Ghost Song

by Rayne, Sarah

  ‘That’s very kind of you,’ said Shona, but inside she was screaming at them to go.

  After what felt like a lifetime, they put on their coats and then Edna saw it had started to rain. They had not brought umbrellas and Mona did not want her best hat spoiled, so Shona hunted out an old one for them to borrow.

  ‘If you make a dash for it now, you’ll miss the worst of the storm,’ she said, and the Cheesewrights, who did not like storms, went scurrying down the gloomy driveway with the thick laurel bushes on both sides.

  The rain was coming down quite heavily: Shona could hear it dripping mournfully from the trees and splashing out of the leaking gutter outside the kitchen window. She waited to make sure neither of the Cheesewrights came back for something they had forgotten, then crossed the hall and unlocked the sitting-room door.

  It was a gloomy room at the best of times, but with rain rippling down the window panes it was bathed in an eerie greenish light as if the whole house lay under water. Shona closed the door and looked down at what lay behind it. The thick curtain was just as she had left it. Or was it? Hadn’t a fold slipped a bit? Exactly as if a hand had feebly tried to push it off? Nerves again, nothing more. Elspeth Ross had been dead since half past ten yesterday morning and it was now four o’clock so if the encyclopedia could be trusted, rigor should be almost gone. Shona changed into jeans and trainers, and found the cellar-door key. The rain had turned the hall into an underwater cave as well. She unlocked the cellar and the door swung open. There were the steps and the gaping darkness. She had resolved not to remember the nightmare of all those years ago, but she found that she was unable to ignore it.

  Oil lamps flickering and Grandfather and Mother moving back and forth, building that wall, laying brick on brick, so a murdered woman could be hidden… So that no one would ever know…

  No one would ever know about this murdered woman, either. The wall built all those years ago was still more than half in place. The workmen had knocked out some of the bricks to get at the water pipes and the police had knocked out some more when Anna’s body came tumbling out that day, but most of the wall was still there. And—this was the important thing—the bricks they had knocked out were still there as well.

  Shona propped the door open, then went back to the drawing room. Elspeth’s arm, when she lifted a corner of the curtain to feel it, was cold and very slightly stiff. Was that rigor wearing off? Presumably it was, which meant the next part ought to be relatively easy.

  Once she had conquered her stupid revulsion at actually handling the thing that had been Elspeth Ross, it was very easy indeed. Shona was glad she had tied that tea towel over the face; even so, she kept imagining Elspeth’s boiled eyes watching her reproachfully through the cotton. She left the curtain over the body, managing to make a kind of parcel by tying string round it at the ankles and wrists, then took hold of the ankles and dragged it out of the room. The parcelled-up body needed only a shove to send it falling down the steps.

  Walling the body up took a long time, but not as long as Shona had feared. She had searched the outhouses beforehand and found a large bag of plaster filler—she thought it was the kind plasterers used when they were repairing walls in old houses. The bag had been opened, but it was still two-thirds full and some thrifty person had resealed it with a garden tie. Shona had been relieved to find it, because she had been thinking she would have to take the bus to the nearest DIY store or even a builders’ merchant to buy something suitable. She had not wanted to do that partly because she had no idea what to ask for, and also because a young girl buying heavy-duty plaster mix and carrying it home on a bus might be remembered. But it was all right—there was the nearly full bag, and there were even instructions printed on it as to the amount and temperature of water needed to mix it. Carrying the sealed bag into the kitchen, she thought her grandfather and her mother must have bought several packs of this all those years ago: one packet would not have been enough to cement that wall in place. But there had been some left over, which Mother had stored in the outhouse because you never knew what you might want in the future.

  Mixing the filler was not difficult. Shona carried two big plastic bottles of water down to the cellar and used an old plastic bucket which she stood on a couple of old towels. The towels could be burned afterwards and the bucket could be well washed and left outside to weather, which would get rid of any tell-tale traces.

  She had brought torches and oil lamps and in the flickering light she again had the eerie feeling that she had gone back to that night just before her ninth birthday. Were the ghosts of Mother and Grandfather watching her, as she had watched them that night? Once she turned round sharply, thinking there had been a soft footfall on the steps, and once she was sure something blew cold sour breath on the back of her neck. But each time there was nothing and she turned back to her task.

  Anna was here, of course, watching and jeering. You’re on your own now, aren’t you? said Anna. You can’t risk making any mistakes, because there’s no one left who’ll watch out for you… So get it right, Shona, otherwise they’ll catch you… And you know what will happen if they catch you, don’t you? Thornacre Asylum for the Criminally Insane… That’s what’ll happen to you, Shona.

  I’m not insane, said Shona to Anna’s spiteful ghost. I’m not.

  They’ll say you are, though, and they’ll lock you away for the rest of your life. Thornacre Asylum, that’s where they’ll put you, Shona… Perhaps they’ll even lock you up in your father’s old room… And wouldn’t that be a grisly way to sit out your life, said Anna.

  Shona shivered and focussed on what had to be done. Elspeth’s body was awkward and floppy and it was difficult to drag it through the opening of the partly demolished wall. When she finally managed to cram the flabby thing into the small space, it fell forwards, the shrouded arms dropping onto Shona’s shoulders in a travesty of an embrace, the head lolling forward. Shona gasped and shuddered and pushed the disgusting thing back, wedging it more firmly. It sagged a bit, like a very round-shouldered person, but this time it stayed put. She was annoyed to find she was trembling so much she had to sit on the ground for several moments. Horrid dead thing with its scalded, boiled-meat face. The sooner it was bricked up and out of sight the better.

  Don’t make any mistakes, Shona… You really can’t afford to make any mistakes.

  She began to spread the wet plaster filler onto the bricks, laying the discarded ones on top of each other in careful rows. The slap of wet mortar formed a rhythm in her mind. Tantallon, it said, like the old hunting cry, ‘tantivy’. Tantallon, Tantallon, keep up, Shona, keep in step, or they’ll find you out. They’ll put you in Thornacre for the rest of your life. One brick on top of another, Shona, that’s the thing. Tan-Tallon, Tan-Tallon…

  Iain Seymour would have known how it felt to cover up a victim’s face. The newspaper said he had buried them on the headland—had he shuddered because they were staring sightlessly up at him? Had he been relieved when the earth finally hid their faces? But he had been mad and he had been caught. Shona was not mad and she was not going to get caught.

  She managed to banish the nagging rhythm of the castle’s name and to finish building the wall. It was surprisingly easy and as the jagged-edged hole began to fill up, it did not look at all bad. Probably a master bricklayer would not have passed it, but it was not very likely that any master bricklayers would come down here to make an inspection. If the house were to be sold, as Shona was already planning, builders would probably tramp round, but by that time the filler would have hardened and all anyone would see was an old cellar wall, uneven with age. The bricks themselves were genuinely old and she could smear them with dirt or soot as well. If she could drag something in front of it—something that looked as if it had been there for years—that would be even better. There was an old free-standing stove in the outhouse that might do if she could get it down here. It would take all night to dismantle and bring it down here piecemeal, then reassemble, but s
he had all night.

  Anna whispered that no matter how much Shona covered her tracks, she would never be free of the memories. She would never forget what she had done, said Anna, it would be with her always. The wall and what was behind it…Elspeth Ross, whom Shona had killed…

  But I will forget, said Shona silently. I will.

  She had forgotten. The bustle of activity in her last few weeks in Moil had pushed the ghosts into the darkest, deepest places of her mind.

  There had been the round of subdued farewells to people in the village—the Cheesewrights, the doctor, people at the school she had attended. She was sad to be leaving, Shona said to them all, but after Elspeth had decided to go back to her family in Lincolnshire the house had seemed too full of tragic memories. Oh yes, she would return for visits, she said, knowing she would never do so.

  She placed Grith House with a big anonymous firm of estate agents in York—a company who specialized in renting country houses to people coming to work in the UK on two- or three-year contracts. She would have liked to sell the place outright, but she had finally decided she could not risk any kind of comprehensive renovation because of what was behind the cellar wall. The agents would let the house to people who wanted a reasonable family base during their stint in England, but who would not bother about more than surface redeco-ration. Short of leaving it standing empty, which would have been asking for all kinds of trouble, or continuing to live there herself with the ghosts, which she could not face, Shona thought this was the best solution. She would be able to check the house between tenancies and make sure the cellar wall was undisturbed. She instructed the agents to communicate with her through her bank, saying with perfect truth that she was moving to London, and was not yet sure where she would be living.

  By the time she found the little Tabard Square flat and the job with the Harlequin Society, the deaths of her mother and Elspeth had become a dream—one of those uncomfortable dreams she had occasionally experienced as a child. Something unreal and something that dissolved when light shone directly onto it.

  Until a mention of an old theatre, its name so very similar to Tantallon, touched a chord in Shona’s mind. Until an old, hastily constructed wall beneath the Tarleton—a wall almost identical to the wall at Grith—brought the fears pouring back.

  Anna’s body had been found and her killer had remained a mystery. Shona had got away with that death. But if Elspeth’s body were to be found, they would know it had been Shona herself who put the stupid creature there—there was no one else who could have done it. So the brick wall in the cellar must never be broken open, because Elspeth’s body must never, never be found. It must always remain one of the secrets. Secrets…

  This time when Shona came up out of the past, she was no longer so sure she was in Levels House. When she looked round her, the room with its soft comfortable chairs and pleasant oak mantel was blurry and indistinct, as if another image was trying to get through: the image of that darker, bleaker house where she had grown up. The fragments of memory—the terrible truth about her father, Anna, the deaths of her mother and Elspeth, the need to play a part to people at Moil—all whirled and spun in her head, but she forced them away, because this was not Grith: it was Levels House. She and Hilary had driven here earlier today.

  Did you? said Anna’s voice. Are you sure about that, Shona? Are you sure this isn’t Grith after all?

  Shona was no longer sure. It was difficult to keep things separate sometimes—the past and the present, Grith and the Tarleton, the Tarleton and Tantallon castle… the Tarleton and Tantallon castle, both with its curtain, the one a swathe of velvet, the other a wall made of stone… But the similarities did not mean they were both killing grounds. Tantallon had been Iain Seymour’s killing ground, but it had no connection with the old theatre. She must be careful not to become confused. She got up, a little stiff from having been in one position for so long, and went out to the hall, closing the sitting-room door. The stairs had a delayed creak, just as Grith had, so you kept thinking someone was creeping up behind you.

  She washed in the old-fashioned bathroom at the end of the corridor, then went into her bedroom and closed the door.

  You don’t think a closed door can keep me out, do you? said Anna. I’m still here and I’ll always be here. I’ll always watch you. I didn’t watch you that day you stole out to the potting shed because you hadn’t murdered me then, but I watched you afterwards. I was there when you found out about Iain Seymour—a charming man, but a monster. Was he waiting for you that day when you read the newspaper cutting and the letter from Thornacre Asylum, Shona? Did the ghost of that charming monster reach out to you and did you take his hand?

  This was unbearable and it was unfair. Shona had had no idea what she was going to find that day in the attics at Grith.

  Then that was very stupid of you, because you should have guessed there’d be secrets. All attics have secrets, said Anna.

  All attics have secrets… Shona felt the dull ache that had been hovering over her temples descend like an iron weight and press agonizingly down, splitting her head into two separate halves. She opened the bedroom door and stepped outside.

  The main landing was wide and L-shaped; most of it was in deep shadow, although a thin light came in from an uncurtained window in the other half of the L, so it was possible to see the way fairly well. Anna came with Shona, of course; Anna would not have let Shona do this on her own: she did not alter much, the bitch, she was always there if there was anything furtive, always demanding attention.

  The attic stairs were tucked behind a half wall at the very end of the landing and they were narrow and very steep. Shona went up them cautiously, wincing when a worn tread creaked loudly, but reaching the top apparently unheard. The door leading into the attic was not much more than a large hatch; it opened outwards onto the small landing but a black hook latch—the old-fashioned kind you saw on garden sheds and gates—had been fastened to it, presumably to keep the door in place. When Shona lifted the latch the door swung open quite easily and a little breath of dry warmth gusted outwards. So far so good. But when she ducked her head to go through, the door swung back into place, closing itself with a little soft click, and Shona jumped and turned sharply round. But it was only the sloping old floor that had caused the door to close and she relaxed and turned back to survey the attic. It was very dark, but after a moment she located a light switch near the door. It was probably safe to switch this on for a few moments; it was unlikely that a light would be seen up here and in any case she could not make a search in the pitch dark.

  She paused, frowning. She could not remember why she had come up here, but her head still felt as if it was split in two separate pieces, so perhaps the reason was in the half she could not reach. She thought there were things in that half—things she had done earlier in case she had to carry out any kind of plan—but she could not get at the memory of them.

  But attics were places where forgotten letters and newspaper cuttings lay undisturbed for years—letters that blew your whole world apart if you found them. Was there something about the Tarleton in these attics? Something that would bring its secrets boiling to the surface? The sick pain in her head increased. Secrets were dangerous, they had to be buried as deeply as possible. It did not even matter if they were not your own secrets…

  Madeleine Ferrelyn had secrets. She had winced with sudden pain at a memory earlier that evening. Or had it been fear? Was she afraid there was something deep in the Tarleton that might be uncovered? Something behind that wall?

  And you mustn’t let them break open the cellar wall, remember…

  But that’s the Tarleton wall, thought Shona. Not the wall at Grith. It wouldn’t matter if they knocked the Tarleton wall down. Or would it? Oh God, I can’t remember!

  At first glance the attic did not seem to contain anything more sinister than discarded household junk, dust and cobwebs, but Shona began to explore, moving warily across the floor, remembering to test eac
h section of the old boards before she trod on them. The attic looked as if it extended across most of the house, which meant she might walk directly over Madeleine’s or Hilary’s bedroom without realizing it. They should both be fast asleep by now, but footsteps directly overhead might wake one of them.

  Still with no real idea of what she was looking for and still moving through the blurred, head-aching confusion, Shona began to investigate the contents of three large cardboard cartons in a corner. The first two held things from the 1960s, and she moved on to the third, seeing that it contained gramophone records, all old 78s, some in battered sleeves with names so faded as to be almost unreadable, some lying loose. The record labels were all HMV. His Master’s Voice. Was there anyone over a certain age for whom those words did not conjure up the famous image—the dog looking into the flaring horn, half puzzled, half curious about the sounds issuing from it? HMV as record-makers had long been absorbed into a conglomerate, but you still saw the signs over record shops.

  There were six records in the box, and the top one had a date of 1917, so it was reasonable to assume the others would be of the same vintage. Shona began to turn them over, one by one, handling them with great care.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  HILARY HAD BEEN ALMOST too tired to wash and undress before tumbling into the deep comfortable bed in the bedroom at the back of Levels House, although she was not too tired to check messages on her phone to see if Robert had called. He had done so—there was a brief message left at seven that evening, just asking her to call. She considered doing so right away, but it had only been a brief, casual-sounding message, and it was nearly half past ten which seemed a bit late to phone someone she did not really know very well. She amended this last part, because it felt as if she had known Robert for a long time; even so, half past ten was still a bit late and there was also the fact that she was having to struggle to stay awake. It had been nice to hear his voice; she smiled as she got into bed, thinking she would call tomorrow morning.