‘Isn’t that always the way with life.’
Studio Twelve appeared to be little more than a massive warehouse-like structure, perhaps seventy or eighty feet in overall length, its walls mottled with damp and grey fingers of cobwebs stirring in the draught from the opened doors. Edmund tutted and brushed the cobwebs aside before advancing deeper in. The floor creaked badly under their footsteps, but it seemed fairly sound which was one mercy. The amount of dust was deplorable though, and it was probably as well not to look too closely into the corners, or into the dark void beyond the roof girders overhead. There were huge shrouded shapes looming out of the dimness as well, and it took a moment to realize that they were only the discarded junk of years: pieces of scenery and furniture and odd stage props, and cumbersome-looking filming equipment. But most of them were covered in dust-sheets or lightweight tarpaulins, which gave an oddly macabre appearance to the place. As if someone had deliberately blinded the eyes of this place…
‘What’s over there?’ said Edmund, abruptly.
‘Doors to the dressing-room section, I should think.’ Liam’s footsteps echoed uncannily as he walked to the far side, threading his way through the dust-sheeted shapes, and moving around the jumbled piles of furniture. After a moment he called back, ‘Yes, I think they are dressing-rooms – there’re four, no, five of them. Two fairly small ones – star dressing-rooms, I should think – and three large ones. Probably communal. Loo and washroom in between. Oh, and there’s what looks like an abandoned wardrobe-room as well, but I wouldn’t recommend going inside that unless you feel like being sick: the smell’s appalling.’
‘Mice and damp, I daresay,’ said Trixie briskly. ‘Especially if there’re any clothes still stored in there.’
‘You’re probably right,’ said Liam, coming back. ‘Listen now, I’m going to leave you to it if that’s all right. You’ve got the address of my office, haven’t you, in case you need it? It’s only a couple of miles from here.’
‘I’ll bring the keys back,’ said Edmund.
‘No need. It’s a Yale lock, so you can slam the door when you leave.’
‘You don’t suspect us of having a van parked discreetly outside to load the entire contents on to it and flog them in a street market?’ asked Edmund.
‘I hadn’t thought about it. Do you have contacts within street markets?’ inquired Liam politely, which was a remark Edmund chose to ignore.
‘How late can we stay?’ asked Trixie.
‘You can stay here until the last trump sounds for all I care. But it’ll start to get dark around four, and you won’t be able to see much at all then.’ He moved to the door. ‘Also,’ said Liam, ‘I’m reliably informed that the ghosts come out when the darkness closes down.’
CHAPTER SIX
Trixie Smith was glad when that buttoned-up iceberg, Edmund Fane, rather pointedly consulted his watch, sighed a couple of times, and finally said if she wanted to stay for a while he would leave her to it. He really should be getting back, he said. Was there any reason why Trixie could not pull the door to when she left, making sure that the Yale lock clicked down?
There was no reason at all, and Trixie would far rather make her notes and scout around, working out who had died where, without being watched by Mister Fish-Eyes. So she said she reckoned she could manage to close the door securely.
‘You won’t mind being on your own in here? It’s a bit eerie.’ He glanced round as he said this, and Trixie even thought he repressed a slight shiver. Ha! A gleam of humanity at last. But she said briskly that anywhere would be a bit eerie in the middle of a field on a dark November afternoon. ‘I’m not expecting to encounter any lurking ghosts if that’s what you mean.’
‘Ah. No, of course not. Well, in that case,’ said Edmund, ‘I’ll leave you to it. Goodbye. Good luck with the thesis.’