The Voices by F. R. Tallis Page B

Christopher switched off the radio, stopped the tape, then pressed ‘rewind’ and ‘play’. He listened to his introductory remarks and his first question, ‘Anybody there?’ Almost immediately a familiar drawling voice responded, ‘I am here.’ Christopher leaned forward. ‘Would you care to introduce yourself?’ The static continued for a few moments before the same voice, with slow, effortful deliberation, replied, ‘Edward Stokes Maybury.’ Christopher pressed the ‘stop’ button, rewound the tape and played the recording again. ‘Edward Stokes Maybury.’
    Where had he heard that name before?
    Christopher strained to remember. Suddenly, his hitherto opaque memory became perfectly clear.
    Mr Edward Maybury . . . secrets of the ancient world . . .
    The name had appeared on the framed theatre bill that he had discovered in the attic. Carriages had been mentioned and seats priced at only one shilling.
    Automatons . . . manifestations and vanishings.
    Maybury must have been an Edwardian or Victorian stage magician. Christopher remembered the broken Chinese screen, the large mirrors and the traveller’s trunk engraved with the initials ‘E.S.M.’ Had Maybury been a former occupant of the house? Christopher remembered seeing other discarded items in the attic: a camera, some broken records, a reel of thin wire, toys. Everything – apart from the clockwork monkey that he had rescued for Faye – had been thrown away. Christopher now wished that he had kept more of it, especially the theatre bill. He pressed ‘play’ again and listened to the rest of the tape. There were no further communications, although somewhere in the middle of the static that had been recorded while he had been dozing there were a few Russian phrases. They were very faint and not worth cleaning up. Christopher turned the radio on, pressed ‘record’ and spoke into the microphone. ‘Maybury? Are you still there? Did you once live in this house?’ Christopher leftenough time for an answer and continued, ‘What do you want?’
    When he played the tape back, he could hear only his own voice against the steady rush of radio noise. May-bury had gone.
    The following morning Christopher telephoned the estate agent. He didn’t expect Mr Petrakis to remember him, but he did, and evidently very well. ‘Your wife was pregnant? What did she have in the end, a boy or a girl?’ They made polite, inconsequential conversation for a few minutes before Christopher broached the subject of former occupants. ‘I was wondering, Mr Petrakis, do you have any idea who lived in this house before us? Would you have anything in your files – a list of prior owners, perhaps?’
    ‘Nobody lived there before you. It was owned by developers and was empty for years. Didn’t I mention that? I’m sure I did.’
    ‘But people must have lived in the house before the developers acquired it.’
    ‘Of course. Many people – probably. It’s an old house. Mr Norton, the person you need to talk to is your solicitor. He would have contacted the land registry and authorized a search for title. I don’t know how far back he went, but if he’s still got your particulars, he might beable to give you some answers. Why do you want to know who lived in your house?’
    ‘I think someone quite famous might have lived here once. A stage performer.’
    ‘Really?’
    ‘Yes.’ Christopher heard the ringing of a telephone in the earpiece.
    I’m sorry, Mr Norton. The other phone’s going. I’m in the office on my own today. I’m afraid I’ve got to pick it up.’
    ‘That’s fine. Thank you for your help.’
    Christopher put the telephone down and flicked through his address book. He found his solicitor’s number and was about to call him, but hesitated. Perhaps it would be better if he put his question in a letter. Yes, that was probably a better way to proceed. He put the phone down once again, crossed the room and searched in the bureau for a writing pad. At that