by Sarah Rayne
Thorney and Witchford and Rockingham Forest. The litany came as easily and as smoothly as ever it had done. The house on the marshes. The house called the Priest’s House, whose owners had helped to smuggle priests out of England hundreds of years ago. Could it be found? Would the lady from the stories still be there? How long ago had that letter with the cheque been sent? Months? Years?
At eight years of age there are times when the mind can move with nearly adult precision and clarity, and the instinct for self-preservation is inborn rather than instilled – as strong in a child as it is in an adult. Later, there would be grief for Mother, who ought not to have died, but for now there was only the recognition that to stay here – to summon help from neighbours or from the phone-box at the corner of the street – would mean doctors and policemen and hours upon hours of questions. The truth might be believed, or it might not – he might very well manage to shift the blame. But whichever way it went there would either be an order for a care home or a remand home or young offenders’ hostel. Children in Pedlar’s Yard knew about being taken into care, and they knew about remand homes and hostels as well. And if any of those things happen, I shall never see the marsh house, I shall never see the lady of the stories…
Decision made – in fact, there was no decision to make. He’s blundering around in the kitchen, and if ever there was a moment to make the attempt, this is it. Now. Into the hall, along to the stairs, and straight up them. Remember the two stairs that creak and avoid them…Good. Now into their bedroom, snatch up the keys. Good again. What about money? To travel anywhere you need money. Would it be stealing to open the tin money-box kept in the chest of drawers, and take whatever was in there? If it is stealing I can’t help it. And he’s still crashing around downstairs, so there’s time.
The money-box held thirty pounds. Was that enough for the journey? It would have to be. And now school satchel from my own bedroom to carry things, and a thick coat and woollen gloves. Toothbrush and comb from the bathroom, but get them quietly – Is that him coming upstairs? No, I’m still safe. Anything else? The money-box was still open on the top of the chest of drawers, and inside it was a brown envelope. Mother had kept important things there. Documents. Birth certificate? You had to show your birth certificate sometimes. Better take it.
The birth certificate was inside the envelope; it was simple enough to fold it carefully, and tuck it into the side of the satchel. Anything else in there? What about the letter with the address of the Priest’s House on it? I ought to take that if it’s here. Then she – the lady – will know I’m really who I say I am.
The letter was in the envelope, folded up, a bit creased, but readable. Also in the envelope was a photograph – a small snapshot of Mother and Father together, both of them smiling straight into the camera. There was a moment of doubt about taking it – I don’t ever want to see him again! – but almost instantly came the knowledge that to take the photograph would be like taking a tiny fragment of Mother. And she looks happy – I’d be able to look at her and think of her being happy. The photograph went into the satchel with the birth certificate. And now I’m ready.
The front door had to be unlocked very stealthily indeed, but the key turned quietly enough, and it did so with a soft whisper of sound that said, ‘You’ve escaped!’
At this time of night there was no one about, and it was easy to run to the phone-box. It smelt disgusting, but at least it had not been vandalized like a lot of phone-boxes these days. Dial 999, and ask for an ambulance. And don’t worry about sounding panicky – they’d expect a child to sound panicky.
The call was answered at once. ‘Emergency – which service do you require?’
‘Ambulance, please.’
The space of four heartbeats, and then a different voice. ‘Ambulance service.’
‘Please – someone’s dreadfully hurt. My – father. He’s been stabbed – I don’t know what to do—’
‘What’s your name? And your address?’
Pretend not to have heard the first question. Cry a bit. You’re allowed to be frightened and confused, remember? ‘This is my address.’ It came out clearly. ‘Please come quickly.’ And replace the receiver. Enough? Yes, they would not dare ignore it; ambulance people did not even ignore obvious hoax calls, everyone said so. And the person at the other end had seemed to accept the information as genuine.
So now I’m ready and now I’ve done everything, and now I’m leaving Pedlar’s Yard – horrid, hateful place – for ever. I’m leaving all the bad memories. Later on I’ll be sad about Mother, but I can’t think about that yet.
Thirty pounds. Enough for a train journey? Would the railway station sell a ticket to a child? Why not? And if a train did not go all the way to Mowbray Fen, there would be buses for the last miles; buses were usually very cheap.
And from now on I am nothing to do with Pedlar’s Yard, and I am nothing to do with North London. I am somebody who has a normal life and a normal family, and I’m going to visit my grandmother.
The prospect was exciting and terrifying. It was an adventure like children had in books. It was the four Pevensie children going through the wardrobe into Narnia. Hadn’t they eaten apples to survive on one of their adventures? I’ll buy apples and eat them like they did. Or I’ll buy hamburgers and chips. Nobody looks twice at a child buying chips. And orange juice to drink.
Surely the journey could be managed, and at the other end of it, beyond all those villages with their ancient English names, would be the house surrounded by the will o’ the wisp lights that could give you your heart’s desire.
And the lady from all the stories would be there.
‘I don’t know if this will be of any help,’ said Edmund on the phone. ‘But I rather think I’ve got permission for you to actually go inside Ashwood Studios.’
Trixie Smith sounded as brisk and down-to-earth on the phone as she had face to face. ‘Very good of you,’ she said. ‘Lot of trouble for you as well, especially after your aunt’s death. Always a lot to do after a death, I know that. How did you manage it? I was going to see if I could trace the owners, but I didn’t know how to go about it.’
‘I haven’t actually traced the owners, but I have contacted a solicitor who holds the keys,’ said Edmund who had, in fact, done this by the simple process of consulting an Ordnance Survey map and then ringing Ashwood’s appropriate local council. ‘He acts as a kind of agent for the site, and he’s just phoned me to say you can have access to the place for a couple of hours.’
‘When?’
‘Well, that’s the thing,’ said Edmund slowly. ‘The solicitor wants me to be there with you. As a kind of surety for you, I suppose.’
‘In case I’m a sensation-seeker, likely to hold a seance on a wet afternoon, or a potential arsonist with a grudge against film studios in general?’
‘Your words, not mine, Ms Smith.’ Edmund pretended to consult a diary. ‘I think I might manage Monday afternoon,’ he said, with a take-it-or-leave-it air. ‘I could probably get there around four – it’s a couple of hours’ drive from here, I should think. But nearly all motorway, so it would be straightforward. You said you lived in North London, so you’re fairly near the place anyway. Would Monday suit you?’
Trixie said gruffly that Monday afternoon would suit her very well. ‘Have to admit I hadn’t expected to hear from you, Mr Fane,’ she said. ‘In fact I thought you were giving me the brush-off that day at your aunt’s house.’
‘Surely not,’ said Edmund politely.
‘And I’ll reimburse you for your time, of course. Never be beholden, that’s my maxim.’
‘Oh, that’s all right,’ said Edmund. ‘It’ll be quite interesting to see the place, although I gather it’s been derelict for years, so I don’t know what value it’ll be to you.’
‘Atmosphere,’ said Trixie at once. ‘Background details. And you never know, I might even pick up something the police missed.’
‘After more than fifty years? Oh r
eally—’
‘Why not? History teaches us perspective, Mr Fane, and hindsight gives us twenty-twenty vision. And wouldn’t it be satisfying to discover that the baroness wasn’t a murderess after all?’
‘She wasn’t a baroness. The title was just another of the publicity stunts.’
‘Even so.’
‘Yes,’ said Edmund politely. ‘Yes, it would be marvellous.’
On the following Monday Edmund gave himself a half day’s leave of absence, issued his staff with instructions as to how various clients should be dealt with were they to turn up or phone, and set off. It was barely two o’clock, but it was such a grey rain-sodden afternoon that it was necessary to drive with full headlights on. This meant he almost missed the Ashwood sign, which was obscured by overgrown hedges. But he saw it just in time and turned off on to a badly maintained B-road, so narrow it was very nearly un-navigable. Edmund winced as the car’s suspension protested, and frowned as bushes scratched against the doors and painted sappy green smears on the windscreen.
A couple of miles further on he came to some tall rusting gates, sagging on their hinges but with the legend ‘Ashwood Studios’ still discernible. Edmund, peering through the car’s misted windows, thought he had never seen such a dismal place. Astonishing to think that London was only about twenty minutes’ drive from here.
There was a small security guard’s booth on the right of the gates, and on the other side were what appeared to be a series of neglected airfields strewn with single-storey, corrugated-roofed buildings. Edmund sat for a moment, the car’s engine still ticking over, and stared at the straggling dereliction. So this was Ashwood. This was the place that once upon a time had spun silvered illusions and created celluloid legends.
Trixie Smith was waiting for him, in a weather-beaten estate car. Edmund reached for his umbrella, switched his car’s engine off, and shrugged on a quilted rainproof jacket before getting out to walk across to her. She was wearing a long mackintosh that in the damp atmosphere smelt slightly of dogs.
‘I hadn’t realized it would be quite so tumbledown,’ said Edmund, peering through the grey curtain of rain.
‘It looks to me,’ observed Ms Smith as they plodded across the squelching mud, ‘as if the whole lot’s about to sink into the mud anyway.’
‘It’s a mournful place,’ agreed the person propped against the inside of the security booth, clearly waiting for them. ‘Practically the end of the world, and myself I wouldn’t waste petrol on coming here. Still, that’s your privilege, and I’ve brought the keys to let you in as you wanted.’ He came out of the sketchy shelter of the booth and introduced himself as Liam Devlin. He was dark and careless-looking, and he looked as if he took the world and its woes very lightly indeed. He also looked as if he might be wearing yesterday’s clothes and had not bothered to take them off to go to bed last night.
‘I thought,’ said Edmund severely, ‘that your firm acted as site agents.’
‘So we do. But if,’ said Mr Devlin, ‘you can find a reliable contractor who doesn’t mind the ghosts, and who’s prepared to tidy this place up and keep it tidied, you’ll have done more than I ever could.’
‘Ghosts?’ said Edmund sharply.
‘Lucretia von Wolff. Who else did you think I meant?’
‘Oh, I see. You know Ashwood’s history, then?’
‘Everyone in the western world knows Ashwood’s history, Mr Fane. This is the place where the baroness killed two people and then committed suicide.’
‘She wasn’t a baroness,’ said Edmund, who was tired of telling people this.
‘You believe the official version, do you?’ demanded Trixie of Liam Devlin.
‘Isn’t it what most people believe?’
‘I don’t. I’ve been doing some delving,’ said Trixie. ‘And I’m becoming less and less convinced of Lucretia’s guilt.’
‘Is that theory or fantasy, Ms Smith?’ Devlin appeared perfectly happy to enter into a discussion in a field in the middle of a rainstorm.
‘Neither. The facts are there, and the reports about Alraune fall into a coherent chronological pattern. The birth at the beginning of World War II – the disappearance before the war ended. And,’ said Trixie, ‘I’m perfectly used to people scoffing at my theories, Mr Devlin, so you needn’t raise your eyebrows like that. I’m particularly used to men scoffing. And usually,’ added Ms Smith pointedly, ‘they’re men with inadequacies.’
‘Ah. In that case I stand chastened and rebuked.’
‘Well, don’t stand too long, because if we stay out in this rain any longer we’ll all catch pneumonia,’ said Edmund crossly. ‘How far is Studio Twelve from here? That’s the one Ms Smith wants to see.’
Liam glanced at Edmund’s shoes, which were leather, and with what Edmund could only feel was a slightly malicious air, said, ‘Well, now there’s the unfortunate thing. Studio Twelve’s on the very far side from here, wouldn’t you know it would be.’
‘Can’t we drive across to it?’
‘You can try,’ said Liam cordially. ‘But in this quagmire you’ll probably get bogged down within about ten seconds.’ Again there was the faintly mischievous look to where Edmund had parked, as if he found the meticulously polished car rather amusing. ‘Come on through the gates and we’ll view the terrain, though. They’re not locked nowadays, not that there’d be any point because as you can see the hinges have long since rusted away. And they say the gates are always open to those who ask.’ He surveyed the rain, and then turned up his coat collar. ‘Have we enough umbrellas? Good. Do you believe in ghosts by the way, Mr Fane?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Do you?’ demanded Trixie.
‘Not at all,’ said Liam cheerfully.
Studio Twelve was a long low building, exactly like all the others, windowless and weather-beaten, with narrow windows that had probably once had screens or shutters, but that had all been firmly boarded up, giving the place a blank, blind appearance.
Edmund was not in the least surprised when they had trouble getting the door to open; he had never seen such a collection of worm-eaten shanties in his life.
‘It’s only warped by the damp,’ said Liam. ‘It’s a new lock – all the buildings had new locks on after some teenagers got in last year and held a seance on the anniversary of the murder. Wait now, while I try a bit more force—’
This time the door swung protestingly inwards, and old, dank air gusted into their faces. They stepped warily into what appeared to be a dim lobby area with the floor covered in dead leaves and bird droppings, and then through a second door.
‘It’s very dark,’ began Trixie. ‘We shan’t be able to see much.’
‘I don’t suppose there’s any electricity on anyway,’ said Edmund.
But Liam had found a battery of switches just inside the door, and was pressing them all in turn. The first ones brought forth a sputtering crackle from the defunct light bulbs, but one lone bulb near the wall, apparently made of sterner stuff than the others, gave out an uncertain illumination.
‘Good God Almighty,’ said Edmund.
‘Dismal, isn’t it? But this,’ said Liam, ‘is what you wanted to see. This is where a legend died and a fable began. The stuff that good theses are made on, Ms Smith, isn’t that so?’
‘I did say I wanted background atmosphere,’ said Trixie, sounding slightly doubtful. ‘But I’d have to say that after the build-up this is a bit of a disappointment.’
‘Isn’t that always the way with life.’
Studio Twelve appeared to be little more than a massive warehouse-like structure, perhaps seventy or eighty feet in overall length, its walls mottled with damp and grey fingers of cobwebs stirring in the draught from the opened doors. Edmund tutted and brushed the cobwebs aside before advancing deeper in. The floor creaked badly under their footsteps, but it seemed fairly sound which was one mercy. The amount of dust was deplorable though, and it was probably as well not to look too closely into the corners, or in
to the dark void beyond the roof girders overhead. There were huge shrouded shapes looming out of the dimness as well, and it took a moment to realize that they were only the discarded junk of years: pieces of scenery and furniture and odd stage props, and cumbersome-looking filming equipment. But most of them were covered in dust-sheets or lightweight tarpaulins, which gave an oddly macabre appearance to the place. As if someone had deliberately blinded the eyes of this place…
‘What’s over there?’ said Edmund, abruptly.
‘Doors to the dressing-room section, I should think.’ Liam’s footsteps echoed uncannily as he walked to the far side, threading his way through the dust-sheeted shapes, and moving around the jumbled piles of furniture. After a moment he called back, ‘Yes, I think they are dressing-rooms – there’re four, no, five of them. Two fairly small ones – star dressing-rooms, I should think – and three large ones. Probably communal. Loo and washroom in between. Oh, and there’s what looks like an abandoned wardrobe-room as well, but I wouldn’t recommend going inside that unless you feel like being sick: the smell’s appalling.’
‘Mice and damp, I daresay,’ said Trixie briskly. ‘Especially if there’re any clothes still stored in there.’
‘You’re probably right,’ said Liam, coming back. ‘Listen now, I’m going to leave you to it if that’s all right. You’ve got the address of my office, haven’t you, in case you need it? It’s only a couple of miles from here.’
‘I’ll bring the keys back,’ said Edmund.
‘No need. It’s a Yale lock, so you can slam the door when you leave.’
‘You don’t suspect us of having a van parked discreetly outside to load the entire contents on to it and flog them in a street market?’ asked Edmund.
‘I hadn’t thought about it. Do you have contacts within street markets?’ inquired Liam politely, which was a remark Edmund chose to ignore.
‘How late can we stay?’ asked Trixie.
‘You can stay here until the last trump sounds for all I care. But it’ll start to get dark around four, and you won’t be able to see much at all then.’ He moved to the door. ‘Also,’ said Liam, ‘I’m reliably informed that the ghosts come out when the darkness closes down.’