Ghost Song (9 page)

‘Well, I would not use quite such a dull term as
political
,' she said, and gave him the smile that one of her admirers had likened to a very patrician cat, but that at the moment reminded Toby more of a snake contemplating its prey.

‘What name would you put to it?' he said.

‘It has a number of names,' she said. ‘It was formed from a larger organization called Narodna Odbrana.' She glanced at him, and then said, ‘That's Serbian, and literally translated it means the People's Defence.' She paused, clearly waiting for a reaction, and when Toby did not speak, went on, ‘Tonight's meeting is a splinter group from that. It is called Tranz.'

Tranz. The name dropped into the dark stuffiness of the hansom like a heavy stone. After a moment, Toby said, ‘And its purpose?'

‘It has several purposes. You will understand better when you meet the others and hear the discussion. They can explain it better than I.'

The cab rumbled its way forward, and although she continued to talk, lightly and almost flippantly about the meeting ahead of them, Toby scarcely heard her.

His mind was in turmoil. He had heard the names of Narodna Odbrana and Tranz because of his father's position within the Foreign Office.

‘Dangerous nest of rebels and trouble-makers, Narodna Odbrana,' Sir Hal had said one night, when he had had a drop too much to drink and for once had opened up to Toby about his work. ‘At ground level it's a cluster of grubby little secret societies—groups of a dozen or so people—but the higher you go the bigger it gets and the more important it seems to become. It has government officials and high-ranking army officers, and goodness knows who else in its ranks.'

Toby had asked what this partly grubby, partly important society actually did.

‘That's open to question,' said Hal. ‘They'd tell you they're promoting a greater Serbia and breaking down barriers between countries. Hence this splinter group, Tranz.'

‘Tranz,' said Toby thoughtfully. ‘Translating as “to cross barriers”?'

‘Exactly that.' Hal shot his son an appreciative glance. ‘And I'd have to say it all sounds very fine on the face of it.'

‘Isn't it?' It was not often Toby's father talked to him like this and he was interested.

‘No, it's not,' said Hal impatiently. ‘Boiled down to the bones, it's a breeding ground for saboteurs and spies. A machine to promote war between Serbia and Austria.'

‘So there really is going to be a war?' said Toby.

‘My dear boy, there's going to be one hell of a war before the year's out. Serbia, Austria, Germany, Russia. They'll all go into it. It's a seething cauldron, and the lid's about to come off it.'

‘And this country? Will we go into the cauldron as well?'

‘Oh, we'll be in it up to our necks, there's no doubt about that. I'm not an especially pious man and it's not often I thank God for being the age I am,' said Hal, ‘but when I contemplate what's brewing up in the world, I thank Him very sincerely for that.' He sent Toby a sudden sharp look. ‘It'll be a bloodbath, Toby. It'll sound mightily heroic at first but when it comes to the reality, it'll be the grimmest thing we've ever known.' He did not say, so stay out of it, but Toby knew his father was thinking it.

As the cab took him and Alicia through the streets, that conversation came back to him, and most vivid of all was his father's final remark.

‘We've never proved it,' Hal had said, ‘but we suspect Narodna Odbrana—and therefore Tranz as well—of arranging political murders.' And then he had said, ‘My lord, I must be squiffy to talk like this; I hope you will be discreet about this conversation.'

‘State secrets?' Toby had said, trying for a lighter note, and Hal had said, ‘For the moment they're secret. Pray they stay that way. In any case, I'm most likely wrong about Tranz.' On which note he had gone a bit unevenly to bed.

And now, according to Alicia Darke, this group of people—Tranz—who were suspected of training saboteurs and committing murder, were longing to meet Toby.

Why? Because of his father's Foreign Office work and connections? That was surely the likeliest answer. But what if it was not? Toby thought of himself as a singer and writer of music-hall songs, but he was also part of—part-owner of—an extremely successful theatre. He could not see why a group of political agitators might be interested in a theatre, but he supposed anything was possible.

S
HONA SEYMOUR HAD
always had the feeling that when it came to the Tarleton, anything was possible.

Since she had started to work for the Harlequin Society she had come to know quite a lot about the old theatre's history. Anyone who was at all interested in that branch of Edwardian theatre knew in a general way that in 1914, when the lights went out all over Europe, they went out at the Tarleton as well. But what very few of them knew was at the same time a strange restriction had come into being—a restriction that turned the place into a curious half world, almost a twilight sleep.

It had not been until Shona was promoted that she had found out a little more. This was the late 1980s and, although the era of Thatcherism was drawing to a close, it was still a good time to be working your way up in London or anywhere else for that matter, because people were conscientious about equal opportunities. Shona's boss, preparing for his retirement, had been very pleased to hand over the reins to the assistant who had worked so hard and so devotedly for the last five years. But one of the things he had said was that Shona needed to know about the Tarleton. ‘We haven't a great deal of information,' he said, ‘but you'll have to keep what there is to yourself—that's a condition imposed on us. You'll have to agree not to talk to anyone about it.'

‘Of course,' said Shona. ‘You know I don't gossip. You know how discreet I am,' and her boss, who had very good cause indeed to know the truth of this, nodded.

‘It's years before you'll actually need to do anything about it,' he said, ‘but make sure you read the file thoroughly. We've never been given all the facts and we probably never will be, but we're being paid to keep the place in mothballs until—well, until the restraint ends. You'll see the dates on the file for yourself.'

Shona had read the file which was just about the oldest one the Harlequin Society possessed, absorbed the rather sparse information it contained, and noted the dates. As her boss said, it would be many years before anything could happen—years of silent darkness. Twelve years, ten, plenty of time left. As the eighties slid smoothly into the nineties, Shona worked hard to make the Harlequin Society respected and profitable, choosing permanent staff carefully and building up a reliable register of freelancers. It was interesting work and the members of the governing trust—in the main distant figures whose involvement did not amount to much more than attending committee meetings twice a year—were pleased with the results and with Shona herself.

Shona was pleased as well; she found her work rewarding and later on, when Bankside and Southwark underwent their own renaissance and came into the public eye, the Harlequin became quite well known and Shona was regarded as a sharp businesswoman. She enjoyed the social life all this brought her: the lunches and dinners, and the requests to speak at various functions. It all funded her smart flat, exotic holidays, designer clothes and first-class travel. The lovers. She was careful to spend the occasional night with her former boss, however; it was a bit of a nuisance but one of the things she had learned quite early on was that it was as well to keep sweet the people who had helped you. That did not prevent her from enjoying the company and the beds of others.

Twice a year she went briskly and unemotionally into the Tarleton, carrying out a businesslike check of all the floors. She had to force herself to do it, however she never allowed anyone else to go inside, except the contract cleaners and the surveyor from the insurance company who inspected the fabric once a year. One day the restraint would come to an end, but that day seemed so far into the future that Shona did not think about it very much. It was a long way ahead. Eight years. Five. The millennium with all its hype and glitz came and went and the Tarleton remained undisturbed.

And then, just under a year ago, the date the theatre could reopen arrived. Shona had waited, expecting a letter or a phone call from the bank—even some contact from the unknown owner.

There was nothing. The mystery had stayed as closed as it had always been, and the Tarleton had stayed closed as well. Somebody's forgotten, thought Shona. Nothing's going to happen. Whoever it is has simply decided it's all too much trouble. (Too much trouble to realize the potential of a dormant London music hall? she said to herself incredulously. Too much trouble, even to engage a good estate agent who will put the place on the open market or set up an auction? Doesn't the owner know if that were to happen there would be a queue halfway to Blackfriars?) The bank continued to settle the bills for the odds and ends of upkeep, and the insurance for the fabric was renewed, and after a time Shona came to the conclusion that the owner must be some rich eccentric: some unaccountable old recluse who did not want his—or even her—ordered life disturbed and did not care about the money.

But the Theatres Preservation Trust and the surveyor, Robert Fallon, between them had worried Shona. It did not really matter what was done to the Tarleton or who looked behind the subterranean wall, but the thought of that underground wall being demolished—even partly—stirred a deep unease in her mind. Every time she went into the theatre, to check that everywhere was sound and safe and make sure the twice yearly cleaners had done their job thoroughly, it was as if an old nightmare uncurled and fastened its claws in her mind. It was impossible not to sense the secrets in the brooding old building: they might be perfectly innocent secrets—but they might not. And you have to keep secrets buried, said a sly voice in Shona's mind. No matter what they might be, they're better left alone, especially secrets that lie behind cellar walls—you know that, don't you, Shona…
Don't you?

And so Shona, who did know it, resolved to block all attempts to demolish the underground wall. It was annoying that Robert Fallon was so thorough about all this. She considered him thoughtfully. Might it be useful to seduce him? It certainly might be interesting; he was quite a bit younger than she was but that had never mattered to her, in fact rather the reverse.

Probably one day a directive would come to reopen the Tarleton—or simply to hand over the keys and close the account. If so, Shona would try to retain some degree of involvement. She would put forward plans and proposals for the place's future: this was something the Harlequin did very well. Shona was not an ideas person herself, but Hilary Bryant was. Hilary could probably head a small team for the project and the Harlequin could even mount a small exhibition about it: the exhibition side was something Shona had developed over the last few years, mostly using freelancers and local people.

One of the most frequent of the casual workers was Caley Merrick, although Shona had hesitated about employing him three or four years ago. He was a quenched-looking little man with an old-fashioned walrus moustache. He had been a clerk at Southwark Council, he had said with rather touching pride. He had worked there since he left school, but ill-health had forced him into early retirement a few years ago. He tapped his chest by way of illustration and Shona supposed he suffered with heart problems and wondered how reliable he would be. But he had turned out to be conscientious and always prepared to help out with whatever casual work was needed, or to cover for people on holiday and answer the phones. He seemed to like the tenuous contact with the theatrical world and Shona had concluded he was slightly stage-struck. But whatever he was, he was polite to everyone, which Shona liked because she had been brought up to be polite herself.

‘You must always be polite,' her mother used to say to her when she was small, all those years ago in Grith House, the dark house on the edge of Moil Moor in Yorkshire. ‘You must remember that, Shona. You must be polite to everyone, of course, but you must be especially polite to your grandfather.'

Grith was Grandfather's house and Shona and her mother were allowed to live with him after Shona's father went away. (‘But we never talk about that,' her mother always said.)