Full Dark House(85)

The detectives listened and waited. The faint, high voice that emerged from Rothschild startled them both. At first it seemed little more than the sound of a draught whistling under a door. Gradually they were able to make out a few words. ‘Not the actors, the actors are adored.’ The voice reverted to a thin wind. ‘Someone has been ignored and forgotten. No hatred . . . only desperation . . . desperation. History repeats.’

May studied the old lady’s face. She didn’t appear to be throwing her voice. Something prickled the base of his neck.

‘It’s not his fault, you understand . . .’ Now the voice was Edna’s, so alone, so melancholy. ‘Selfish and blind. Medea . . . Calliope . . . goddesses of the theatre, so very sad.’ A tear ran down her left cheek and trembled on her chin. ‘The poor tortured soul is here, right among us now. A painted world is so confining. There must be a way to set such a trapped spirit free. The cruelty of the moonlight, so far beyond reach.’

Just as May was peering into them, Edna’s eyelids lifted, startling him. She sat up and wiped her chin. ‘I’m sorry,’ she apologized, ‘I didn’t mean to get so upset. It’s being in a theatre. A house of the emotions. Did you hear the voice?’

‘Yes,’ said Bryant enthusiastically, nodding at his partner. ‘Who was it?’

‘I rather fancy it belonged to Dan Leno, the clown. This used to be a music hall, didn’t it?’

‘I believe so.’

‘Dan’s ghost often used to appear in the halls. There were many recorded sightings at Collins’ Music Hall on Islington Green, and in Drury Lane. He would appear to give advice to the actors. Sometimes they heard him performing his clog-dancing routine. A very reliable source. What did he say?’

‘Something about a forgotten tortured soul and a painted world, and history repeating,’ said May irritably. ‘Greeks. It could mean anything.’

‘You’re looking for a little child,’ said Edna firmly. ‘A child so desperate to be set free that it must hurt people. I feel that very strongly.’

‘You make it sound as if we’re supposed to be searching for a ghost.’

‘I rather think not,’ said Edna, lifting the cat back into its box. ‘This is not someone reaching from beyond the grave. The person you seek is real, and dangerous when cornered. Medea murdered her sons to take revenge on their father.’

‘But we’re looking for a killer, not some Greek woman,’ said May, exasperated. Edna did not appear to have heard. She looked up at the ceiling, listening to her inner voices. ‘Edna?’ He turned to Bryant with his palms outstretched. ‘Look at her, she doesn’t know if she’s at the park or the pictures.’

‘Come on, Edna,’ said Bryant gently. ‘Let’s get you home.’

He helped her from her seat, and for a moment the house lights flickered out. They waited in the oppressive darkness, halted by the foot of the stairs, listening to the old woman’s laboured breath. Then the auditorium filled with light. May wanted to complain that the visit had been a waste of time, but something stilled within him as he watched the balcony curtain lift and fall in the sighing draught that blew beneath the doors, as though the spirit of the theatre had departed with them.





38

RENALDA’S WAR

On Friday morning, the city awoke to the terrible news.

Despite the presence of a bombers’ moon, as close and cold as death, London had passed the night unscathed, and instead, the city of Coventry, Luftwaffe target no. 53, had suffered the full force of Germany’s squadrons in a devastating Mondschein Serenade, a ‘Moonlight Serenade’.

Nearly five hundred bombers had delivered high explosives and incendiary bombs in eleven hours of dusk-to-dawn raids that had obliterated the heart of the city, destroyed its cathedral, killed over five hundred inhabitants, seriously wounded nine hundred more.

The night had been clear and frosty, providing perfect visibility. London was a metropolis large enough to weather such a disaster, but Coventry, with a population of just under a quarter of a million, had been almost eradicated. The residents who survived were dazed and terrified. Gas, water, electricity and transport systems stopped. Twenty-one of its factories—twelve of them tied to the aircraft industry—had been heavily hit. Radio reports made no attempt to make light of the attack; the news spread like bushfire. The lines to the city were down. It was impossible to discover if relatives were dead or alive.

Listening to the Home Service made John May late for work. He hurried to the unit and found his partner seated at the teleprinter, checking several yards of paper.