Ghost Song (25 page)

It was then that he heard what sounded like footsteps in the passageway upstairs and he turned sharply to look at the steps, then sprang off the skip and, holding the torch in one hand and the mallet in the other, went softly back up the steps and into the passage. He was aware of the absurdity of beating off a ghost with a mallet; he didn't believe in ghosts, anyway. What he did believe in were burglars and drug addicts—and poor sods of homeless people on the lookout for an unlocked door and an empty building in which to spend the night. But he had locked the stage door when he came in.

Nothing stirred in the stone passageways, but Robert went determinedly along to the stage door to make sure it really was locked. Yes, locked firmly. He glanced into the stage doorkeeper's room, but it was bland and unthreatening and he went back down to the cellar and renewed his assault on the wall. This time several more bricks tumbled out, and when he shone the torch he could see the complete outline of the grave trap. It was black and forbidding and even through the thick cobwebs and layers of dirt, the iron framework glinted in the torch-light. The curious thing was that as he moved the torch slowly round he had the impression that something in the atmosphere had shifted—it was almost as if something that had been crouching in the dark had looked up at the sudden intrusion and ingress of light. This would be sheer nerves, nothing more, and so far Robert could still see no reason for the amateurishly built wall or for the mystery that surrounded the theatre and its long closure. All that was beyond the wall was the other half of the cellar—the half that extended directly beneath the stage. When he shone the torch upwards he could see the joists supporting the stage itself, and there did not seem to be anything out of the ordinary. He was conscious of disappointment, because after the build-up—after the legends about ghosts and ninety-year twilight slumbers, and the secrecy surrounding the owner's identity—he had expected to find
something
. But there was nothing.

Or was there? He moved the torchlight over the grave trap mechanism again and this time was aware of a stir of apprehension. Something's not quite right, he thought. Something within the trap's mechanism, is it? He reached for the second torch, and shone both of them together, so that the light cast a wider, stronger circle. It showed up the trap more sharply: the inner platform—the floor—was at the very top of the shaft, as he and Hilary had already discovered. Robert could see it quite clearly, and he could see two thick L-shaped brackets holding it in place. Puzzlement stirred again: why had someone gone to so much trouble to seal this place up so very completely?

He brought the light down again and a face—a shrivelled, yellowed, sightless face, jumped into focus in the glare of the torches. Robert's heart leapt into his throat, and he heard himself say aloud, ‘Oh God, oh no, oh no…' In the enclosed space his words whispered and trickled in the shadowy corners.

Lying directly under the iron platform, half twisted round one of the wood and metal struts, was an unmistakable outline. Human, thought Robert, trying not to shake. A human body. At least, I suppose it's a human body—I suppose it isn't some macabre old stage prop that's been left down here.

But he knew it was not a stage prop. He knew that what he was seeing was a very old dead body. It had been virtually mummified by some quirk of the airless atmosphere, and all that was left of some poor man or woman who had lain down here for so many years were bones and hair and dried skin. He sat down on the wicker skip, shaking and slightly sickened. Was this the secret? Was this what had been hidden all these years? But part of his mind was already saying: but why so very long? Why has the Tarleton been so fiercely guarded for almost a century?

He beat down a compulsion to run back up the stairs and into the safe normality of the streets, and forced himself to climb back onto the skip and shine the torch again. From this distance he could not tell if it was a man or a woman who lay there—he was not sure if he would be able to tell even if he was standing next to it. He could make out what must once have been clothes, but they were worn almost to threads by damp or nibbling creatures or simply by sheer age and it was impossible to know what they had originally been. He looked at the head again, trying not to wince at the way the lips had shrunk so that the teeth were exposed in a grinning snarl and at the sightless eyes. Strands of hair, faded and dried-out, adhered to the scalp, which Robert found almost unbearably pitiful. He moved the torch downwards. The feet had the remains of leather shoes or boots; they looked substantial and masculine, but they could as easily have been the high button-boots Victorian and Edwardian ladies wore.

You're absolutely anonymous, said Robert silently. Are you a murderer's victim? I suppose you must be. But were you killed somewhere else and your body hidden here and walled up? Or was it a macabre accident—did that thing crash down on you and kill you? He shone the torch onto the underside of the steel platform again. Was it mottled and stained? Were the marks old bloodstains or just mildew?

But whoever you were, he said, looking back at the body, someone—perhaps several someones—didn't want you found for nearly a hundred years.

At least half of him wanted to brick up the wall and forget what was behind it. This half pointed out, very persuasively, that no matter what he did, it would not make the smallest difference to the incumbent of the cellar. It might be possible to establish the cause of death—although that would depend on the cause—but it would not be very easy for anyone to track down the body's identity after so long. And even if that identity were eventually established, it was unlikely that the killer would ever be known. That being so, it would be the simplest thing in the world to repair the wall, tidy it all up and leave everything as it had been. And no one would be any the wiser.

Except that Robert would be the wiser. He would feel he had somehow let down that unknown man or woman. If he replaced the bricks neatly enough to conceal what he had done—as he had originally intended—and walked away from this, he would never be able to forget that vulnerable heap of bones. He would certainly not be able to forget how the face had seemed to be turned eagerly towards him as if waiting to be rescued and as if rescue had at last come. Were you dead when you were put there? thought Robert, packing away his tools. Or did you have to lie helplessly in that cellar and watch the wall being built, seeing the light gradually shut off, knowing you were going to die alone in the dark? He remembered that odd impression he had earlier of someone standing on the other side of the wall, listening and mirroring his own actions.

He left the wall exactly as it was, and went back up the stairs. By the time he stepped out through the stage door, locking it behind him, it was a quarter to ten. He would have to report what he had found to the police, although he would do his best to play down his own reprehensible behaviour. And if the Harlequin Society or the Tarleton's owner decided to make an official complaint, Robert would have to face the consequences. He had no idea what the consequences might be; he would make the point that he had been concerned as to what the wall might be hiding, but he was uncomfortably aware that he had secretly had a set of keys cut and that he had partly demolished a wall against the specific instructions of the Harlequin, who acted for the owner.

Once in Burbage Street, he paused, drawing in deep breaths of the cold night air, grateful for the noisy normality of the streets. It was raining: a fine drizzly rain like thin mist, but Robert would not have minded if it had been a blizzard. People were walking along in twos and threes, laughing and talking, and there were lights everywhere from cars and from the restaurants and bars. The lights were blurred by the rain and the people were a bit blurred as well, and there was a dreamlike quality to it all. He turned up his coat collar and walked down Burbage Street, but he had only gone a few yards when he glanced back and caught sight of a figure who had paused at the alley's entrance as if looking into the narrow cul-de-sac. Robert drew in a small sharp gasp. The figure was outlined against the rushing people and cars, but it seemed to be wearing a long coat and a slouch hat, pulled well forward… It was surely nothing more than a passer-by, muffled up against the cold rain, and yet…

He blinked and rubbed his eyes, and when he looked again the figure had gone. Tiredness, nothing more. Anyone would see phantoms after being down in that ghost-ridden old place with the remains of a body lying within a few feet. As he went towards the car park, above the hum of the night traffic he heard the distant chimes of some nearby clock striking the hour. He thought it might be from St Bride's church, and he thought he had never heard a sound as sweet and reassuring and blessedly
normal
.

By now he was feeling slightly better, although he was still a bit light-headed. He remembered he had not eaten since lunchtime and went into one of the late-night sandwich bars for cheese rolls and a can of Coke. At the all-night chemist farther along he bought a pack of moistened tissues because he probably looked as if he had been climbing half the Victorian chimneys in London. He had considered whether to wash in the old-fashioned lavatory in the Tarleton's foyer, but the water might not be turned on and in any case he wanted to get out as fast as possible. But the interview with the police was going to be a complicated one and Robert was damned if he was going to report finding a dead body in his present grubby state.

He sat in his car and drank the Coke almost at one go, grateful for the cold sharp taste, then wolfed down the rolls. Marvellous. The finest gourmet meal in the world could not compete with bread and cheese when you were really ravenous. After this he managed to wipe most of the brick dust from his face and hands with several of the tissues, then he drove out of the car park towards Canon Row police station.

The police were polite and efficient, but by the time Robert had explained the situation to three of them in turn, he was beginning to feel light-headed all over again, or as if he had fallen backwards into a dream belonging to someone he did not know. He knew, logically, that this was nervous reaction, but he found it difficult to push the feeling away and give a clear account.

At first he thought no one was going to believe him and he supposed they could not be blamed. They must have heard some weird stories over the years, but this midnight tale of a half-mummified body in the bowels of a deserted music hall must rank as particularly bizarre.

He told them he had surveyed the Tarleton in his professional capacity a couple of days earlier—at that point, by way of credentials, he handed them his business card—but explained that a second visit had been necessary to make sure of the underpinning to the main cellar. For this reason, he had removed a few bricks from an underground wall, to shine a torch through, said Robert. Well, no, he did not agree that it was late to be carrying out the work; he had deliberately saved this particular job for the very end of the day because he knew it would involve brick dust, and after he had done it he could go straight home and shower. He implied, without actually saying it, that he still had the official keys to get into the Tarleton and also that the owner's agents were aware of what he was doing. This was the kind of slick deceit he hated and it would rebound on him when Shona Seymour discovered what had happened, but Robert was going to worry about that tomorrow.

He described again what he had seen beyond the brick wall; when questioned, he said yes, he was perfectly sure it was a real body, no, he did not think it was an old stage prop, he had thought of that for himself and he was absolutely sure.

In the end, they asked if he would mind coming along to the Tarleton there and then, so they could check all this out.

‘Not in the least,' said Robert, who had already given up any thoughts of seeing his own flat and his bed until one a.m. at the earliest. ‘I've left my car in an all-night multi-storey, so I'll have to collect it…'

But it seemed it would not be necessary for him to retrieve his car; the sergeant, along with someone from CID, would take a patrol car. ‘Easier for parking, sir,' he said.

Being whisked through London in a police car shortly before midnight was not an experience Robert had ever expected to have, but it added to the surreal quality of the whole thing. This quality increased when he produced his keys and ushered the CID sergeant and his side-kick into the Tarleton, and down to the cellars.

The DS, whose name was Stuart Treadwell and who was about Robert's age, but casually dressed in denim jeans and a leather jacket, studied the broken wall for a few moments, then got onto the wicker skip and shone a torch through the gap.