Ghost Song

by Rayne, Sarah

  ‘Flora, were both of them going to rape you? Both the brothers?’

  ‘It seemed so,’ said Flora rather shortly.

  ‘D’you know, I think I will risk that murder charge after all.’ His arms came round her again and his hair brushed her cheek and there was something so extraordinarily sweet and intimate about the feel of his hair against her skin that Flora wished she could stay there for ever.

  But Rinaldi was returning, calling out that he had got the lantern and a box of safety matches, and Hal released Flora, and went to help him with the lantern.

  ‘Now for your assailants,’ he said, and led the way down the stone steps, holding up the lantern. It was what people used to call a bull’s eye lantern and it cast a sharp circle of warmth that Flora thought emphasized the darkness that lay beyond it.

  Stefan was half-sprawled against a wall with Anton standing next to him.

  ‘Reznik?’ said Hal sharply. ‘How badly hurt are you?’

  ‘Nothing broken,’ said Stefan. ‘But my leg is badly bruised, also my arm. It is no thanks to you I am not dead of a broken neck.’ He glared at Flora. ‘The fall was your fault, you bitch.’

  ‘If you call Miss Jones that name again you will find you really do have a broken leg,’ said Hal icily. ‘Perhaps a lot more than just a broken leg.’

  ‘I do not care. She led us both on. We were entitled to believe she was willing.’

  ‘Oh, how dare you tell such lies—’ began Flora.

  ‘And then, when we accepted your invitation, you laughed,’ said Anton, directly to Flora. ‘You are a cock-tease.’

  ‘Reznik, you’ll moderate your language!’

  ‘I didn’t lead anyone on!’ said Flora, breaking in on this. ‘I’ve never led anyone on! And I certainly made no kind of invitation to—to anything at all! And,’ she said crossly, ‘I’m extremely sorry you didn’t break both legs and all your ribs as well when you fell down here, Stefan, because it would serve you right!’

  ‘Termagant,’ said Hal. ‘But there are other ways of inflicting damage. You can lay charges against them at Vine Street in the morning.’

  Before Flora could answer this, Rinaldi said, apologetically, ‘Unpleasant for Miss Jones that would be, sir.’

  ‘Flora?’

  ‘I’d rather forget the whole thing,’ said Flora, daunted at the prospect of the police and perhaps a court hearing and avid people listening to the entire sorry story.

  ‘Much as it pains me, I think you’re right,’ said Hal. ‘Well, then, Stefan Reznik, you’re a black villain and so is your brother, and if either of you approaches her or enters this theatre again, I shall make sure you’re both thrown into prison for a very long time. For now, Rinaldi and I will help you back up the stairs and decant you both into a cab.’

  ‘I would rather stay here all night with the rats for company than walk one step with you,’ said Stefan sullenly.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. You’ll have to be helped up the steps anyway.’

  ‘And there aren’t any rats,’ said Flora, managing not to glance nervously into the corners. The room seemed to be lined with black brick and there was a jumble of scenery and stage props. At the far end, was the outline of the grave trap’s shaft.

  ‘Well, we can’t leave you here,’ said Hal. ‘Apart from anything, you’d probably try to burn the place down out of spite.’

  ‘But we could leave them, sir,’ put in Rinaldi eagerly. ‘There’s one of those new doors in the foyer. A one-way arrangement. It locks itself after you go through it. They could go out that way when they’re ready. And Shilling will be back at midnight, anyway. He can throw them out.’

  ‘We will not be thrown out by anyone,’ said Anton grandly. ‘We will leave after you have gone by ourselves. We will walk out through your stupid door.’

  ‘I suppose,’ said Hal slowly, ‘we could leave a note in Shilling’s room. We could say we’ve had to leave a couple of drunks down here, and warn him that it might be better to call the peelers to help out.’

  ‘We are not a couple of drunks—’

  ‘I can think of worse names to call you than that,’ said Hal challengingly.

  ‘There’s a constable who usually stands on the corner of Candle Square,’ said Rinaldi with the air of one pouring balm on stormy waters. ‘I can tell him what’s happened on my way home. I know him by sight and he knows me. I’ll warn him to look out for Shilling and perhaps come inside with him.’

  ‘A very good idea,’ said Hal. ‘And I’ll put a half-sovereign in the note for Shilling—that will cover the cost of a cab.’

  As Hal picked up the lantern, Flora said, ‘We should leave that for them.’

  ‘I’m not trusting this precious pair with a set of matches and a lamp,’ said Hal. ‘You’re too tender-hearted, Flora. Half an hour in the dark won’t kill them.’

  They said goodnight to Rinaldi on the edge of Candle Square. Hal advised him to go home and take a good tot of something to help him sleep. ‘And perhaps you’d have that tot on me, Rinaldi,’ he had said, and there had been the chink of coins, and Rinaldi’s words of thanks. There had also been a final light-hearted exchange about the forthcoming electrification of the Tarleton and how dazzling it would make the Christmas pantomime.

  Hal had paused for a moment outside the theatre, looking up at it.

  ‘It’s a shockingly ugly place, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘But it’s unashamedly ugly. And it’s got a lot of character.’

  ‘That’s very perceptive of you,’ said Flora.

  ‘D’you know how old it is?’

  ‘I don’t think anyone knows, not exactly. But that inscription over the stage door—’

  ‘Please one, please all, be they great or be they small.’

  ‘Yes.’ It was nice that he had noticed this; not many people did. ‘It’s supposed to have been said or written by a man called Richard Tarleton—an Elizabethan clown actor. The theatre doesn’t go back that far, of course, or anything like it, but it might mean the site has theatrical associations.’

  ‘It’d be nice to think so.’

  As they turned to walk along to get a cab, Flora suddenly looked back.

  ‘Something wrong?’

  ‘It’s just that I thought I saw someone going into Platt’s Alley. But it’s difficult to see properly in this weather.’

  ‘Creeping fog from the river,’ said Hal, peering through the greyness. ‘It’ll probably hang around for days. I can’t see anything.’

  ‘It looked as if whoever it was, was wearing one of those deep-brimmed hats and a long coat. But the fog plays peculiar tricks.’

  ‘I expect it was Bob Shilling you saw or even Rinaldi’s constable taking a look round.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Should we go back, though?’

  ‘I think you’ve had enough of that place for one night,’ he said.

  But as they walked towards Blackfriars Bridge Flora was remembering the soft footsteps inside the theatre and the just-audible humming. I probably imagined it, she thought, or perhaps it was wind sighing in the old brickwork or the roof, or even a trapped animal somewhere.

  They picked up a cab near the bridge. The lights along the bank were blurry because of the fog and they reflected smudgily in the river. Inside the cab, Hal put his arm round her and Flora no longer cared what had happened earlier, because she wanted to trap this moment and fold it away somewhere safe, so that when she was old she would be able to unwrap it and remember the feeling. Would she be able to smile because Hal was still in her life to share it, or would she have a stab of pain, and think, ah yes, that was the night when I was really happy.

  When they reached her flat, Minnie cooked a belated supper while Flora washed and put on fresh clothes. Thankfully there was a bottle of reasonably good wine which had been a present from someone; Hal opened it and stayed to eat the supper which Minnie laid on the round cherrywood table in the window. The fire burned up brightly and the room was warm and safe.

  They did n
ot talk much about what had just happened. Flora thought this might be because it was the first time Hal had been in her flat and neither of them wanted to spoil it. He seemed to like it, and she was pleased when he wanted to know about the evening’s performance. When she told him about the offer of Cinderella, he said it sounded like a great compliment and certainly a step forward in her career. Then he paused, and asked if she was wedded to the theatre for life.

  ‘I hadn’t thought about it,’ said Flora carefully.

  ‘No? I just wondered if there might be other possibilities—other proposals for the future—for your future—that you would consider?’

  Flora stared at him and felt a huge delight unfolding inside her. But it seemed important not to be too intense—not yet, at any rate—so she simply said, yes, she would consider certain proposals, very definitely she would consider them.

  Hal smiled and said perhaps they could talk more about that quite soon, and in the meantime could he pour her another glass of wine to go with Minnie Bean’s excellent supper?

  Flora accepted the wine, and wished all over again that these moments of pure happiness could be captured and stored in tissue paper and lavender, and re-lived somewhere in the future.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The Present

  ‘I’M SO SORRY TO bother you again, Miss Seymour,’ said Robert, speaking into the phone as off-handedly as he could. ‘But I’ve just realized I’ve left my damp meter in the Tarleton. I need it on a daily basis for work, so I wondered if I could borrow the keys again, just to go in to get it?’

  There was a perceptible pause before Shona Seymour answered, during which Robert had time to think that surely she could not refuse. Or would she offer to go and look for the damp meter herself? If so, she would have a long and fruitless search because this was merely a ploy to get back in and see if there was any evidence of the figure he and Hilary had seen the previous night.

  But Shona said, ‘That would be all right, Mr Fallon. Do you want to call in for the keys this morning? Or can I send someone over to you with them?’

  ‘If someone could bring them to my office that would be very helpful,’ said Robert, instantly hoping it would be Hilary. ‘I’ve got a couple of surveys booked today, both in Blackfriars, so I can call at the Tarleton on my way from one to the other. Oh, and would tomorrow be all right for returning the keys? I don’t think I’ll be free much before half past six today and your office would be closed by then, wouldn’t it?’ He was hoping she would agree to this, because he wanted the keys overnight and did not want to risk Hilary sneaking them out after hours a second time.

  ‘Yes, we would be closed by then,’ said Shona. ‘But unfortunately the owner’s instructions are very specific and the keys are never to be out overnight.’

  ‘Couldn’t I put them through the letter box?’

  ‘We don’t have a letter box on the street door—mostly for security reasons—and that door will be locked at six.’ She paused, then while Robert was trying to think of another suggestion, said, ‘Half past six isn’t so very late, though. How about meeting me somewhere to hand the keys back?’

  This was the last thing Robert had expected, but he said firmly, ‘I wouldn’t dream of putting you to so much trouble.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be any trouble. This isn’t exactly a nine to five job, you know.’ Even over the phone it was apparent she was smiling. ‘Shall we make it that place on the corner by the Tarleton itself?’ She named the wine bar Robert remembered from his nocturnal visit with Hilary: a man had come out of it while they were watching and they had not been sure if he was their ghost-figure. He was rather relieved Shona had not suggested Linkman’s which he already associated with Hilary, so he said the wine bar would be fine.

  ‘I’ll expect you any time between half past six and seven,’ she said. ‘We can have a drink together.’ Her voice slid several octaves lower. ‘Perhaps even dinner,’ said Shona softly. ‘Goodbye, Robert.’

  ‘Shona Seymour inviting a young man to have dinner with her is tantamount to Messalina inspecting a new consignment of slaves,’ said Hilary, when she delivered the keys to Robert’s office halfway through the morning. ‘You’d better wear combat gear. I like your office, by the way—I love all these old maps you’ve got on the walls. Medieval and Elizabethan London all the way to the twenty-first century complete with the M25 and the Millennium Dome. Is that one Roman London? Oh yes, I see it is. Londinium. I didn’t know the Thames was called the Flumen— Oh wait though, that’s the Latin word for river, isn’t it?’

  ‘They’re quite useful for finding places,’ said Robert, pleased at Hilary’s appreciation of his maps. ‘But I like having them up: I like the orderliness of the progression from the original Roman settlement, all the way down to the present day. I shan’t go to the meeting with Shona,’ he said. ‘I’ll have to take the keys back before you close tonight and say I re-arranged my appointments and that the wine bar meeting won’t be necessary.’

  ‘She won’t like that,’ said Hilary, grinning. ‘She’ll be thwarted and rejected and we’ll all have to put up with her sulking tomorrow. She hates to let one get away.’

  ‘Well, this one is definitely getting away. It’s a bit of a nuisance, though,’ said Robert. ‘I thought I’d hit on such a credible ploy for having the keys overnight.’

  ‘You were going to look for clues to the ghost?’

  ‘Yes. And I was going to take a closer look at the underground wall.’ He stared at the keys she had put on his desk.

  ‘Robert, you don’t think…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That we’re becoming just the smallest bit paranoid? A bit—uh—infatuated with the Tarleton? I know I’ve been fascinated by it for ages, but…’

  ‘Of course we’re becoming paranoid and infatuated,’ said Robert. ‘But I’m beyond caring. I’m a sober—well, usually sober—practical and respectable surveyor. I don’t go in for fantasies and I don’t have “feelings” about buildings. I can’t afford to; I see too many.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But I’m beginning to agree with you that there’s something very peculiar about that theatre. What did that old actor say in those memoirs? That the Tarleton kept its secrets? Maybe there was a secret once—something relatively innocent, but something that started an eerie local legend about a man who wouldn’t let his face be seen in daylight.’

  ‘It’s amazing how shivery that is when you say it aloud,’ said Hilary.

  ‘Yes. Has the owner really issued that instruction about the keys never being out overnight?’

  ‘No idea. I still haven’t been able to get into the filing cabinet in Shona’s office. But I’m beginning to think the owner is a figment of everybody’s imagination, Shona’s included,’ said Hilary. ‘Or it’ll turn out to be someone really off the wall: a defunct monarch or something. Maybe Charles II requisitioned it on the sly for one of his mistresses, or Jack the Ripper bought it to stuff victims behind the wall, or… That last one doesn’t sound too wildly incredible, does it?’

  ‘Yes, it does,’ said Robert. ‘For one thing it’s the wrong era—that wall’s later than Jack the Ripper by a good twenty years.’ But he smiled, liking the way her eyes lit up with enthusiasm. ‘Have you thought of requesting a search of land registry records? I think you can apply to HM Land Registry for copies of title information nowadays.’

  ‘Can you really?’

  ‘Yes, but don’t get too carried away; there’s no guarantee that it will be registered. Most property doesn’t get registered until it changes hands. So if it’s been in the same ownership for a long time, or been passed direct from father to son without a formal conveyance being drawn up, the land registry people probably won’t be able to help. But it might be worth trying.’

  ‘Let me write all that down,’ said Hilary, diving into her handbag for pen and paper. Then, ‘Are you really going to look at that cellar wall again?’ she said.

  ‘Yes, I am. But no, you can’t c
ome with me,’ he said as Hilary started to speak. ‘For one thing I don’t know when I can do it, and for another thing you might be seen. It won’t matter if I’m seen, because I’m supposed to be looking for the damp meter, but it’ll matter if you are.’ He hesitated, and then said, ‘I could phone you this evening to let you know how I got on.’

  ‘Yes, please. I’ll be in all evening.’

  She got up to go and Robert wondered if they had reached a stage where he could suggest meeting for a meal. But he still did not know if Hilary was linked up to anyone, and even if she was not, she might be seeing this as a semi-business relationship. It was clear that she loved her work and was deeply involved in the research side of it.

  Caley Merrick had spent the afternoon at the Harlequin offices, addressing envelopes for a mailshot about a forthcoming exhibition. A two-day task, it was; Hilary Bryant had called him in, apologizing for what she called the dull nature of the work, but saying they hoped he would be available to help out. Caley had not said he would always be available for anything remotely connected to the Tarleton, or that he would have put up with far more than dullness to spend time in the Harlequin’s offices. He had thanked her and gone along the next day.

  He always worked at the little desk set aside for him in a corner of the main room, not intruding on anything, quietly getting on with whatever he was given, but listening to all that was said. The Tarleton was mentioned only occasionally. There had been an afternoon last month when some of the staff had got into a crazy discussion about it, vying with one another to make up fantastic stories about its history and reasons for its long closure. One of the freelance people, Judy Randall, had been there, and the two girls from publicity and the man from accounts had come in to see what the laughter was about. At six o’clock, with the office closing, they had all decided to go along to Linkman’s to continue the discussion there. Hilary Bryant had asked Caley to go as well, but he had not done so, partly because he would have felt out of place and not known how to join in, but partly because he was afraid he might carelessly display too much knowledge about the Tarleton itself. It was important always to keep a guard, to be wary. But as he made his quiet way home, he thought about those people—Hilary and Judy and the others—who all had bright, interesting careers and bright interesting lives, and who would live in nice houses or apartments with families and friends round them. He did not quite hate them for all that, but he could not help remembering that he had only ever had a dull job and that he had always lived in the same narrow rather threadbare house, with not much money. What he did hate them for was the way they had made fun of the Tarleton.