Death in the Stars

by Frances Brody

  ‘That hardly describes him. He is the most gifted and remarkable man in the history of music halls and theatre. The Empire Palace is one of his, part of the Moss and Stoll empire.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve read about them.’

  ‘During and after the war, Oswald Stoll gave a huge amount to charity. And you wouldn’t know that either because he was not a man to let his good deeds be known, unlike some I could mention. It was he who put up the money for the rehabilitation centre in Bridlington.’

  ‘How do you know him?’

  ‘My husband had a small chain of theatres. After Reginald died, Sir Oswald bought the theatres from me. Most have gone now. Two burned down. Two became picture houses. One stands empty. At the time, none of us knew what was coming. I was glad not to have the responsibility. Moss and Stoll were expanding. It was all done through solicitors but it’s a measure of the man that he came up to see us. Jarrod was ten. Sir Oswald gave us a tour of the Empire, right from the gods to the cellars, to see the tunnels. Afterwards we saw a show. He and Vesta Tilley took us to supper. Back in the eighties or nineties Oswald wrote songs for Vesta. He was heartbroken when she married Walter de Frece. Of course then Walter wrote songs for her. Jarrod never forgot it. He was always enchanted with the idea that Vesta Tilley’s songs were written specially for her by her husband.’

  The waitress, an elderly woman with swollen legs, placed our order on the table. I waited until she walked away.

  ‘Tell me something, Mrs Compton.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’ve never actually been down there, have you, below the theatre, into those tunnels?’

  ‘Well no, but Sir Oswald took Jarrod and Jarrod described them to me.’

  ‘How well did he describe them?’

  ‘Why, that it was dark and that he was scared when the lantern flickered. The floor was bumpy in places. He saw a staircase that led nowhere, and corridors and bare brick arches.’

  ‘What else did he say?’

  ‘That it was silent, except at one point they heard a kind of whooshing and Sir Oswald said it would have been the sewer but that it was far off. He’d have looked at the plans, you see, and the foundations. He and Mr Moss were very careful in their purchases.’

  ‘Did Jarrod say that it led to the City Varieties?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re not sure.’

  ‘I am quite sure. He also said someone had been sleeping down there. He saw a blanket and a tin mug. Someone had tapped a nail in the wall and a pair of boots hung there by the laces.’

  ‘Your son went down there once, when he was ten years old.’ Now it was my turn to have second thoughts but I did not let that show. ‘How many years ago is that?’

  ‘Twenty-three. But I know he has been down there since, with his friends before the war for a dare.’

  Mrs Compton and Selina had much in common. Both went on hunches and instinct. I respected that because often those sorts of feelings are exactly right and based on a mass of knowledge and years of noticing tiny incidents and noting casual remarks. ‘Tell me what little things make you know that he’s down there.’

  ‘Jarrod used to talk about it being a good place for someone to live if they had nowhere else to go.’

  ‘That’s the kind of thing a boy might say.’

  ‘When he came back from the war, he wanted to be where no one could see him and where he only came out at night. He talked about it then, living underground. Between us Selina and I persuaded him to go to the sanatorium in Bridlington.’ She closed her eyes. ‘He is below our feet now. I can feel it, instinctively. I have to find my son and bring him into the light of day.’

  ‘You’re right, Mrs Compton. We must look but we need to be well prepared.’ I drank down my coffee. ‘Give me twenty minutes.’

  ‘To do what?’

  ‘I’ll tell you when I come back.’

  ‘Let me come with you.’ She sipped her coffee.

  ‘Have you ever been a Girl Guide, Mrs Compton?’

  ‘Heavens, no! That was after my time and I would have been too busy dancing for that kind of malarkey.’

  ‘Well, I was a Girl Guide, briefly. I know the value of being prepared. Will you have another cup of coffee? As well as pacing out, I’m going to the market. I’ll be back soon.’

  She picked up the pot and poured. ‘Why are you going to the market?’

  ‘Explorers need to be properly equipped.’

  Four balls of string, a compass, two bottles of ginger beer, two bars of chocolate and an extra torch in the smallest haversack I could find, that was what I bought from the market stalls. The haversack was much-used and came with a slightly greasy smell and stains. Someone wearing hair oil had used it as a pillow.

  I went back into the Kardomah. Mrs Compton looked up, so eager to be off that she stood straightaway. ‘You were a long time. I thought you’d changed your mind.’

  ‘I’ve taken a compass reading. We’ll be walking north and west and it’s about 150 yards.’

  She allowed a look of grudging admiration. ‘How do you know it’s 150 yards?’

  ‘I paced the distance. It’s not far but we don’t know whether it will be safe down there or whether there’ll be twists and turns. We must stay together. If I say we leave, we leave.’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t want to stay down there on my own. I don’t have a good sense of direction.’

  We left the coffee house, and waited for a break in the traffic.

  Once across the road, Mrs Compton led us along King Edward Street. From there we turned right, passing the stage door, and arriving at a pair of enormous double doors.

  ‘This is where scenery is brought in,’ Mrs Compton explained.

  The big doors were shut and locked but the wicket door opened at a push. I followed Mrs Compton into an enormous, high-ceilinged space so silent that the thud of the door closing behind me was startling. There was no one in sight.

  She looked about. ‘We’ve come on the right day. If there was a changeover of shows it would be all hands on deck making room and shifting scenery.’

  ‘Lead on, Mrs Compton.’

  Lead on she did, to a door at the far end of the cavernous cathedral, passing backdrops, scenery and props.

  ‘Let me.’ I held the door open for her. Fortunately, modernity had put in an appearance and there was an electric light switch at the top of the stairs. She switched it on and banished the darkness.

  There was a smell of hops as we walked down the stairs. At the bottom of the stairs, she turned right. We passed through a corridor into a cellar room where beer barrels connected to pipes. I had not yet begun counting my footsteps. ‘How do you know where to go?’

  ‘I went with Sir Oswald and Jarrod to the entranceway. It’s not something one forgets. Also, I remembered passing the beer barrels, and the smell.’

  Already, I was losing my bearings. Above ground, I had counted my footsteps from the front entrance to the theatre. Below ground, where should I begin? Mrs Compton went to another door on our right. ‘I think this is it.’ There was a key in the lock. She turned it.

  ‘Bring the key with us.’ I did not want some efficient person to lock the door after we had gone through it.

  She slid the key in her coat pocket. When she opened the door, there was no electric light switch. Setting down her shopping bag at the top of the stairs, Mrs Compton produced her torch. I took out my newly bought flashlight from the haversack, switched it on and led the way down the stairs. Behind me, Mrs Compton’s heels tapped on the steps which were old and worn. I sensed that she moved cautiously, one hand on the wall, sticking so close to me that if she slipped we would both tumble down.

  ‘Wait! I need my shopping bag. I’d just forgotten, we’re not coming back this way. We’ll be coming out in the Verts.’

  I continued down the steps and then waited while she went back for the shopping bag. To have left it there would have been a marker, in case anyone missed the key, saw the bag and loo
ked for its owner in the deep dark depths.

  At the bottom of the stairs, I took out the compass and set it. ‘We should be walking north and west.’

  There was a touch of admiration in her voice. ‘That’s very clever. We could easily lose our bearings. I’m glad you were a Girl Guide.’

  ‘Hold the compass while I do something with this string.’ I took out the first ball.

  ‘What’s that for?’

  ‘I would have left a trail of breadcrumbs but something might eat them.’

  Shining the flashlight about the walls, ceiling and floor was not a good idea. The space seemed cavernous and black as the deepest pit. The floor was not just uneven but bumpy and strewn with odd bits of masonry that had crumbled away from the walls and roof.

  A half brick should do the trick to hold the string firm. I would just have to be sure not to tug at it in panic somewhere along the line or we would be forever lost. Mrs Compton shone a light while I fastened an end of the string around the half brick and added a couple of pieces of rubble.

  When I had finished, we set off walking. I switched off my flashlight and led the way, counting my footsteps, not my best ever idea. I would be almost certain to lose count and we would surely walk more slowly through this gloom than above ground.

  Mrs Compton also switched on her flashlight.

  ‘You should save your beam, Mrs Compton, so that we have your flashlight in reserve.’ Something about this place made me speak quietly, though no one could hear.

  She whispered, ‘It’s so horrible to have darkness behind me.’

  ‘Do you want to walk ahead of me?’

  ‘No!’

  After what seemed an age, I switched on to check my watch. We had been walking only three minutes in a northerly direction.

  When I spoke my voice sounded strange and hollow. ‘That story about performers using this tunnel as a shortcut to the Varieties, I don’t believe it. No one would willingly come down here.’

  ‘Perhaps they come in at a different entry point.’

  I stopped so suddenly that she bumped into me. ‘There’s a turn to the left.’ I moved the beam around the walls, revealing an arch, neatly bricked.

  ‘Wait!’ My first ball of string had run out. I took a second ball and knotted the ends.

  ‘How many did you buy?’

  ‘Four.’

  ‘It won’t be enough.’

  ‘I know.’

  We continued a few more steps. I shone the torch towards an alcove. ‘Shine another light, Mrs Compton.’ There was something on the floor, like a pile of rags. I bent for a closer look. It was a sleeping bag.

  ‘He was here!’ She reached for the sleeping bag. ‘It stinks! He wouldn’t have slept in this. This isn’t my Jarrod’s.’

  ‘Then whose is it?’

  We took in the thought that there was someone else here. And why wouldn’t there be? Tramps, old soldiers, drunks, people who might be moved on from sleeping in doorways. But why so far along the tunnel?

  She spoke quietly, as if whoever had been here might still be here, and listening. ‘If I were reduced to sleeping in such a place, I’d be near a way out.’

  ‘Not if you knew it well enough, and wanted not to be seen.’

  She directed the beam away from the alcove. ‘Do you think there’s someone nearby?’

  ‘I don’t know. That sleeping bag could have been here for years. It doesn’t mean there’s someone round the corner. Do you feel brave enough to call out Jarrod’s name? He’ll know your voice.’

  Her voice came out in a hoarse whisper. ‘I can’t, I’m afraid.’

  We paused just twice, to attach the third and then the fourth ball of string. ‘When this runs out, we have to turn back.’

  She gasped, and for a moment I thought she must have tripped over the body of the sleeping bag’s owner. My torch was trained on the ground. She had once more switched on her flashlight and directed it higher. I did the same, and then saw what blocked our way. It was a high iron gate. Beyond it was an ancient building, two storeys high and completely intact and yet with arches several feet above it that must support the road overhead. As we listened to the silence I heard, or imagined I heard, the faint rumble of a tramcar.

  Rooted to the spot, we stared. There was no turning to the left or the right. Neither of us made a move to open those gates. The stillness and bleak emptiness set me shivering. What ghosts or other unworldly beings might dwell behind the old door that hung from its hinges, and behind those gaping windows that looked like empty eye sockets?

  I lowered the beam of the torch. A thousand small pink eyes looked out at us.

  Without looking at each other, we knew what to do.

  Hang onto the string. Turn round. Go back.

  Instead, I led the way forwards.

  Behind me, Mrs Compton gave an anxious cry so loud that it might have imploded the tunnel. ‘Jarrod! Where are you? And what have you done?’

  I stopped dead. ‘Did you see him?’

  ‘No. I was calling just in case he is somewhere nearby. Perhaps he’s in that dreadful place? It looks haunted and about to collapse.’

  ‘Look, we’ve come this far. If you’re right and there is a way between the two theatres, let’s not panic. Shine your torch about and I’ll shine mine.’

  And then we saw it, a narrower passageway. We could continue and pretend we never saw that awful sight of a long-abandoned hotel.

  ‘How much string have we got?’ she asked.

  ‘Not a lot, but we must be almost there. Let’s press on just a few moments longer.’

  We did. The fourth ball of string came to its end.

  ‘Mrs Compton, we have to turn back. I’m out of string.’

  ‘Wait! I have an idea. Shine a light.’

  I shone my torch and watched her pick at the hem of her coat. ‘This will get us there.’ She pulled at a strand of wool.

  ‘It’s too fine. It’ll break.’

  ‘No it won’t. It’s a bulky Aran.’ She took off her coat and held it over her arm. ‘Safer this way, it might snag otherwise.’

  I knotted the wool to the string.

  We began to walk again. Movement helped. While standing still, tying the string, I had felt like a sitting duck. The tunnel being narrower helped too. No one would hang their boots in this small space.

  I had lost all sense of time. Our footsteps gained an echo at a certain point as the chamber rose in height, and then suddenly my torch picked out a set of stone steps.

  ‘Go carefully, Mrs Compton. There’s sheen to these steps, and we don’t want to slip at what might be the last hurdle.’

  I climbed slowly. Once there had been a wooden rail but it had fallen away. At the top was a heavy door, with no knob. I pushed at the door.

  ‘This might be it, Mrs Compton, but if so I don’t know how anyone would get in or out.’

  ‘Bang on it.’

  It is always easier for the person who gives instructions than for the one who has to carry them out. I knocked on the door.

  ‘Thump the bloody thing, Mrs Shackleton. Do it as if you mean it!’

  I banged on the door with the end of my torch.

  Nothing happened.

  I banged again though a terrible image filled my brain, from some old moving picture or Walter Scott novel. The door would open. I would step into a void.

  There was a clatter of footsteps on the other side, and then of a bolt being shot back, and another.

  Slowly, the door opened.

  Twenty-Six

  Little Manny Piccolo

  First, cut through the wood to Woodhouse, veer off and keep going. Mrs Sugden kept her eye on the skyline, looking through city smoke for the gasometer. The gasometer proved as good a guide for leading Mrs Sugden to Sheepscar as yonder star for the three kings.

  Floyd Lloyd’s widow, Rita Lloyd, lived at 14 Back Barrack Street, Sheepscar. Mrs Shackleton had the address from Miss Fellini who had visited Mrs Lloyd after her husband’s dea
th. Only one aspect of this business bothered Mrs Sugden and that was the thought of mithering the poor woman, asking intrusive questions to which she would have no answers, and raking up the upset of her husband’s death all over again. True, she would be arriving with two crisp five pound notes in an envelope, supposedly from the charity set up for the relief of distressed performers and their relatives. But what could she possibly learn that hadn’t been said already? That was the rub.