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“Mr Bollard?” said Martin. “I really think you ought to climb down, it’s not safe for a man of your age.”
The lights came back on and Bollard was directly in front of Martin, startling him. “What do you mean, my age?”
“How did you do that?” Martin glanced around. Nothing on the stage was out of place, and whatever had caused the crash must have come from the sound system.
“It’s in my blood, my son. Been doing it all my life, so don’t you worry about me.” Bollard reached down into his bag of tools and brought out a small bottle. He opened the top and took a quick swig of the not quite clear liquid.
“I don’t think you should be drinking when you’re in charge of such expensive equipment, Mr Bollard.”
“Drinking!” said Bollard. “Drinking. What do you think this is?”
“Well, I’m not sure, but it looks like alcohol.”
“Give over, son. Try it.” He passed the bottle over.
Martin sniffed. Whatever it was immediately coated the inside of his nostrils, and he sneezed violently. His eyes stung, and he could hardly see for the excessive water.
“Jesus Christ! What is that?”
“Garlic vinegar, mate. Me and William, see, we swear by it. Protection, my old son. The protective qualities of garlic were valued during the plague epidemics in the seventeenth century. Thieves who plundered the homes of the sick drank this to safeguard them from infection. Sure you don’t want a drink?” He offered the bottle again.
“No, thank you, Mr Bollard. I’d really like to make tomorrow night’s performance.”
Bollard put the top back on and placed it in the bag of tools. “Yes, I know what you mean. Anyway, I’ve loads to do, so if you don’t mind, I’ll let you get back to your work.” He walked away without saying another word.
Chapter Thirty-five
Gardener was sitting in the office, reflecting. He had spent most of the previous day with his father, trying to trace any records the local watch committee may have left behind; and a banned film would surely leave a stain. They were still operating, but out of a government office in the centre of Leeds with private screenings at various places. None of the current members recognised Malcolm, although one of them remembered hearing his name mentioned more than once.
After a lengthy conversation, they had discovered that no records older than ten years were available. They were also told that they might have better luck with one of the local historians, or maybe the film museum in Bradford.
Having driven over there, Gardener had treated his father to a pub lunch and, afterwards, had tried the museum. All records had been stored on discs and could be accessed by computer but they, too, proved fruitless. There was no mention of a banned film, despite Malcolm’s persistence that it had caused a stir at the time.
What little time they had left before people were starting to wind down for the evening was spent trying to trace Harry Fletcher. Two people had remembered him, though they had no idea of his whereabouts now; one of them, however, had seen him recently. He simply couldn’t remember where. Frustrated and tired, they drove home.
Gardener had spent the evening trawling the internet in an effort to shed further light on the banned film. Malcolm had no details and no title, so he’d given up a little after ten o’clock.
He had downloaded a short history of Lon Chaney and a bibliography, but neither of them proved useful. One site had contained an appraisal of Chaney by none other than William Henry Corndell. But try as he might, no further information about Corndell himself was forthcoming. The only connection for the quotes at the scenes of the murders came back to what Colin Sharp had told them: they came from the film Phantom of the Opera. Nothing in the film’s storyline gave any indication of what they were dealing with.
Gardener was left with questions and no answers. Why was there no reference to Corndell in the West End musical Phantom? Or Hollywood? More importantly, who really was the man who lived in a world full of dead people but thought they were still alive? Maybe he would find out when he joined Laura and Sean for Corndell’s university performance tonight.
Sean Reilly came into the office and placed a coffee and a cup of tea on the desk; he was carrying a packet of Bourbon creams in his mouth, which he also dropped on to the desk.
“Is that from the machine?” asked Gardener.
“It’s free,” replied Reilly.
“But it’s from the machine,” insisted Gardener.
Reilly passed over the biscuits. “Have one of those, it’ll take the taste away.”
“It’s not the taste I’m worried about, it’s the after-effects. Colin Sharp claimed this stuff has turned his water green.”
“He’s only saying that to get attention. He thinks we might actually treat him as an equal.”
Gardener laughed, taking a biscuit. “So, how did you get on yesterday?”
“Some pretty interesting stuff,” said Reilly. “Initially, the planning department knew nothing about any tunnels under the house or the grounds. But one of their senior guys who’s been there years had a story to tell. Apparently, the house had originally been built in 1840 by a man called Jacob Wilson, a pretty wealthy industrialist by all accounts, into everything. Anyway, he owned a mine, and he had the house built near it. One of the problems he had was transporting the coal, so he devised a network of tunnels under the ground which led to the railway station.”
