Free Roots of Evil by Sarah Rayne Page A

view the terrain, though. They’re not locked nowadays, not that there’d be any point because as you can see the hinges have long since rusted away. And they say the gates are always open to those who ask.’ He surveyed the rain, and then turned up his coat collar. ‘Have we enough umbrellas? Good. Do you believe in ghosts by the way, Mr Fane?’
    ‘Of course not.’
    ‘Do you?’ demanded Trixie.
    ‘Not at all,’ said Liam cheerfully.
     
    Studio Twelve was a long low building, exactly like all the others, windowless and weather-beaten, with narrowwindows that had probably once had screens or shutters, but that had all been firmly boarded up, giving the place a blank, blind appearance.
    Edmund was not in the least surprised when they had trouble getting the door to open; he had never seen such a collection of worm-eaten shanties in his life.
    ‘It’s only warped by the damp,’ said Liam. ‘It’s a new lock – all the buildings had new locks on after some teenagers got in last year and held a seance on the anniversary of the murder. Wait now, while I try a bit more force—’
    This time the door swung protestingly inwards, and old, dank air gusted into their faces. They stepped warily into what appeared to be a dim lobby area with the floor covered in dead leaves and bird droppings, and then through a second door.
    ‘It’s very dark,’ began Trixie. ‘We shan’t be able to see much.’
    ‘I don’t suppose there’s any electricity on anyway,’ said Edmund.
    But Liam had found a battery of switches just inside the door, and was pressing them all in turn. The first ones brought forth a sputtering crackle from the defunct light bulbs, but one lone bulb near the wall, apparently made of sterner stuff than the others, gave out an uncertain illumination.
    ‘Good God Almighty,’ said Edmund.
    ‘Dismal, isn’t it? But this,’ said Liam, ‘is what you wanted to see. This is where a legend died and a fable began. The stuff that good theses are made on, Ms Smith, isn’t that so?’
    ‘I did say I wanted background atmosphere,’ said Trixie, sounding slightly doubtful. ‘But I’d have to say that after the build-up this is a bit of a disappointment.’
    ‘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