Ghost Song

by Rayne, Sarah

  She reached the ground floor and dived into the sitting room, scanning the darkness for the phone. There it was near the French windows: one of the old black sit up and beg kind, with a receiver and old-fashioned dial. Hilary lifted the receiver, her hand going to the 9, and stopped, frowning. There was no dial tone, just a flat blankness. She jiggled the receiver rest, but nothing happened. Trying to beat down panic, but aware that Shona could erupt out of the attic at any minute, she dialled anyway. Her hands were wound so tightly around the receiver her knuckles hurt.

  Ten precious seconds ticked away before she acknowledged that the phone was dead. Had it been unplugged? Could Shona have planned so far ahead? Hilary picked up the phone cable and felt along it, more than half expecting to find it had been pulled from its socket.

  Somebody had cut the cable, very neatly and sharply, just where it came out from the socket. The socket itself was low down near the skirting board, and the cut cable would only be discovered if someone tried to make a phone call—and people who had guests for the evening did not normally make phone calls. Shona did it, thought Hilary. She either did it early in the evening when Madeleine and I were putting the supper together, or later, when we went up to bed and left her down here. She said there were things she couldn’t remember—something about things being in the half of her mind she couldn’t reach.

  The horror of the situation broke upon her in an almost overwhelming flood, but she forced herself to think. Could she get back upstairs without running into Shona and barricade herself into her bedroom? No, of course she could not, she needed to get help—a phone in a neighbouring house or the village. What about the car—was there any chance that Shona had left the keys in the ignition? But memory showed her Shona locking the car when they arrived and dropping the keys in her handbag. And there was Madeleine to consider. Hilary could not leave Madeleine on her own in the house with Shona.

  She heard the attic door smack hard against the wall overhead and footsteps coming down the narrow stair to the landing. She’s got out, thought Hilary, every muscle tensed, expecting Shona to come straight downstairs. But she did not. There was the sound of sharp knocking upstairs—hands rapping peremptorily against wood.

  ‘Madeleine?’ said Shona’s voice, friendly and polite. ‘Madeleine, it’s Shona. Can you open the door? Something dreadful’s happening—it’s Hilary. She’s had some kind of brainstorm. We need to get help.’ There was silence, and Hilary heard Shona knock again. In the same soft friendly voice, she said, ‘Please open the door, Madeleine. Please let me in.’

  Hilary instantly forgot about her own safety and was halfway back up the stairs, shouting as loudly as she could.

  ‘Madeleine—it’s a trick! Whatever you do don’t open the door to her. Lock it or barricade yourself in! The phone wire’s cut—I’m going for help!’

  She had no idea if Madeleine could hear, but as Shona knocked again, she heard, faintly but clearly, Madeleine calling back. ‘I don’t know what’s going on but I’m staying here until I know it’s safe to come out.’

  This was a relief, because it sounded as if there was a lock on Madeleine’s door. But Shona was coming along the landing and at any minute she would be on the stairs. The main front door had a bewildering array of locks and bolts which would take several minutes to open—minutes Hilary did not have. The stairs creaked and a shadow appeared on the wall. She’s coming! thought Hilary in panic, and grabbing one of the raincoats from the old-fashioned coat-stand, ran through the house, slamming all the doors behind her, because if Shona had to open doors it would give her a few extra seconds to get outside. She pulled the raincoat round her as she went, making for the kitchen because all houses of this age and size had at least two doors, and surely she had seen a garden door?

  There it was, the traditional half-glass, half-wood door. There was a lock, the key was in the lock, and there was a bolt at the top. Hilary’s hands were shaking so badly she could hardly turn the key, but she managed it and reached up to slide the bolt back. The door swung open and cold, rainy night air met her.

  Uncaring of the fact she was only wearing a raincoat over pyjamas and thin-soled moccasins, Hilary went out into the night. The prospect of playing hide and seek with a self-confessed murderess in the dark garden was a nightmarish one, but if she kept to the shadows she should get down the drive and onto the road. From there she would have to run until she came to a house, then hammer on the door and hope they would phone the police. She took a deep breath and sprinted across the lawn in the direction of the drive. Rain lashed her face and the thick bushes fringing the drive were squat black shapes like crouching monsters ready to pounce on her. Twice she flinched, throwing up her hands defensively, because it seemed as if one of the shadows was lurching towards her, but she reached the gate without mishap and went out onto the narrow country road. On a bright night she would probably have been able to see the outlines of nearby properties clearly, but with rain and clouds blotting out the moon, she could only see hedges and fields. Left or right? Devil or deep blue sea? They had driven through Fosse Leigh village, and about a mile beyond it, then they had turned right into Levels House. Had there been houses on the stretch of road between the village and this house? Hilary thought there had been two or three. In any event, she would feel safer heading towards a place where there were buildings—where there would surely be a pub with people living on the premises. Even so, as she turned left, she had the feeling that she was flipping a mental coin.

  She had got no more than fifteen yards when something happened that sent a chill through her whole body. The soft sound of footsteps coming towards her—coming from the direction of Levels House. Someone was creeping along the dark road after her.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  ROBERT WOKE AT quarter past ten, and realized he had either forgotten to set the alarm, or had slept through it.

  This was terrible because almost certainly the police would have been in touch with the Harlequin office, which meant Hilary would already know the full extent of the melodrama and was probably wondering why he had not called her. The thought of Hilary thinking he had not bothered to tell her about the body behind the underground wall was so dreadful that Robert pulled on a dressing gown, tipped some orange juice into a glass from the fridge, which he swallowed at one go, and headed for the phone at once. Even if the police were already crawling over the Harlequin and the Tarleton, surely Hilary would understand when he explained everything, including how it had been well after three a.m. when he finally got home.

  It was infuriating to find that her direct number was on voicemail. Robert tried the mobile number, but that too went straight to voicemail and he hung up without leaving a message. Describing the discovery of a partly desiccated body could not really be done in a two-minute recorded message; also, he had no way of knowing where Hilary might be, or who she might be with, when she listened to it. He would try again later.

  After he had showered, dressed and drunk some coffee, he telephoned his office to give an edited version of what had happened and explain that because of it he did not think he would be able to get in today. His partner was at first inclined to be sceptical, but Robert was not given to spinning wild stories about finding mummified human remains, in fact he was not given to spinning stories of any kind, so the partner fetched Robert’s diary and they spent the next half hour sorting out the two appointments Robert had for that day, and discussing the report for the yuppie apartments near Waterloo Station. Robert’s notes about that were in a file on his desk, which meant the client could at least be given the gist of his findings.

  ‘Very precise and methodical,’ said the partner, reading them. ‘All the way from the wood rot in the floor joists down to stress fatigue in the metal underpinning.’

  ‘Only battleships and surveyors get stress fatigue,’ said Robert, and rang off.

  DS Treadwell phoned almost immediately after this to say he was in the Harlequin offices and trying to trace the Tarleton’s
owner.

  ‘Shona Seymour’s out at meetings with some radio programmers apparently,’ he said. ‘She left a note on the receptionist’s desk late last night to say she’ll be tied up all day and not to expect her back in the office until late tomorrow. Her mobile’s switched off, but I’ve left a message asking her to call me. No one’s sure which radio studios she was going to, and her assistant’s taken a couple of days’ leave—sorry, did you say something?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Anyway, the assistant’s mobile is on voicemail as well. I didn’t leave a message—if she’s on holiday she might be anywhere—she might be out of the country. It’s annoying they’re both away at the same time, but these things happen. I’ll see you later, Mr Fallon. You’re coming into the station at two aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Robert, and rang off, wondering why Hilary had not mentioned that she would be on holiday today. Perhaps there had been a crisis of some kind: some family thing. He reminded himself that he did not really know much about her. After a moment he tried her flat, but this phone, too, was on answerphone. Robert did leave a message this time, not mentioning the body or the Tarleton, just saying he had been trying to reach her, and asking her to call back.

  At one o’clock he ate a couple of sandwiches, and set off for Canon Row to make his statement. This turned out to be a bureaucratic labyrinth, made worse by a tedious wait for people who, as far as Robert could tell, had left the building, could not be found, or could not be bothered. He had expected the statement-making to take about forty-five minutes; in the event, it took nearer two hours. DS Treadwell looked in to say they had not yet heard from Shona Seymour.

  ‘We’ve left another message on her voicemail, but she still hasn’t replied,’ he said. ‘A bit odd for someone who’s supposed to be such a sharp businesswoman, but she might be out of range of a signal or in some long-winded meeting and not wanting interruptions. We’ll have to open the cellar up reasonably soon and get forensics in and the body out, of course, but that body’s not going anywhere on its own, so we’ll wait another few hours. I’d rather have the owner’s authority before we start tearing walls down—or at worst let him know what’s going on.’

  ‘Isn’t there anyone in overall command of the Harlequin set-up?’ asked Robert.

  ‘There’s some kind of governing trust, but it doesn’t sound as if any of its members have much to do with the actual running of things so we’re not bothering with them unless we have to,’ said Treadwell. ‘What we’re doing today is taking a brief look in the Harlequin’s files for the owner’s name and address. The receptionist has found some keys to Seymour’s office, and everyone’s being very cooperative. There’s a part-time worker who’s helping out as well.’

  ‘I wish you luck tracking down the owner’s identity,’ said Robert. ‘As far as I can make out, it’s been shrouded in mystery for the best part of a century.’

  ‘We’ll keep you posted,’ said Treadwell.

  Robert left them to it and fought his way back through the traffic, reaching his flat at twenty to five. He had not realized how strongly he had been hoping to see his own answerphone blinking cheerfully, and to hear Hilary’s voice on it. But it was silent and no one had phoned.

  Caley Merrick hoped the police had not seen the shock that had gone through him when they turned up at the Harlequin offices that morning.

  He had gone in at ten to finish the mailing he had been doing that week. Just an hour’s work it would be—the flyers to be stamped and posted—but it would mean a few extra pounds at the end of the month which was always welcome, and it also meant an hour spent in the place which he felt was a link to the Tarleton.

  The receptionist told him Miss Seymour was not in today—Caley remembered hearing about some radio meetings—and that Hilary had taken a day’s holiday. He was not sorry to hear Miss Seymour would be out, because she always made him feel nervous, but he had hoped he might be able to get Hilary to talk about the Tarleton and find out what she had been doing there that night.

  But here were the police, headed by a rather brash young detective sergeant called Stuart Treadwell, saying that a body—actually a dead body dating back to goodness knew when!—had been found behind a wall in the Tarleton’s cellar. Yes, it was certainly an extraordinary thing, said DS Treadwell; they were looking into it, of course, and one of the first things they needed to do was contact the owner so they could open up that part of the old cellars. That was why he and two of his team were here now.

  Caley thought, afterwards, that it was a good thing he was so used to hiding his emotions, but even so, he stared at DS Treadwell in utter amazement before he managed to ask who had actually found the body.

  ‘A surveyor found it,’ said Treadwell. ‘He was investigating the foundations for sewage leakage or something,’ he added, and Caley remembered the unknown young man he had seen with Hilary Bryant.

  ‘We’ve left messages for Miss Seymour and we’ll most likely wait for her to contact us, but she’s proving a bit elusive so we’re taking a quick look through files here to see if we can find the owner’s address.’ He indicated the spare desk in Shona’s office where his men were already flipping through manila folders; Caley thought they were not doing so very thoroughly, just riffling the top pages of each one. He glanced across at the two large filing cabinets in the corner—the cabinets he had so often wanted to open.

  ‘Yes, I see,’ he said. ‘Thank you for explaining,’ and got himself out of the office and into the little kitchen on the landing because he was afraid he was going to be sick.

  In the event he was not sick but had to sit on the stool in the kitchen for quite a long time, struggling for breath, dizzy and shaking. Even with the inhaler it took quite a long time for the attack to subside, and he was aware of a dull ache round his ribs and up into his throat, but he was able to consider what this might mean to him.

  A body had been found in the Tarleton—a very old body from the sound of it—and the police would have to go in to investigate. That was unavoidable. DS Treadwell had mentioned opening up one of the old cellars, which probably meant the under-stage cellars. Wherever it was, though, it would mean massive disruption—you only had to watch a TV crime series to know about forensic tests and people tramping in and out. Caley felt sick again, thinking about that. He had often worried about what would happen if the theatre were to reopen and he had even played over horrid little scenarios in his mind as to how it might come about. But he had never imagined it happening like this. He was aware, as well, of fierce jealousy at that unknown man, that surveyor, who had caused this disturbance.

  But the thing to remember was that the police investigation would only be temporary: it would only go on for a week or two, then everything would be as it had been before. He could live through that; he could watch and wait for the time when the Tarleton was his once more.

  Despite these reassurances, when he stood up, his legs were trembling and although the sick feeling had passed he still felt unwell. Catching sight of himself in the little square of mirror over the sink he was shocked to see a grey-faced old man looking back at him. This would not do at all; even if the police did not notice anything wrong, the office staff, who knew him fairly well by now, would do so. He turned the cold tap full on and splashed water over his face, then he put the kettle on to make coffee for everyone.

  By the time he carried the tray with the mugs of coffee into the main office, an idea was taking root in his mind. At first he dismissed it, but it thrust itself into the forefront of his mind, pointing out this was an opportunity he might never have again. It was a day when everything was upside down: filing cabinets that were normally locked were open; files were being carried back and forth; people were wandering round, ignoring their usual routines. If ever there was a time when Caley might get his hands on the Tarleton file, this was surely that time. He was aware of a sudden throb of excitement.

  He distributed the mugs, deliberately ending with the two police
detectives working in Miss Seymour’s room. Speaking offhandedly but politely, he asked if there was anything he could do to help—everyone else was quite busy today. Perhaps he could take the files out of the drawers or something?

  At first he thought DS Treadwell would dismiss the offer, but then he said, ‘Well, if you’ve nothing else to do, that might be useful.’

  ‘I could bring them across to the desk in batches for you to check through,’ said Caley, chewing his lower lip as if working this out. ‘And replace them in the right order after you’ve looked at them. It would keep them in place and it would mean less mess for the office.’ This sounded as if he was more a part of the office than was actually the case, and it also sounded as if he was quite knowledgeable about the filing system. It seemed he had struck the right note, because the DS said that would be useful, thanks very much. So Caley, hoping his asthma did not betray him, began to carry stacks of files back and forth, eight or ten at a time, scanning their labels as he did so, praying he would see one labelled the Tarleton and that if he did, he would be able to remove it without being noticed. It was the longest shot in the world, but it might just come off.

  It did come off. There were two files labelled ‘Tarleton Music Hall’. Caley had not expected two separate files, but he found the first one in the main office—it was a large document wallet, and he was able to slide it beneath the envelopes on his own little corner desk. The ease with which he did it surprised him. The receptionist was in the room at the time, but she was on the phone, making notes as she talked.

  The second file was unexpected—Caley was not really looking for a second one—but there it was, near the back of Miss Seymour’s own filing cabinet. It looked to be more of a correspondence file with a metal clip for holding papers and letters in place. Caley’s heart was racing and sweat prickled between his shoulder blades, because Treadwell’s men were in the room with him, but in the end it was easy to subtract it from the drawer and drop it on top of a pile already checked. He gave the two men a new batch to work through then, moving casually, slid the Tarleton file inside his jacket and walked into the kitchen, collecting the other from his desk on the way. He could not hide two files under his jacket, but surely it was perfectly ordinary for someone to walk across an office with a file? He did so openly, picking up the used coffee mugs as he went as if going to wash them up. Once on the little landing outside, he pushed both files inside the folds of his overcoat which was hanging on the rack inside the door.