Ghost Song

by Rayne, Sarah

  The book had been published in 1929 by some small publishing house Caley had never heard of and was probably long since defunct. But finding it was an extraordinary experience. Caley spent the next few days preoccupied and wrapped in his own thoughts—Mary would have hated that: she would have tried to break in to his absorption, saying, someone’s got the glumps today, and Caley would have had to repress his annoyance.

  He made several subsequent visits to the library to make sure he had found all Prospero’s references to the Tarleton. He was careful to allow himself just fifteen minutes each time, it was not very likely he was being watched, but he was taking no chances.

  After she had taken the keys to Robert, Hilary went back to her office and spent the rest of the morning trying to work. She tried not to think too much about Robert, or to wonder whether he was actually in the theatre now, and if so, what he might have found.

  She could hear the accounts people laughing about something upstairs, but her own office was quiet. Caley Merrick had finished his envelope addressing yesterday, and Shona, along with one of the freelancers, was sitting in on a presentation for a series of plays on Radio 4. The plays were set in an Edwardian spa town in 1900 and the commissioning editor had liked the writer’s initial pitch but wanted an opinion on authenticity, which was why the Harlequin had been asked to provide a freelance. There would be a consultation fee, which was why Shona was accompanying the freelance.

  All this meant Hilary had a free rein for an hour or so, and she was going to spend the time trying to trace the fruity old actor who had listened to the story of the Tarleton’s ghost in a Bankside tavern called the Pickled Lobster Pot, and had set it down in his memoirs. She had not found out if the Lobster Pot still existed, or what it might these days be called, but if it was still a pub Hilary was going to suggest to Robert that they have a drink or a meal there. Purely for research purposes. She grinned at this last thought, because although she was calling it research, the truth was she was finding Robert, with his quiet, precise mind, very attractive. It was impossible to imagine him saying, as Gil had so often and so annoyingly said, that oh dear, it was too cold an evening to go out, or that he had been working so hard he was only fit for a hot bath and early bed on his own. Hilary was very glad indeed that the lukewarm relationship with Gil had petered out of its own accord.

  Anyway, apart from Robert, the research was genuinely absorbing; Hilary would be doing it even if Robert looked like a bag of nails. The fact that he did not was just icing on the cake.

  The actor’s memoirs had been tentatively dated by somebody at Durham University as being from the early 1930s so it might be worth travelling up there to talk to that somebody. This would not be a problem, it was a journey that could easily be made at a weekend. The problem might be that he or she could have left Durham and be living somewhere inaccessible like Tibet or the Cayman Islands.

  In the meantime, there was the British Library which was supposed to have a copy of every book ever printed. Hilary thought this was a legal requirement dating back to about 1910 or 1911, but it might not cover privately printed memoirs and even if it did she had not got a title or the author’s name.

  She was perfectly prepared to scour the entire British Library for which she had a reader’s ticket, but she thought some items were still housed within the British Museum and she did not have a ticket for that. She knew several people who had—Judy Randall was one of them because she was a voracious reader of odd subjects and quirky corners of history—but a reader’s ticket was not something people would be inclined to lend. Also, the British Museum might be very diligent about checking identities against tickets; Hilary at once conjured up an image of herself being ignominiously frog-marched out of the august ivory tower for misappropriation of a ticket, and dumped unceremoniously in Russell Square.

  She had got as far as discovering that the British Library was currently putting a large proportion of its out of copyright books on-line which, in the current situation, might be useful, when a letter arrived by special delivery. Hilary signed for it and opened the envelope without thinking very much about it. All kinds of peculiar missives turned up here, from tattered plays people had found in attics and thought might be valuable, to sepia photographs of great-uncles who had toured obscure provincial repertory theatres in the 1920s, or playbills for things like Getting Gertie’s Garter or the original run of Charley’s Aunt.

  The special delivery contained none of these. It was a letter which looked as if it had been typed on an old-fashioned manual typewriter. Although the envelope had not been addressed to anyone specifically, the letter itself began ‘Dear Miss Seymour’. It was dated the previous day.

  Dear Miss Seymour

  You will be aware that the restraint imposed on the Tarleton Music Hall by the terms of my father’s will ended a year ago. I do apologize for not getting in touch with you before this: unfortunately, a period of ill-health precluded it.

  However, I now feel strong enough to discuss plans for putting the theatre into use, and with that in mind, hope we can make arrangements to meet in order to discuss the possibilities.

  I seldom travel far nowadays, so I wonder if you could visit me here as soon as possible? My house is some miles outside Glastonbury, but although the village is quite isolated I think the drive from London would not take much over three hours. If the journey is too far for you to make here and back in one day, I should be very happy for you to stay overnight. It is quite a large house, so it would not be a problem.

  It is a strange feeling to know that the Tarleton is to be woken from its long sleep at last; I am unsure how much you know, but I expect you’re aware that my father’s will stipulated it should remain closed until fifty years after his death. He died in the mid-1950s, although the theatre has, of course, been closed for a total of almost a hundred years now.

  By way of authorization, I enclose a letter from the bank with whom you have dealt all these years. The bank holds my father’s will and the title deeds to the Tarleton, and I expect they could make these available for you if necessary.

  I look forward to hearing from you and to meeting you.

  With kind regards

  Madeleine Ferrelyn

  It was as if a hand—an elderly lady’s hand, a little shaky but perfectly able to compose a clear, businesslike letter and add a firm signature on good-quality paper—had reached out of the past and clasped Hilary’s own hand. For several moments the modern office with its computers and phones and faxes blurred and receded.

  Madeleine Ferrelyn. The Tarleton’s owner—its owner. The information for which Hilary had scoured filing cabinets and history books and back copies of stage magazines, to say nothing of contemplating an HM Land Registry search, had been presented to her out of the blue by the mundane medium of recorded post. The mysterious owner about whom she had spun so many fantasies was neither mysterious nor fantastic. She was alive and well and living just outside Glastonbury, and apparently planning to bring the theatre out of its long sleep because a restraint in her father’s will had ended.

  Hilary stared at the letter for a long time. It certainly answered part of the mystery because it provided the owner’s name and address, but it also set up a whole new series of mysteries. Who had Madeleine Ferrelyn’s father been and why had his will placed a restraint on the theatre for fifty years? Might it be some kind of entail? Hilary had only the vaguest knowledge of entails, but she did not think they included peculiar directives about keeping closed and sealed a valuable property which, handled correctly, might have earned the cost of its maintenance at the very least, and at best might have racked up some profit.

  The address on the letter was Levels House, Fosse Leigh, Somerset, and there was a phone number. Hilary had never been to that part of England, but she associated it with Stonehenge, legends about King Arthur and pop festivals. It was disconcerting to discover that it might also hold the key to a mystery surrounding an old music hall.

  Accordin
g to Madeleine Ferrelyn (was she Miss or Mrs?), Levels House was just over three hours’ drive from London. It was now twelve o’clock, which meant if Hilary left the office at once and borrowed or hired or stole a car she could be in Fosse Leigh, at Levels House, and talking to this link to the past by four or five o’clock. Or she could pick up the phone on her desk and dial a number and be speaking to Madeleine Ferrelyn in the next five minutes. This latter prospect was so remarkable she had to make a conscious effort not to reach for the phone there and then. Much as she wanted to know what lay at the heart of all this—much as she wanted to speak to this unknown lady—she could not bypass Shona, to whom the letter had been addressed.

  The street door opening downstairs made her jump. It was only someone coming into the offices on the floor below, but it jerked Hilary back to the present. She took a photocopy of the letter, tucked it into her bag and placed the original on Shona’s desk.

  It was going to be very interesting indeed to see what Shona did about this, and it was going to be interesting in another way to talk to Robert about it. She resisted the temptation to phone him. But it was impossible to concentrate on anything serious, so Hilary abandoned the quest for the fruity actor and focussed instead on some overdue cataloguing that everyone had been putting off for weeks and would not require too much concentration. Shona phoned in at twelve thirty to say the Radio 4 presentation had gone very well and she and the freelance were going on to lunch. Hilary remembered that the freelance was a post-graduate student of twenty-four with soulful eyes, and supposed Shona would be carrying him back to her flat for most of the afternoon. If Robert brought the keys back, at least Shona would be out of the way when he did so, although that might depend on the freelance’s willingness to be seduced and also his staying power.

  She went out to the delicatessen on the corner to buy a sandwich which she ate at her desk. Shona and the freelance were probably cosily ensconced in a Charlotte Street restaurant or a Soho bistro by this time, and Robert might be padding round the Tarleton.

  It was rather a relief when a set of accounts which apparently refused to balance was brought down, and her help requested in untangling it. But as she worked, her mind was on this new piece of the puzzle she had just been handed, and she was wondering if Madeleine Ferrelyn in her isolated Glastonbury village was eyeing the telephone, wondering if her letter had reached London and how soon Miss Seymour from the Harlequin Society would phone.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  AFTER HILARY LEFT HIS office, Robert sat looking at the keys for several minutes. If he intended to behave correctly he had until about five o’clock to enter the place and investigate the underground room. If he intended to behave other than correctly he had a lot longer, in fact he had as long as he wanted.

  He dropped the keys into his briefcase, and before he could change his mind went along to the nearest DIY place where there was a key-cutting service, surrendering the keys with reluctance, and arranging to call back at three o’clock. After this he went off to survey an empty warehouse near Waterloo Station which was to be converted into trendy apartments for City types, working through it meticulously but finding it mind-numbingly boring because at the moment all properties that were not the Tarleton were mind-numbingly boring.

  At two fifteen, planning ahead, he wrote a note to Shona Seymour, explaining that he need not, after all, trouble her to meet him that evening because he had found the damp meter in his car. He left the envelope unsealed so he could enclose the keys when he had collected them along with the newly cut copies. He was by now convinced that he was in the grip of some bizarre madness, because the list of his felonies was lengthening by the hour, and before much longer would include unlawful entering and wilful damage to property. The fact that he would make good the wilful damage before leaving the property was of no relevance. The fact that he would very much like to have Hilary with him while he was committing the wilful damage was of no relevance either. He was going to keep Hilary clear of the unlawful stuff as far as possible but he would phone her that evening, as they had arranged; if it was not too late and if she did not live too far out it might be possible to meet. He smiled at the prospect.

  When he reached the Harlequin, Hilary was in the main office, apparently absorbed in a discussion with two people over what looked like a set of accounts spread over the desk. Robert handed over the envelope with the keys and his note, winked at Hilary when the others were not looking, and went back down to the street. This was something else that was probably part of the current madness, because he was not at all the kind of person who winked at people. The girlfriends he had had to date had all been very conventional and quiet, and it would never have occurred to Robert to wink at any of them in such a rakish fashion.

  For about the hundredth time he thought Hilary was having a very peculiar effect on him.

  Shona’s day, which had started out so promisingly, had ended disappointingly.

  The presentation for the radio plays had gone very well—the Harlequin might not actually get a specific credit in the programme, but it would get generalized credit with several programme editors for providing such a good free-lance. This was deeply gratifying. However, the freelance, who had been so constructive during the presentation, had not been at all constructive when it came to more intimate matters. Invited to lunch, he said he would be delighted to accept, but would have to be back at Muswell Hill by four o’clock, because his partner would be expecting him. His partner turned out to be called Igor and played in a rap band called Russian Revolution and Shona, by that time committed to buying an expensive lunch at a fashionable little trattoria, had to remind herself that you could not win them all and that some could not be won at all. There was still the pleasant prospect of Robert Fallon that evening.

  But it seemed, when she got back to the office, that she could not win any of them today and there was no prospect of Robert Fallon on that evening and probably not on any other evening either. He had left her a note explaining that he had found the errant damp meter in his car. Therefore he need not trouble Miss Seymour after all and here were the keys, returned with his thanks.

  Shona, reading this in the privacy of her own office, frowned at the neat writing and the infuriatingly courteous phrases. It was a pity he had got away, because she had found him attractive. She liked his eyes which were deep set and clear grey, set under strong brows, and she liked the dark brown hair which was cropped, but so thick it would feel like fur or velvet if you caressed it. He had put on glasses to discuss the report with her. They were modern with steel frames, but somehow gave him the appearance of a nineteenth-century scholar. She was just considering phoning him in case something could be salvaged for the evening, when she saw Madeleine Ferrelyn’s letter.

  As soon as Shona read it, all thoughts of Robert vanished. So after all these years, the Tarleton was going be brought back into the light by this unknown lady, and any secrets that might lie in its bowels would be dragged up into the light. The old nightmare stirred slightly.

  In the outer office the phone rang, and she heard Hilary answer it, but the sounds were muted and faintly distorted, as if Shona was encased in thick glass. The two people from accounts came down the stairs with the PR consultant, grumbling about having to face the underground and how the Northern Line got more crowded every week.

  After this, silence fell, although Hilary was still working; Shona could hear the soft tap of the computer keyboard. For the first time she realized it had probably been Hilary who had opened Madeleine Ferrelyn’s letter, which meant she must have read it. Taking the letter with her, she went out to Hilary’s desk.

  Hilary looked up and smiled. ‘Are you working late, boss?’

  ‘Not very late. I’m going home in a minute.’ Shona perched on the edge of the desk and said without preamble, ‘You read Madeleine Ferrelyn’s letter, I expect?’

  Hilary hesitated slightly, then said, ‘Yes, I did. It wasn’t marked private or anything so I opened it withou
t thinking—’

  ‘I didn’t mean that. I wondered what you made of it?’

  ‘Very intriguing,’ said Hilary promptly, ‘and very mysterious.’

  ‘Most people who’ve ever worked here have thought the Tarleton’s mysterious and intriguing,’ said Shona. ‘I certainly have. We’ve never been told much about it: I probably don’t know a great deal more than you.’ She could almost feel Hilary’s disbelief at this, but before Hilary could speak, she said, ‘The instructions to the Harlequin Society about the Tarleton are very clear. We’re managing agents and we have to keep it maintained, weatherproof and insured against all the usual risks. We also send in contract cleaners a couple of times a year—that isn’t strictly necessary in an unused building, but we do it anyway. And we check that the pipes are sound and the electrical wiring isn’t a fire risk. You know all that. The accounts go to a bank and they authorize all payments and settle everything on a quarterly basis. You probably know that as well. Over the years I’ve passed on any requests to buy the place or lease it, or put on the odd show or exhibition there, but the bank have always said the same thing: their client won’t give permission. Their instructions are as specific as ours: the place has to stay sealed up and there’s never been any hint as to why.’

  ‘And it’s been sealed up for more than ninety years,’ said Hilary thoughtfully.

  ‘Yes. My predecessor had to agree that we would only ever deal with the bank and that we would respect the request for secrecy until the restraint was lifted. I had to do the same.’ She paused, then said, ‘Strictly between us, Hilary, I do know that my former boss checked land registries and transfers of property to see if he could find out the owner’s name, but he didn’t find anything.’ She did not normally talk to her staff quite so openly—she did not, in fact, talk to anyone so openly—but the Tarleton had always made her uncomfortable and it was rather a relief to be discussing it like this.