’ll take us an hour to get clear of London. Oh—would you check availability at the nearest Travelodge or somewhere similar?’

  ‘Yes, of course. And I’ll get out some preliminary outlines to take with us. I’ll have tonight and tomorrow morning to work on that.’

  ‘I shouldn’t think she’ll expect anything elaborate at such short notice,’ said Shona. ‘This will be more a courtesy thing: an initial handshake. But we can get a sense of what she wants us to do, and we can tell her how far the Harlequin can actually take things.’ She had been about to tap out the phone number, but she paused. ‘Hilary, have you told the others about the letter?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Ah. Then I think we’ll keep this between the two of us for the moment. Everything about that place has always been so odd—I don’t think this is a scam of any kind and the bank letter is certainly from the branch we’ve dealt with all these years, although I’ll call them in the morning to check. But even if this Ferrelyn woman is the owner, it doesn’t guarantee her sanity.’

  She waited to see if Hilary would pick up her meaning and was pleased when Hilary said, ‘Far from it. In fact you’d expect anyone owning a valuable London property like the Tarleton to try to find a way round that restriction.’

  ‘Exactly. So the fewer people who know about this, the better, at least until we’re sure of the ground.’ She broke off, thinking. ‘I don’t normally like asking staff to lie, but could you possibly say you’re taking a couple of days’ holiday?’

  ‘Yes, I could do that.’

  ‘Good. It won’t actually be counted as holiday, of course.’

  ‘I wouldn’t care if it was,’ said Hilary.

  ‘I can phone in to say those Radio 4 meetings have extended into the afternoon—no one’s likely to question that. Good. I’ll phone her back to confirm.’

  Shona was businesslike but polite on the phone, saying she and her assistant, Hilary Bryant, would be with Mrs Ferrelyn the following day, around four o’clock, traffic permitting. No, they would not need to be put up for the night, they would book into an hotel somewhere— Well, if Mrs Ferrelyn was sure? They did not want to put her to any trouble…

  When Shona put the phone down, she made a wry gesture to Hilary. ‘She says there aren’t any hotels for miles, and the local pubs and guest houses only do bed and breakfast in spring and summer. And it’s absolutely no trouble if we stay at Levels House, because she has plenty of space, and a girl goes in a couple of times a week from the village to help with cleaning and so on: she’ll ask her to make up a couple of beds.’

  ‘I’m happy with that if you are,’ said Hilary.

  ‘I’ll pick you up from your flat,’ said Shona. ‘I’ll come straight there from the meeting—I’ll phone to let you know when that finishes.’

  ‘That would be great. I’ll take all the Tarleton stuff home with me tonight—I’ll leave a note on my desk saying I’ve got an unexpected family thing and I’m taking two days’ holiday. I can put in a bit of work on the proposals at home tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Thanks, Hilary.’ Shona got up from the edge of the desk. ‘Don’t forget to lock up when you leave.’

  ‘I won’t. Goodnight, boss.’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  ROBERT HAD DECIDED TO wait until half past seven before entering the Tarleton. He thought by this time Shona Seymour should have left her office and be on her way to wherever she lived.

  He worked systematically through what remained of the afternoon, dictating the report of the warehouse survey, leaving the tape for the secretary he and his partner shared so it could be typed and despatched tomorrow. When possible they tried to post all surveys to clients within twenty-four hours of the actual work being completed. It could not be done every time because sometimes expert reports had to be o
btained on drains, or samples of foundation soil had to be sent for analysis, but they were as prompt as they could be and their small company had become known as reliable and efficient. Robert thought that was why they had been appointed to the panel for the Theatres Preservation Trust.

  At a quarter to seven he assembled the items he would need. These included a heavy-headed mallet and a small sledgehammer; carrying them from the car to the theatre would probably give him a hernia, but that could not be helped. He had bought a pack of plaster filler in the DIY centre—the kind sold in the thousands to people who were redecorating their houses and needed a very small quantity for areas of uneven plasterwork. He added a plastic bottle of water for mixing the filler and a triangular spatula, and finally enclosed the whole lot in a dustsheet.

  He had no idea how easy it would be to knock out any of the bricks in the underground room: a properly mortared wall would not yield very easily to a few bashes from a sledgehammer wielded by one person, but the Tarleton’s wall had not looked very well mortared. For safety’s sake he was going to knock out bricks near the ceiling, and since the underground room had no electricity any holes he could not repair should go unnoticed.

  He was not quite managing to ignore the memory of the intruder he and Hilary had encountered, but he had convinced himself that the man was a local eccentric or an oddball who had seen them go inside and followed them in to give them a fright. It would be a sick thing to do, but there were a lot of sick people around. There were also a lot of people who were perfectly normal who hummed snatches of song to themselves.

  By this time he had given up trying to rationalize his emotions or his actions; what he did know was that this old theatre had got so deeply beneath his skin he did not think he would be able to concentrate properly on anything else until he had found out what was at the heart of the mystery. He didn’t know how much of this feeling was due to Hilary, because she seemed to have got quite deeply beneath his skin as well. He was not yet sure what he was going to do about her, but he knew what he was going to do about the Tarleton, and that was get behind the wall.

  When he unlocked the stage door and stepped into the well of darkness beyond, the scent and atmosphere of the old theatre enfolded him, and he smiled, thinking that any ghosts present tonight were friendly ones. He locked the door behind him, trying not to remember that the intruder had not been kept out by locks last time. As he went down the echoing passage, past the doorkeeper’s room where he and Hilary had hidden, he was annoyed to realize he was listening for the soft singing. He pushed the memory away and went down the second passageway that led below ground, the light of his torch slicing through the shadows.

  Despite all the reassurances he had given himself, he was already starting to regret this mad expedition—and if he were to be found out he would be unceremoniously drummed out of the Royal Institution of Chartered Surveyors—but having got this far he would be furious with himself if he ducked out now. Also, Hilary would be disappointed if he told her he had chickened out halfway through; the thought of her disappointment spurred him on, and he pushed the heavy oak door and wedged it open. Everywhere was silent and wholly unthreatening, and he went determinedly down the steps, the torchlight picking out the worn treads and thick layers of dust and cobwebs clinging to the walls.

  Once in the underground room he slung the haversack on the ground, and dragged one of the wicker skips out, positioning the torch on it so it would cast a reasonable working light. After this he turned to study the wall more closely, seeing that the mortar had been so roughly applied or so badly mixed that large sections of it had fallen out or crumbled to nothing. In places the wall was very nearly drystone, which should make it easier than he had hoped to knock out a small section. He placed the flat of both hands against its surface. It felt rough and cold, although he had expected that. What he had not expected was the sudden impression that someone was standing on the other side of the wall—barely a foot from him—and that this someone was also pressing his hands against the wall in an eerie mirror image of Robert’s actions. For a truly dreadful moment he thought there was a whisper of sound from beyond the wall: as if the other person was saying, here I am, Robert… I’m waiting for you… I’ve been waiting a very long time…

  But this was nothing more than nerves and the sooner he satisfied his curiosity and got out of here, the better. It was now ten to eight, so in an hour’s time he should be back in Platt’s Alley, and with luck by quarter past nine—half past at the latest—he could be phoning Hilary from his car.

  He unfolded the dustsheet and arranged it on the ground, because although it was disgustingly dirty down here he wanted to leave as little trace of his activities as possible. He would have liked to bring the extending ladder, but toting it along the street would have been dangerously conspicuous. Instead, he dragged a second, larger skip close to the wall, and laid the chisel, mallet and sledgehammer on top of it. After this, he checked his pocket for the spare torch, then climbed onto the skip, testing it cautiously first, relieved that it seemed to bear his weight. Cobwebs, disturbed by the movement, trailed ghostly fingers on his face and he brushed them away impatiently.

  Even by stretching his arms to the utmost, he could not quite reach the cellar roof, which meant he would have to work on the bricks several layers down. It was unlikely that the removal of a small section of bricks would demolish the entire wall but Robert was taking no chances. It would be safer to work as near the ceiling as possible.

  Focussing on a section of bricks four courses down from the ceiling, he swung the sledgehammer. It swished through the air and struck the bricks with a startlingly loud sound in the enclosed space. Robert winced as a cloud of dust showered down, gritty and dry and old-smelling, but when the dust cleared he saw that several of the bricks had cracked. So far so good. He swung the sledgehammer a second time, and then a third, and three bricks yielded, falling inwards and hitting the ground with a brittle splintering sound. A small breath of stale air gusted out from beyond the wall and Robert flinched, but was aware of a sudden surge of triumph. I’m going to do it. I’m really going to find out what this wall is concealing. He felt for the torch in his pocket and shone it through the small hole, but his line of vision was too restricted and he could see nothing but thick blackness. He would have to knock out several more bricks and he would also have to make sure they fell on this side because he wanted to replace as many as he could.

  Moving with extreme caution, using the small chisel and trowel, he began to chip at the remaining mortar. It showered out in a pale powdery stream, but a few of the bricks loosened almost at once. Robert lifted out a couple, setting them on the dustsheet for remortaring in when he had finished.

  After twenty minutes he had prised out six more bricks and laid them next to the first two. He shone the torch again, but although this time he thought there was a shadowy outline over to the left, the opening was still too small to see very much. He began to chisel at the mortar again, and this time the systematic tapping created a small echo from beyond the wall. Or was the echo on this side of the wall? Robert felt a thump of apprehension, but when he shone the torch round the cellar nothing moved and he returned to his task. Moments afterwards the echo came again and this time it sounded like footsteps in the passageway above. He froze, his heart pounding, his eyes fixed on the stairs, listening intently. What would he do if he heard that singing again? Or if a figure suddenly appeared on the steps, sharply black in the torchlight, but unmistakably dressed in a long overcoat and an old-fashioned hat with a deep brim hiding its face?

  But even if there was someone up there, it was unlikely that person would have heard sounds all the way down here. Or was it? Robert himself had heard the noises down here, even through the layers of brick and timber. He stayed where he was, watching and listening for what felt like a long time, but when he glanced at his watch only about ten minutes had passed. There’s no one there, he thought. It was just the timbers creaking or peculiar acousti
cs somewhere.

  He turned back to the jagged opening in the wall. A foetid miasma came from it and Robert remembered how close the river was. He shone the torch inside again, and this time made out a tall oblong of something that might be wood or metal and that extended as far upwards as he could see, vanishing into the shadows overhead. The frame of the grave trap? It must be. It was more or less as he had thought: a rudimentary lift shaft, oblong in shape, and as far as he could see made of wood and metal strips. The sight of this monolith standing silently in the dark was slightly sinister. But why had such a large area of good storage space been made so completely inaccessible? To say nothing of losing the grave trap itself?

  It was then that he heard what sounded like footsteps in the passageway upstairs and he turned sharply to look at the steps, then sprang off the skip and, holding the torch in one hand and the mallet in the other, went softly back up the steps and into the passage. He was aware of the absurdity of beating off a ghost with a mallet; he didn’t believe in ghosts, anyway. What he did believe in were burglars and drug addicts—and poor sods of homeless people on the lookout for an unlocked door and an empty building in which to spend the night. But he had locked the stage door when he came in.

  Nothing stirred in the stone passageways, but Robert went determinedly along to the stage door to make sure it really was locked. Yes, locked firmly. He glanced into the stage doorkeeper’s room, but it was bland and unthreatening and he went back down to the cellar and renewed his assault on the wall. This time several more bricks tumbled out, and when he shone the torch he could see the complete outline of the grave trap. It was black and forbidding and even through the thick cobwebs and layers of dirt, the iron framework glinted in the torch-light. The curious thing was that as he moved the torch slowly round he had the impression that something in the atmosphere had shifted—it was almost as if something that had been crouching in the dark had looked up at the sudden intrusion and ingress of light. This would be sheer nerves, nothing more, and so far Robert could still see no reason for the amateurishly built wall or for the mystery that surrounded the theatre and its long closure. All that was beyond the wall was the other half of the cellar—the half that extended directly beneath the stage. When he shone the torch upwards he could see the joists supporting the stage itself, and there did not seem to be anything out of the ordinary. He was conscious of disappointment, because after the build-up—after the legends about ghosts and ninety-year twilight slumbers, and the secrecy surrounding the owner’s identity—he had expected to find something. But there was nothing.