Ghost Song (5 page)

Robert read it carefully, pausing occasionally to go back to an earlier passage to check a detail. When he reached the end, he said, thoughtfully, ‘He's saying something happened and there was a cover-up and the Tarleton was closed because of it.'

‘Yes.' Hilary read out the quoted words. ‘ “A conspiracy of silence, and certain people had taken a solemn vow never to talk.” '

‘It's probably nothing more than an ageing actor trying to spice up his memoirs,' said Robert. ‘In any case it's so far back it can't possibly matter now.' But he went on studying the printout. ‘You're right about it being intriguing,' he said at last. ‘But don't let's get carried away. There's a strange underground wall and it's true Miss Seymour wouldn't give permission for me to look behind it. I couldn't overrule that. In any case, there were no indications of any ominous damage having occurred to the structure. And people do get jittery if you suggest knocking out sections of brickwork—they visualize roofs caving in and all kinds of disasters, so her attitude isn't all that extraordinary. It just means I've had to put a carefully worded disclaimer in my report, explaining that part of the foundations wasn't accessible.'

‘How old is the wall?'

‘The bricks were machine-made, so it's certainly after about 1870. Until then building bricks were hand-made. I don't like making guesses, but if I had to, I'd say it was built in the early 1900s.'

‘Playing devil's advocate for a moment, don't people build walls simply for relaxation?' said Hilary. ‘I remember reading Winston Churchill used to do that.'

‘Yes, but I don't think Winston Churchill built a wall in the foundations of a Southwark music hall,' said Robert drily. ‘But I would have liked to check what was on the other side.'

‘The mummified remains of some old actor?'

‘Sewer spillage and sluice gates,' said Robert repressively. ‘That could be potentially disastrous to the foundations. But what I did find odd was that the wall looked as if it had been constructed by somebody who didn't know much about building. Or,' he said, remembering his earlier impression, ‘by somebody working in a great hurry.'

‘Was there any other means of getting behind that wall?'

‘No. At least…'

‘Yes?'

‘There's one of those old trap arrangements in the stage,' said Robert a bit reluctantly. ‘At least, I think that's what it is. For ghosts and things to suddenly appear or vanish. It would have to lead straight down to the under-stage area.'

‘Yes, it would. Couldn't you open it and put down a ladder? Or even shine a torch?'

‘It's got a length of wood nailed over it.'

Hilary looked at him. ‘Really?'

‘Yes. A very thorough, but very amateurish nailing down. I've been trying to think it was done as a safety measure when the theatre was closed.'

Hilary said carefully, ‘Could it be removed? Or levered open?'

‘It could probably be levered open,' said Robert. ‘But it might result in damage to the stage itself. I can't risk that, not without the owner's permission. If you can't get at certain areas in a survey, you just point that out and make appropriate recommendations.'

‘I've always wanted to go inside that theatre,' said Hilary wistfully. ‘I've wanted to sneak the keys out and take a look for myself, but the thought of playing hide-and-seek with Shona all along Southwark Street and Burbage Street has always been too daunting, so I never have.'

‘Hilary, who really owns it?' said Robert.

‘I don't know. Obviously somebody does, but there's nothing on the main file, because I've looked. All the accounts go to a bank, who pay up very promptly but very anonymously. Shona has a locked filing cabinet in her office though, so there might be another file there.' She sipped her wine. ‘You know, Robert, we could get in tonight and take another look. We could even see if the cover of the trap could be levered up a couple of inches. There's no security system or anything like that. Not even an old-fashioned night watchman who swings a bull's eye lantern and talks in Cockney rhyming slang. It would just be a question of getting the keys from the office, and I've got my own office keys.'

‘Would anyone be in there at this time?'

‘No. It's just on half past seven—we could be in and out by half past eight. Nine at the latest.'

Robert thought: I'm contemplating entering a dark deserted old theatre—an historic London building—with a set of stolen keys and a female I've only just met, and hammering out part of a stage that dates back to the nineteenth century, if not earlier, and may have been trodden by some of the luminaries of the English comedy theatre. This is mad. But I can't stop thinking about that place, and perhaps if I just have another look inside… I wonder how far I can trust Hilary Bryant? Still, she's only just met me as well, and she seems to be trusting me.

Hilary said, ‘I promise you I'm perfectly genuine about all this. I'm not setting some kind of peculiar trap.'

‘I didn't think you were. I can't imagine what the purpose of such a trap would be, anyway. To discredit me? To get me drummed out of the Royal Institution of Chartered Surveyors? I'm starting to sound like you.'

‘We're only going to lever up a bit of worm-eaten timber.'

‘It wasn't worm-eaten. And I'd have to have pliers and things.'

‘Have you got them?'

‘Well, as a matter of fact there are some in my car.'

‘Where is it?'

‘In that car park just off Burbage Street.'

‘Oh, quite near,' said Hilary innocently.

‘All right, we'll get them,' said Robert, with the feeling of throwing discretion and sanity to the winds. ‘Let's do it now before I change my mind.'

It was raining when they got outside. The lights from the cars, shop windows and bars were reflected in the shiny pavements, and London was just crossing over the line that separated its daylight identity from the dark, sometimes sinister, face it wore at night. Robert had worked in London for three years now, but he still found it fascinating to see the change from the hurrying, business-suited persona of the city to the night-time mood. He liked seeing the way that people dressed and talked and even moved differently.

Hilary had jammed a twenties-style velour hat over her bright hair. Robert wondered whether he should say it suited her, and then thought he had better not in case she misinterpreted it. She was not wearing any kind of ring but that did not mean a thing.

They collected the small haversack Robert used to tote the impedimenta of his trade, and went along to the Harlequin's offices. The building was in darkness except for a couple of dim security lights. ‘I won't put the main lights on,' said Hilary as they went up to the first floor. ‘They might be seen from the street. We share a security man with about a dozen other buildings in the row and if he sees lights he might come up to check. There's no reason why I shouldn't be here but I'd rather not have to explain. I'd certainly rather Shona didn't find out.'

‘I feel like a house-breaker,' said Robert as she switched on a shaded desk light.

‘Yes, it's odd, isn't it, how places change their personalities when they're deserted and it's dark? I sometimes think London itself does that as well.'

‘I always think it.'

The dim green light fell across some of the hand-written labels inside the key cupboard. Empire Halls and Palace Theatres and Apollos and Playhouses and Theatre Royals. At the sight of them Robert felt the memories stirring again, as he had in the Tarleton. All of these places were empty or had been turned into bingo halls or cinemas or clubs, but all of them had once been rich with gilt and hung with red velvet, their cornices and caryatids bathed in the incandescent glow of gaslight, if not limelight… What would the ghosts think of strobe lighting and computerized number-calling, or the dazzling effects of the cinema-makers? Were they still even around, those ghosts? All those bewhiskered gentlemen, thumbs hooked in waistcoat pockets as they told slightly risqué jokes… All those girls with parasols and sweet voices singing about the boy they loved being up in the gallery… Older ladies with the formidable S-shaped silhouette of the Edwardian matron, thrusting bust and jutting bustle, majestically singing patriotic songs about Britannia… Acrobats and strong-men in leotards and tap-dancers with long shoes, and cheerful Cockney chars who stopped off on the way to have the old half quartern and could not find their way home…

With the idea of keeping a hold on the practical world, he said, ‘Exactly how far-reaching is the Harlequin's authority? Are you just agents for theatre owners or do you get a kind of power of attorney as well?'

‘I have no idea. I don't really have anything to do with the legal side of things—I'm a researcher. But we do look after a number of theatres—most of them belong to big conglomerates. Faceless companies with so many subdivisions they hardly know what they do own. That's why the buildings stand empty for years.'

‘No privately owned theatres?'

‘I doubt if many theatres are privately owned these days,' said Hilary. ‘Not in London anyway. I do know the Harlequin's got a few with long-running legal wrangles over lawful ownership—freehold and leasehold all mixed up together, and people denying ownership or trying to claim ownership. Or cases where title deeds were lost in the Blitz and nobody can trace the real owner. With those, the solicitors hand the caretaking to us while it's being sorted out, although it often takes years. These are the keys.' She dropped them in her jacket pocket and switched off the desk light. ‘Ready?'

‘No,' said Robert, ‘but let's do it anyway.'

He followed her down the stairs, waited for her to lock the street door, and then said, ‘I don't think we'd better use the main entrance, it fronts onto quite a busy part of the street and it's a bit noticeable. There's an alley along the side of the building, leading to the old stage door.'

‘Platt's Alley,' said Hilary. ‘Yes, I know it.'

‘I think it would be better to use that. It's narrow, and it's likely to be dark and a bit unsavoury, but—'

‘Unsavoury I can cope with,' said Hilary. ‘And we've got a torch for the dark. Lead the way.'

A
T THIS TIME OF
evening Platt's Alley was dark and very unwelcoming indeed. The rain lay in oily puddles everywhere, and little heaps of sodden rubbish lay in corners.

‘It isn't anywhere near as unsavoury as I thought it would be,' said Hilary, shining the torch.

‘It'd be very unsavoury if we were caught trespassing,' said Robert.

‘We aren't trespassing. This is a public thoroughfare and we've got the keys to the building.'

‘Good. Remember that argument when we're in Bow Street, will you? The stage door's at the far end.'

‘Yes, I see it.' Hilary shone the torch. ‘There's something carved into the stone over the door—can you see what it says?'

‘It says, “Please one and please all, be they great, be they small”.'

‘Nice,' said Hilary approvingly. ‘I wonder where it's from and who put it there.'

‘Your ghost, perhaps.'

‘Somehow I think it's older than the ghost. Or are ghosts ageless?'

‘Whatever they are, let's hope we don't meet any tonight.'

‘What's beyond the alley?'

‘A ten-foot-high wall. It separates this plot from Candle Square and all those little streets leading off.'

As Robert opened the stage door, Hilary did not exactly shiver, but as they stepped inside she hunched her shoulders as if suddenly cold, and dug her hands deeper into the pockets of her jacket. He locked the door, and shone the torch into the swirling darkness. ‘The room on the right would have been for a porter or a doorman, I think,' he said.

‘It was a doorman who told the ghost story to the old actor,' said Hilary. ‘Bob Shilling. He said he wouldn't come in here by night for a hundred pounds.'

‘I'd rather you hadn't reminded me of that. Further along this corridor there's a side passage with stone steps leading down to the cellars.'

‘Which is where the mysterious wall is?'

‘Yes. I'm assuming you don't actually want to see it tonight?'

‘Well, perhaps we could do that in daylight,' said Hilary, glancing to where the steps went down into a well of blackness.

‘We can get through to the foyer this way,' said Robert. ‘It takes us along past cloakrooms and the old Oyster Bar.'

‘That's evocative, isn't it? Oyster Bar. Gentlemen in evening dress wolfing down oysters, and making a play for chorus girls. Very 1890s.'

If the Tarleton's ghosts had been mildly inquisitive when Robert carried out his survey, on a dark rainy night with only a couple of torches for light and semi-stolen keys for access, they were very nearly aggressive. They're not liking this, he thought as they walked along, their footsteps echoing. They're used to people coming in occasionally in daylight, but if they're disturbed when night falls they close ranks because of guarding the secrets…