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with about a dozen other buildings in the row and if he sees lights he might come up to check. There’s no reason why I shouldn’t be here but I’d rather not have to explain. I’d certainly rather Shona didn’t find out.’
    â€˜I feel like a house-breaker,’ said Robert as she switched on a shaded desk light.
    â€˜Yes, it’s odd, isn’t it, how places change their personalities when they’re deserted and it’s dark? I sometimes think London itself does that as well.’
    â€˜I always think it.’
    The dim green light fell across some of the hand-written labels inside the key cupboard. Empire Halls and Palace Theatres and Apollos and Playhouses and Theatre Royals. At the sight of them Robert felt the memories stirring again, as he had in the Tarleton. All of these places were empty or had been turned into bingo halls or cinemas or clubs, but all of them had once been rich with gilt and hung with red velvet, their cornices and caryatids bathed in the incandescent glow of gaslight, if not limelight… What would the ghosts think of strobe lighting and computerized number-calling, or the dazzling effects of the cinema-makers? Were they still even around, those ghosts? All those bewhiskered gentlemen, thumbs hooked in waistcoat pockets as they told slightly risqué jokes… All those girls with parasols and sweet voices singing about the boy they loved being up in the gallery… Older ladies with the formidable S-shaped silhouette of the Edwardian matron, thrusting bust and jutting bustle, majestically singing patriotic songs about Britannia… Acrobats and strong-men in leotards and tap-dancers with long shoes, and cheerful Cockney chars who stopped off on the way to have the old half quartern and could not find their way home…
    With the idea of keeping a hold on the practical world, he said, ‘Exactly how far-reaching is the Harlequin’s authority? Are you just agents for theatre owners or do you get a kind of power of attorney as well?’
    â€˜I have no idea. I don’t really have anything to do with the legal side of things—I’m a researcher. But we do look after a number of theatres—most of them belong to big conglomerates. Faceless companies with so many subdivisions they hardly know what they do own. That’s why the buildings stand empty for years.’
    â€˜No privately owned theatres?’
    â€˜I doubt if many theatres are privately owned these days,’ said Hilary. ‘Not in London anyway. I do know the Harlequin’s got a few with long-running legal wrangles over lawful ownership—freehold and leasehold all mixed up together, and people denying ownership or trying to claim ownership. Or cases where title deeds were lost in the Blitz and nobody can trace the real owner. With those, the solicitors hand the caretaking to us while it’s being sorted out, although it often takes years. These are the keys.’ She dropped them in her jacket pocket and switched off the desk light. ‘Ready?’
    â€˜No,’ said Robert, ‘but let’s do it anyway.’
    He followed her down the stairs, waited for her to lock the street door, and then said, ‘I don’t think we’d better use the main entrance, it fronts onto quite a busy part of the street and it’s a bit noticeable. There’s an alley along the side of the building, leading to the old stage door.’
    â€˜Platt’s Alley,’ said Hilary. ‘Yes, I know it.’
    â€˜I think it would be better to use that. It’s narrow, and it’s likely to be dark and a bit unsavoury, but—’
    â€˜Unsavoury I can cope with,’ said Hilary. ‘And we’ve got a torch for the dark. Lead the way.’

CHAPTER FOUR
    A T THIS TIME OF evening Platt’s Alley was dark and very unwelcoming indeed. The rain lay in oily puddles everywhere, and little heaps of sodden rubbish lay in