Ghost Song (51 page)

Caley Merrick hoped the police had not seen the shock that had gone through him when they turned up at the Harlequin offices that morning.

He had gone in at ten to finish the mailing he had been doing that week. Just an hour's work it would be—the flyers to be stamped and posted—but it would mean a few extra pounds at the end of the month which was always welcome, and it also meant an hour spent in the place which he felt was a link to the Tarleton.

The receptionist told him Miss Seymour was not in today—Caley remembered hearing about some radio meetings—and that Hilary had taken a day's holiday. He was not sorry to hear Miss Seymour would be out, because she always made him feel nervous, but he had hoped he might be able to get Hilary to talk about the Tarleton and find out what she had been doing there that night.

But here were the police, headed by a rather brash young detective sergeant called Stuart Treadwell, saying that a body—actually a dead body dating back to goodness knew when!—had been found behind a wall in the Tarleton's cellar. Yes, it was certainly an extraordinary thing, said DS Treadwell; they were looking into it, of course, and one of the first things they needed to do was contact the owner so they could open up that part of the old cellars. That was why he and two of his team were here now.

Caley thought, afterwards, that it was a good thing he was so used to hiding his emotions, but even so, he stared at DS Treadwell in utter amazement before he managed to ask who had actually found the body.

‘A surveyor found it,' said Treadwell. ‘He was investigating the foundations for sewage leakage or something,' he added, and Caley remembered the unknown young man he had seen with Hilary Bryant.

‘We've left messages for Miss Seymour and we'll most likely wait for her to contact us, but she's proving a bit elusive so we're taking a quick look through files here to see if we can find the owner's address.' He indicated the spare desk in Shona's office where his men were already flipping through manila folders; Caley thought they were not doing so very thoroughly, just riffling the top pages of each one. He glanced across at the two large filing cabinets in the corner—the cabinets he had so often wanted to open.

‘Yes, I see,' he said. ‘Thank you for explaining,' and got himself out of the office and into the little kitchen on the landing because he was afraid he was going to be sick.

In the event he was not sick but had to sit on the stool in the kitchen for quite a long time, struggling for breath, dizzy and shaking. Even with the inhaler it took quite a long time for the attack to subside, and he was aware of a dull ache round his ribs and up into his throat, but he was able to consider what this might mean to him.

A body had been found in the Tarleton—a very old body from the sound of it—and the police would have to go in to investigate. That was unavoidable. DS Treadwell had mentioned opening up one of the old cellars, which probably meant the under-stage cellars. Wherever it was, though, it would mean massive disruption—you only had to watch a TV crime series to know about forensic tests and people tramping in and out. Caley felt sick again, thinking about that. He had often worried about what would happen if the theatre were to reopen and he had even played over horrid little scenarios in his mind as to how it might come about. But he had never imagined it happening like this. He was aware, as well, of fierce jealousy at that unknown man, that surveyor, who had caused this disturbance.

But the thing to remember was that the police investigation would only be temporary: it would only go on for a week or two, then everything would be as it had been before. He could live through that; he could watch and wait for the time when the Tarleton was his once more.

Despite these reassurances, when he stood up, his legs were trembling and although the sick feeling had passed he still felt unwell. Catching sight of himself in the little square of mirror over the sink he was shocked to see a grey-faced old man looking back at him. This would not do at all; even if the police did not notice anything wrong, the office staff, who knew him fairly well by now, would do so. He turned the cold tap full on and splashed water over his face, then he put the kettle on to make coffee for everyone.

By the time he carried the tray with the mugs of coffee into the main office, an idea was taking root in his mind. At first he dismissed it, but it thrust itself into the forefront of his mind, pointing out this was an opportunity he might never have again. It was a day when everything was upside down: filing cabinets that were normally locked were open; files were being carried back and forth; people were wandering round, ignoring their usual routines. If ever there was a time when Caley might get his hands on the Tarleton file, this was surely that time. He was aware of a sudden throb of excitement.

He distributed the mugs, deliberately ending with the two police detectives working in Miss Seymour's room. Speaking offhandedly but politely, he asked if there was anything he could do to help—everyone else was quite busy today. Perhaps he could take the files out of the drawers or something?

At first he thought DS Treadwell would dismiss the offer, but then he said, ‘Well, if you've nothing else to do, that might be useful.'

‘I could bring them across to the desk in batches for you to check through,' said Caley, chewing his lower lip as if working this out. ‘And replace them in the right order after you've looked at them. It would keep them in place and it would mean less mess for the office.' This sounded as if he was more a part of the office than was actually the case, and it also sounded as if he was quite knowledgeable about the filing system. It seemed he had struck the right note, because the DS said that would be useful, thanks very much. So Caley, hoping his asthma did not betray him, began to carry stacks of files back and forth, eight or ten at a time, scanning their labels as he did so, praying he would see one labelled the Tarleton and that if he did, he would be able to remove it without being noticed. It was the longest shot in the world, but it might just come off.

It did come off. There were two files labelled ‘Tarleton Music Hall'. Caley had not expected two separate files, but he found the first one in the main office—it was a large document wallet, and he was able to slide it beneath the envelopes on his own little corner desk. The ease with which he did it surprised him. The receptionist was in the room at the time, but she was on the phone, making notes as she talked.

The second file was unexpected—Caley was not really looking for a second one—but there it was, near the back of Miss Seymour's own filing cabinet. It looked to be more of a correspondence file with a metal clip for holding papers and letters in place. Caley's heart was racing and sweat prickled between his shoulder blades, because Treadwell's men were in the room with him, but in the end it was easy to subtract it from the drawer and drop it on top of a pile already checked. He gave the two men a new batch to work through then, moving casually, slid the Tarleton file inside his jacket and walked into the kitchen, collecting the other from his desk on the way. He could not hide two files under his jacket, but surely it was perfectly ordinary for someone to walk across an office with a file? He did so openly, picking up the used coffee mugs as he went as if going to wash them up. Once on the little landing outside, he pushed both files inside the folds of his overcoat which was hanging on the rack inside the door.

Then he went back to the office and continued helping the police with their search. Unobtrusive, helpful Mr Merrick. That nice little man who occasionally comes in to address envelopes and run errands. A pity he had to go home at lunchtime, but he would have his own life and commitments. The Harlequin would not represent his entire life. Caley knew that five minutes after he left they would have forgotten about him.

When he reached his house he locked all the doors and went into the little back room which Mary had designated as their dining room and which still had the gate-leg table by the fireplace. Caley put the two files onto the table and sat down, looking at them. His heart was racing as fast as it had done earlier, but now it was racing with excitement and anticipation. I've stolen two files, he thought. I've obstructed a police investigation. He did not care. This is going to be it, he thought. This is going to be the moment when I find the link I've wanted since I was eighteen. The mysterious owner. The person who might hold the key to my real family.

He opened the document wallet first, sliding the sheaf of papers out, seeing almost at once that they were unlikely to hold any secrets. In the main they were bank statements showing payments made in and out, and accounts from cleaning companies. There were also current insurance cover notes, certificates from the electricity board and fire authorities. All of this was information he already knew.

At first look the second file was no more promising. There were a few letters to and from the bank, and some correspondence with a builder who had renewed some guttering two years ago—Caley remembered that being done because he had had to dodge the builder. The letters were all clipped together, and he began to turn them over, conscious of deep disappointment, thinking he need not have gone to so much trouble to get the files out.

And quite suddenly, there it was. A single sheet of paper, loose in the file as if someone who was careless or in a hurry had just slipped it inside, not realizing it had slid between earlier letters. It was rather unevenly typed, with a printed address at the top and a signature at the bottom, and it looked like a photocopy. Caley sat very still, staring down at it, seeing the printed words dance back and forth across the page, forming crazy, unreadable shapes.

It was from the Tarleton's owner. Its
owner
. She was a lady living in Somerset, a lady called Madeleine Ferrelyn, and she had written this letter as recently as three days ago. And whatever the police might do to the theatre was a mere fleabite, because Madeleine Ferrelyn had already started the process that really would spoil Caley's life. He read the letter again, this time not feeling sick, but feeling as if he was being drawn down into a black and lonely well.

‘…the Tarleton is to be woken from its long sleep at last,' the letter said. ‘…my father's will stipulated it should remain closed until fifty years after his death.'

A brief anger welled up inside Caley—how
dare
she write those words. How dare this Ferrelyn woman talk so lightly of bringing back to life the one place where he belonged: the place that had become his life, the place where he could make music flow from the battered old piano, and where he felt he was among friends who understood him. It did not matter that the music was old and most of it virtually forgotten, and it did not matter that the friends were the ghosts of people long since dead and also forgotten: the music was wonderful to Caley and the people were not dead to him. He could not lose those marvellous hours he spent there, it would be like ripping out most of his life.

He left the letter in its folder—he had no idea yet what he was going to do with it or whether he could risk destroying it—and sat very still for a long time. At last, moving jerkily as if something was forcing him to unwillingly do its bidding, he reached for the phone to dial the number for National Rail Enquiries. Connected to an anonymous operator, he asked about trains from London to Glastonbury. Fairly early in the morning, and a direct train if possible. It was disconcerting to be told there was no railway station in Glastonbury itself, but Caley asked if they could advise him of the nearest one to a place called Fosse Leigh. He thought it was quite near Glastonbury. Could they help him with this? He made himself sound older than he really was and a bit shaky, because it was remarkable how sympathetic people were if you did that.

National Rail could indeed help him. In ten minutes Caley had the information that the nearest railway station to Fosse Leigh was Castle Cary and there were some through trains from Paddington. The journey would take about an hour and a half. Yes, there was a train at 8.34 a.m. Would he like to book a ticket now and collect it from the station?

But it was automatic to Caley not to do anything that could ever be traced back to him, so he said he would think about it, and rang off. Then he found one of the old map books from his cupboard—he and Mary had occasionally taken a little holiday at Herne Bay or Hastings and the maps had been useful—and saw that Fosse Leigh was only about ten miles from Castle Cary. It was not ideal, but it was better than he had hoped. There might be a bus service, but it was more likely that he would have to get a taxi from the station. It would all be a bit expensive, but he would draw out some of his savings.