Ghost Song Read online

  He paused and someone (I think it was one of the girls) asked about the closing down of the Tarleton. Hadn’t that been a bit of a mystery on its own account? Was it in any way linked with the ghost story?

  ‘I never knew that,’ says Shilling. ‘But there were folk who said there’d been a conspiracy of silence, and certain people had taken a solemn vow never to talk. But no one told at the time and no one’s told since, and I doubt there’s anyone alive now who knows the real story. And the Tarleton kept its secrets.’

  So, reader, there is my little ghost story for you! A trifling small banquet, but all mine own.

  But in the years that followed that night, I never walked along Candle Street, or went past that theatre, without thinking of old Bob Shilling’s story—even (I admit it!), listening for the ghost song. But I never heard it, and I never heard if there was an explanation for the ghost, either. And, as Shilling said, the Tarleton keeps its secrets.

  It was not really surprising to find a ghost story in the Tarleton’s history. Hilary thought there could not be many theatres that did not have an eerie tale or two to their name.

  But the images were remarkably disturbing, the more so because they were not horrific in the conventional, modern sense. The Tarleton’s ghost was a gentle one: a dark-clad man, prowling fogbound London streets, hiding his face as he went, occasionally humming a snatch of song, ‘to keep himself company…’

  Ghost song, thought Hilary. It was probably just an old doorkeeper or a props man who had a bad chest, and liked to totter along to the local pub for a nip of rum, singing a bit drunkenly on the way back! But for a moment she could see the swirling greyness of a London older than the one she lived in, and could hear the rumble of hansom-cab wheels and see the fuzzed discs of light from the gas jets. She could see the man’s silhouette, sharply black against the damp fingers of the mist.

  She printed out the extract from the memoirs in case the page should vanish into the erratic ether of the internet, switched off the computer and went back down to the main part of the flat to consider her findings. The unknown actor’s story unquestionably provided her with more information about the Tarleton—there was the stage manager’s name, and also that reference to Toby Chance and his being in management there. Hilary rather liked the sound of Toby. A toff in need of a haircut and attracting the ladies. She remembered the sly sauciness of the song written by Toby she had found for Judy and the TV programme.

  But there were no hints as to the ghost’s identity or origins, and no suggestion as to why the theatre had closed and had stayed closed for nearly an entire century. An ephemeral, musically inclined gentleman wandering through the fog was hardly a reason for putting what sounded like a fairly prosperous music hall into that twilight sleep.

  Yes, but that old stage doorkeeper, Shilling, had believed there had been some kind of conspiracy of silence. That people had taken a vow to keep a secret.

  Could that be true? And if so, what had the secret been? Presumably there was a logical explanation somewhere for all this, but at the moment Hilary could not think what it might be.

  CHAPTER THREE

  SHONA SEYMOUR WAS annoyed to find herself disconcerted when Robert Fallon telephoned to request permission to explore the foundations of the Tarleton.

  It was his mention of the underground wall that had thrown her, of course. Underground walls were things to be treated warily: they could hide secrets, memories, things better left undisturbed… She had always known that ever since she was a child.

  She told Robert Fallon that the Harlequin’s instructions regarding the management of the Tarleton were specific and clear. On no account were the foundations or any part of the structure to be disturbed or tampered with.

  ‘Not by anyone,’ said Shona, preparing to end the conversation.

  But Robert Fallon did not let the conversation end. He was perfectly polite, but he said the wall had prevented him from surveying the place properly and he wanted to remove a section of it.

  ‘It’s closing off what I think is quite a large area of the foundations,’ he said. ‘My concern is that the Tarleton is near enough to the Thames and to some of Joseph Bazalgette’s original sewage tunnels to make the foundations vulnerable—in fact there’s an old Victorian pumping station in Candle Square that I think backs onto the Tarleton’s land. It’s possible that the river—even sewage—has leaked in without anyone realizing it. If so, it could be eroding the foundations. It wouldn’t be the whole wall we’d remove, of course, and it could be done quite neatly. Just a small section of bricks knocked out—a good builder could do it in a couple of hours, in fact I could probably do it myself. It would take half a day at the very most. I’d oversee the work and make sure it was properly rebuilt after I’d seen what was on the other side. But I can’t do something as radical as that without the owner’s permission. Or the permission of the owner’s agents—in other words, the Harlequin Society.’

  ‘We don’t need to contact the owner,’ said Shona at once. ‘I—in other words, the Harlequin Society—have complete authority. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘But surely if we explain the situation… I could write to the owners, or go to see them—’

  ‘I’m afraid that really isn’t possible.’ Shona paused, then said, ‘This wall—are you sure it isn’t just part of the building?’

  ‘Quite sure. It’s an old wall but was obviously built long after the original structure.’

  A wall built in an old building long after the original structure. An underground wall… Shona was aware of an old childhood nightmare stirring again, as if a forgotten bruise had been pressed. She frowned, and said, ‘I’m very sorry I can’t help you, Mr Fallon. We’d like to have a copy of your report though, if that’s possible.’

  ‘I think the Theatres Trust sends one automatically, but I’ll make sure,’ said Robert.

  ‘Good. It will be useful to have it on file. Thank you.’

  ‘Mr Fallon? My name’s Hilary Bryant and I work for the Harlequin Society,’ said the voice on Robert’s phone. ‘You’ve just surveyed the Tarleton and I wondered if I could possibly talk to you about it. It’s a genuine request and I’m genuine as well, but if you prefer to make a polite excuse about pressure of work or an urgent survey required at Highgrove House, and hang up…’

  Even without the introduction, Robert had recognized the voice as belonging to the Harlequin Society—it was the voice he had spoken to on the phone to arrange to borrow the keys. He had not met the owner of the voice, but he remembered he had assigned to her cropped hair, green eyes, and the kind of short upper lip that created a resemblance to an attractive cat.

  He said warily, ‘What exactly did you want to talk about?’

  ‘At the risk of sounding melodramatic, I’d rather not say over the phone,’ said Hilary Bryant.

  Robert remembered Shona Seymour’s icy politeness and supposed the call was being made from the Harlequin’s office. He said, ‘Well, I’m certainly interested in anything to do with the Tarleton at the moment. How about meeting for a drink after work? Would Linkman’s Wine Bar do? That’s fairly near your office, isn’t it?’

  ‘Linkman’s would be fine. I could be there about half past six.’

  ‘Good. I’ll see you then.’

  Hilary was not quite as Robert had imagined from her voice, but he had not been far out. She was a bit younger than he was—probably about twenty-seven or -eight—and he had got quite a lot right about her appearance. He had certainly got the eyes right—they were green, slightly slanting and fringed with black lashes, although that might be due to make-up; Robert never knew how to tell the difference which made it difficult to know when to make a complimentary remark. Her hair was fairly short and a pleasing shade of chestnut brown, and she had the air of expecting life in general to be entertaining. But when she sat down and accepted the glass of wine Robert offered, she said, quite seriously, ‘As I said on the phone, this is to do with the Tarleton. I expect you’re bound by
professional discretion or the surveyors’ confessional or something, but I’m not bound by anything at all—I’m not really even bound by loyalty to Shona Seymour, so I can be as indiscreet as I like. But since you’ve just spent two days in there, I thought you might be someone I could talk to about the place.’

  ‘Well…’

  ‘I’d better explain that I haven’t got any hidden agendas,’ said Hilary firmly. ‘I haven’t so much as inherited a family vow to preserve the memory of an ancestor who sang saucy songs on the halls, but I like my work and I love old theatres and I think there’s something very mysterious about that one.’

  Robert did not say that he thought this as well. ‘Tell me about the mysteries.’

  ‘For starters, there’s an absolute taboo on just about everything to do with it,’ said Hilary. ‘You’re probably the first person who’s managed to get the keys and go inside—apart from cleaners who go in once or twice a year because the Harlequin Trustees think that looks efficient, and a very cursory inspection for the insurance of the building.’

  ‘I probably only got in because the Theatres Preservation Trust commissioned the survey,’ said Robert. ‘It’s not precisely Home Office controlled—it’s partly funded by the government and partly by things like lottery grants—but one of its responsibilities is to organize surveys of disused theatres. But if you’ve got the Home Office at your back, people don’t normally say no to you. Your cleaners do a reasonable job, by the way; everywhere was fairly clean, apart from the underground room—it didn’t look as if anyone had been down there for years.’ He regarded her thoughtfully. ‘Why are you so curious about it?’

  ‘The thing is, Mr Fallon—’

  ‘If we’re going to be on mystery and taboo-sharing terms you’d better make it Robert.’

  ‘OK then, Robert, I’ve been looking into the Tarleton’s history, and the first thing I’ve established is that over the past ten years a number of organizations—perfectly genuine and respectable set-ups—have tried to revive its fortunes. To reopen it. They’re groups dedicated to the preservation of old theatres in the main, or development projects in this part of London. They’ve made all kinds of approaches and suggestions: a music-hall museum, rehearsal rooms, a restaurant with bits of memorabilia everywhere—old posters and framed programmes on the walls—even a small conference centre. And any of those things would be great. There’s such a buzz in Bankside these days.’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Robert.

  ‘But Shona’s blocked them all,’ said Hilary. ‘She’s done it politely and she’s used a whole range of excuses, but she’s successfully repelled every single approach. I don’t know if she’s the one doing the blocking or if it’s the owners. But if it’s Shona herself, that’s really odd, because the Harlequin’s whole reason for existence is supposed to be the preservation of theatre history in general and Edwardian theatre in particular. And if it’s the owners then it’s even odder, because anyone keeping a place like that standing empty all these years has got to be pretty flaky.’

  ‘Hasn’t anyone ever thought all those refusals a bit peculiar?’

  ‘No, because none of them would have known about the other approaches and refusals. They just accepted the fact that the owner didn’t want to negotiate at the moment, or there were other plans for the place, or there were planning restrictions on the street, and so on and so on, and they went away and found somewhere else.’ She grinned at him rather engagingly. ‘And although Shona had to agree to your survey, it was clear she wasn’t very pleased about it,’ said Hilary. ‘That added another layer to all the mystery, so in the end I thought I’d phone you, although I dithered for a whole day before I made the call.’

  Robert, who was starting to enjoy Ms Bryant’s mode of conversation and could not imagine her dithering in any situation at all, said, ‘You said that was the first thing you established. Did you find out something else?’

  ‘Well, I did, but I don’t know how relevant it is,’ said Hilary. Reaching in her bag she handed him two sheets of paper.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘It’s from some old actor’s memoirs. I found it on the internet. It’s 1930-ish, I should think. It’s a bit melodramatic in places, but very interesting. I don’t know who the actor was, although I’m hoping I can find out.’

  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?’