Ghost Song (23 page)

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.

A
FTER 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 without 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.

Hilary said, ‘Isn't it a bit suspicious that there were no records?'

‘No, not necessarily. The land was probably never registered. Nowadays there's a requirement to register any parcel of unregistered land if there's a change of ownership, but that didn't come into force until the late 1980s. And it doesn't sound as if the theatre has changed owner for a very long time. It sounds as if Madeleine Ferrelyn inherited direct from her father—'

‘Who died in the late 1950s.'

‘Yes. That means he could have owned it since the early part of the twentieth century.'

‘Even as far back as 1914,' said Hilary. ‘We've all speculated a bit about it, you know.'

‘Of course I know. That's human nature.'

‘But we didn't know there was a definite restriction in force.'

‘I've never known the exact terms of it. I've always assumed it was some eccentric who owned it and that it never would reopen.'

‘And now this,' said Hilary, glancing at the letter.

‘As you say, now this. At least we know the owner's name at last, although not much more than that. But clearly I'll have to go down to Somerset to see her.' She paused. ‘Would you like to come with me?'

It was obvious Hilary had not been expecting this. She looked startled, and then said, ‘Oh. Yes, I would like to. Very much.'

‘Good. Two heads are better than one for these things, and it sounds as if Madeleine Ferrelyn might want to involve us in the actual reopening which would be a plum for us. But if she intends it to be a living theatre again she'll want ideas and proposals. That's never been my strength, but it's one of yours. Could you draft a few ideas?'

‘Yes, I could,' said Hilary with unmistakable enthusiasm. ‘I'd love to.'

‘Good.' Shona stood up. ‘I'm a strong believer in striking while the iron's hot, so I'll phone her now and find out when she'd be free. We ought to be able to get there and back in a day if we set off early enough.'

She went into her office, closing the door, and Hilary, determined not to listen, opened a new blank screen on the computer, typed in the heading, ‘The Tarleton', and enthusiastically began to make notes.

‘It's more or less fixed,' said Shona, coming out fifteen minutes later. ‘But she's asked if it can be tomorrow.'

‘As soon as that?' Hilary was a bit taken aback.

‘I hadn't expected it, either. I rather got the impression that having made up her mind to deal with this peculiar situation, she wants to get to grips with it before she can get cold feet. I don't see why we couldn't go out there tomorrow, though. I've got another meeting with the radio people at ten tomorrow—'

‘The Edwardian spa plays,' said Hilary, remembering.

‘Yes, and I can't cancel it because it's important to us. But we could set off about twelve, have lunch on the road, and be in Somerset about four.'