Ghost Song (49 page)

She swung her legs out of bed, and this time felt so dizzy she had to grab the bedside table to stop herself toppling over. What on earth had Madeleine's ‘girl from the village' put in that casserole? Or had it been the coffee—it had been a bit too strong and quite bitter and Hilary had surreptitiously poured most of her second cup down the sink.

She waited for the dizziness to recede and after a moment was able to make her way to the door. She had not bothered to bring a dressing gown, but her pyjamas were fairly substantial and she had brought soft moccasins as house shoes. She slid her feet into these and, trying to be as quiet as possible, inched the door open and peered out.

The music was coming from overhead. The attic? Surely no one would be playing music in an attic at this time of night? Hilary advanced a cautious step or two out of the bedroom and trod on a sagging floorboard that creaked like a gunshot. At once the music stopped. Damn, thought Hilary, glancing to the front of the house and Madeleine's bedroom. But nothing happened, and she went on down the landing, past Shona's bedroom door which was closed. She paused, wondering if she should knock. No, better not. She would just go quietly along to the attic stairs and see if she could hear anything from there.

As she reached the foot of the stairs, she began to doubt she had heard the music at all. It could have been coming from outside the house—a car radio in the lane, perhaps. Yes, but it was the music you heard that night inside the Tarleton, she said to herself. Or was it? She was suddenly not quite so sure.

She glanced behind her to the shadowy landing, uneasily aware of how isolated this part of the house was, wondering whether, if she called for help, she would be heard but she went all the way up the stairs to the small door at the top. There was an old-fashioned latch fixed to the edge of the door, but the hook hung loose. Did that mean someone was in there? There was only one way to find out. Hilary was not particularly tall, but the door was very low and narrow and she had to bend down to get through. It closed behind her almost at once, which was slightly sinister; Hilary reached back to make sure it would open again. Yes, it was all right.

There was a dry powdery scent in the attic—Robert would have said, caustically, that it was probably dry rot and remembering Robert's dry irony was so heartening that Hilary instantly felt better. She thought the scent was simply age and stored-away memories.

It was not pitch black in the attic, but shadows clustered thickly and cobwebs dripped from the roof rafters, stirring slightly. She felt along the wall hoping to encounter a light switch, but there were only the rough bricks and timbers of the house itself. Damn. Would she have to find her way back to the door and prop it open to get some light? She tried a bit lower and her hand brushed against something that seemed to move slightly, then closed on thick rough fabric—oh God, it was the sleeve of a coat, someone was standing inside the attic—someone wearing a long concealing coat… Without warning the words of the old autobiography slid into her mind. ‘He creeps through the darkness, still clothed in the long overcoat and muffler he always wore in life…a wide-brimmed hat pulled well down to hide his face…'

Hilary snatched her hand away at once, her heart pounding, her mind spinning with the macabre image. Ghost or not there was certainly someone here—someone was in the attic; she could hear the faint sound of breathing.

She began to feel her way back to the door, and as she did so there was a scrape of sound from deeper in the attic, and the music began again. It filled the dark attic and sent ice-cold shivers down Hilary's spine. She had not imagined it: it really was the tune she and Robert had heard that night, and if ever there was ghost music, this was it—this scratchy old music drifting through the darkness. And then, from out of the confused fear, she picked out that one word. Scratchy. The music was
scratchy
. It's a gramophone, she thought. Someone's playing an old record up here in the dark.

This time her hand found the light switch and she flipped it down. An uncertain glow flooded the attic, casting a pool of light over the piles of household junk, partly intriguing, partly sad, partly eerie. Outside the light, crouching in the corners, were what looked like bundles of newspapers and magazines, and boxes of anonymous cloth—curtains and bedspreads and old clothes.

The music was still playing, the piano making little trills and runs rather like the hammy music written for spooky old silent horror films, easily conjuring up images of cartoon ghosts in white sheets. And now Hilary could hear the lyrics.

On Friday nights the ghost walks
Rattling its chains to itself;
Because that's the night the ghost hands out the pelf.
But on Friday night the ghost walks,
Always as white as a sheet
Cheerless as sin, so they buy it some gin,
And some bedsocks for its feet.

The words were perfectly clear, and the scratches and the sheer age of the recording were clear as well. Hilary looked across to where the music came from and saw the outline of an old gramophone with the famous flaring horn. Standing behind it was a dark shape and Hilary's heart began to pound, because surely it was wearing a long cloak.

The ghost walks, THE GHOST WALKS…

The figure moved into the light and Hilary saw it was not a long cloak at all, it was simply that the shadows had twisted themselves into the semblance of one. Nor was there any deep-brimmed hat to hide the face which was perfectly identifiable. It was Shona Seymour—or was it? As the figure moved towards her, Hilary had a sudden hideous doubt. It looked like Shona and the clothes were the ones Shona had worn today, but the eyes were all wrong—they were wide and staring and the lips were wider as if their owner was smiling a dreadful mad smile.

And then this nightmare figure stopped and let out a cry of fury. ‘Hilary. No!
No!
It's not meant to be you! It's meant to be Madeleine. You bitch, you'll spoil everything coming up here— Where's Madeleine? I switched off the light so she would have to feel her way through the darkness.'

Hilary was already backing to the door. Her mind was in a whirl of confusion and fear, but it was appallingly clear that something had happened to Shona's mind—a breakdown—a brainstorm if there was such a thing.

She said, ‘What am I spoiling? What do you mean about Madeleine? Shona, what is this?'

‘You're supposed to be asleep,' said this person with Shona's features. ‘I gave you sleeping stuff—why aren't you asleep?'

‘I don't understand—' began Hilary, then stopped, remembering the coffee that had been too strong.

‘I put sleeping pills in your coffee,' said Shona, as if she had heard Hilary's thought. ‘I've only just remembered I did that—it was in the other half of my mind, the half I can't always reach. But I remember it now. I crushed them in a tissue while I was fetching the laptop and tipped them in your coffee. You never noticed, did you?' Her voice took on a curious childlike glee that made the hairs prickle on the back of Hilary's neck.

‘I didn't notice,' she said, ‘but I didn't drink all the coffee because it was too strong.'

‘I expect I was thinking I might need to get you out of the way,' said Shona. ‘I expect I was covering all the options. It's always as well to do that.'

I'd better humour her, thought Hilary, but I'll have to get out of here—back downstairs and raise the alarm. But do I call the police simply because Shona's played an old record in an attic at midnight and is acting a bit weirdly? She remembered the only other person in this remote old house was an elderly lady with a frail heart and she also remembered that no one knew they were here—Shona had specifically said they would not let anyone at the office know in case the meeting with Madeleine fell flat. And she put sleeping stuff in my coffee, thought Hilary, shuddering because the thought of Shona doing this, but not remembering until now, was very creepy indeed. But she managed to say, in quite an ordinary voice, ‘That was very clever. I didn't realize you'd done that.'

‘I'm a lot cleverer than people give me credit for.' Again it was a boastful child. ‘And when I do a murder I'm cleverest of all.'

Murder
… The ugly, powerful word shivered on the dusty old floorboards and stirred the thick cobwebs that dripped from the roof joists.

‘But you see, Hilary,' said Shona, ‘tonight it's got to be Madeleine who's murdered. She's got to hear the music.' A lock of her usually immaculate hair fell forward over her face, but she seemed not to notice which added to the strangeness; the Shona Hilary knew was always perfectly groomed. ‘She's got to be frightened, you see. That's the plan. She's got to be frightened enough to have another heart attack. I found one of her father's songs up here—I've been playing it—I found the gramophone over there—it's one of the old wind-up machines and at first I didn't think it would work, but it does.'

‘An old acoustic gramophone,' said Hilary slowly. ‘Yes, I see. She'd hear music coming out of the past. Her own father's music—ghost music. Yes, if she recognized that, it would come as a massive shock. But why do you want to frighten Madeleine into a heart attack?'

‘Oh, don't be so stupid!' said Shona, and now it was the demeanour of a spoilt child, stamping its foot. ‘If Madeleine dies, or even if she's ill for any length of time, the Tarleton won't reopen.'

‘Why don't you want it to reopen?' Her hands are curved like talons, thought Hilary, trying to beat down rising panic.

‘You're such a silly bitch,' said Shona. ‘It's because I must never let anyone find out what's behind the cellar wall.'

This isn't a breakdown, thought Hilary, staring at her. She's mad— Oh God, she really is. As gently and as soothingly as she could, she said, ‘Do you know, Shona, you sound quite different tonight. Not a bit like the boss I've known for the past four years.'

Shona did not appear to have heard. She said, ‘No one must ever—
ever
—know what's behind that wall. I don't always remember about it—sometimes it's years and years before I remember. The trouble is that it's in the other half of my head. And sometimes it's the wall in the Tarleton's cellar and sometimes it's the wall in Grith's cellar, and I don't always know which is which.' A look of puzzlement crossed her face.

Trying to keep her voice gentle, Hilary said, ‘What's behind the wall? What's so bad it must stay hidden?'

‘Anna was there at the beginning,' said Shona at once. ‘For a long time I didn't know about that—I used to hear her calling to be let out, though. Then some workmen found her—she was ugly and shrivelled up, but it served her right. Sometimes I still hear her calling to be let out—she screams all night sometimes. That's when my head splits into two halves.' She stopped, and Hilary wondered if this was the moment to make a dash for the stairs.

‘But no one's ever found Elspeth,' Shona went on. ‘And it's important no one does. They'd know who killed her, you see. They'd know it was me—no one else could have done it. It took me all night to wall her up down there and it was very hard work, but I managed it. I don't know if she screams to get out, but I've never heard her. And I like thinking of her down there in the pitch dark all by herself. But if anyone knocks the wall down they'll find her—that's why it's important that the wall stays intact.'

‘Do you mean the Tarleton wall?' said Hilary, groping for facts.

‘I don't know! I told you, I don't know which one it is!' cried Shona. ‘I knew once, but I don't know now! I can't always get at the other half of my mind!'

‘It doesn't matter,' said Hilary quickly. ‘Who was Elspeth?'

‘I boiled her face,' said Shona, and incredibly and dreadfully, a mad giggle bubbled out of her mouth. ‘That's a bit like the thing children say, isn't it? “Go and boil your head,” they say. That's what I did to Elspeth. But you do see that I've got to stop people knocking down the wall, don't you? I daren't let them find Elspeth.'

Hilary still had no idea if Shona was talking about the wall under the Tarleton or not, but she thought if she was going to make a dash for it, she had better do so now. She began to move backwards towards the door, half a step at a time, praying she did not stumble over anything and draw Shona's attention to her. But as she felt for the door her hand brushed against an old greatcoat hanging near it, and at the soft stirring of the folds Shona's eyes snapped back to awareness, and she looked at Hilary with a frightening glare. Hilary's heart gave a leap of panic, then her fingers closed on the light switch. She pushed it and darkness, thick and stifling, rushed down.

If facing Shona had been bad before, in the dark it was a thousand times worse. Shona gave a cry of fury and the madness that had been already apparent seemed to fill the whole attic. Hilary fumbled for the door, but for several nightmare seconds her hand met only bricks and timber. Her eyes began to adjust to the dark, which meant Shona's eyes must be adjusting as well. Icy sweat broke out on her spine, because if she did not find the door immediately…

It was here! She pushed it open and scrambled through. Shona's furious cry followed her, but she banged the door into place, and fastened the hook into its slot on the frame. As she did so Shona pushed hard against the door causing it to shudder. The flimsy latch held, but Hilary had no idea if it would hold for long enough for her to get to the phone and call for help.