Roots of Evil (13 page)

She was aware that Michael had taken her arm as if to move her away from the outrage, and as if from a distance she thought how odd that she should know it was Michael without needing to turn her head to look at him. But she could not spare any attention for this, because she was still trying to unglue her mind from the stuck-in-one-gear state.

But she was seeing now that somebody was sitting in
the elaborate upright chair. Yes, that was what she was seeing, and that was one of the things that was so very wrong, because nobody would sit here in the dark like this. And there was something hideously wrong about the head of the person in the chair, although it seemed to have the face of a person Fran knew. Was it the eyes that were wrong? There seemed to be thick dark ribbons hanging down from the eyes: ribbons that were plastered flat against the cheeks…

The eyes.

The frozen paralysis began to dissolve and Francesca’s mind started to move again, jerkily and painfully, but enough for her to recall some of the grislier things Trixie had said about Ashwood, and some of the old newspaper headlines she had shown to Fran. They were all flickering on to Fran’s mind like vagrant images on a scarred screen in an old movie theatre…
‘Von Wolff’s victims both mutilated and left for dead
…’
‘Macabre and vicious injuries
…’
‘The eyes, the EYES
…’

She drew in a deep shuddering breath, and her mind snapped properly free so that she knew and understood what she was seeing. The flung-down fabric really was a pair of corduroy trousers – it was a pair exactly like the ones Trixie often wore – and the shoes that were lying higgledy-piggledy under the chair were Trixie’s shoes. Sensible flat-heeled shoes they were, with good leather uppers: Trixie always said she could not be doing with fancy flimsy shoes.

Trixie. Dear God, it was
Trixie
who was sitting grotesquely upright in the chair, her hands lying submissively along the wooden arms. Brusque, kind
Trixie, who had been piecing together an old scandal so that she could eventually put the letters MA after her name, and be able to teach at a higher level than the present sullen fourteen-and fifteen-year-olds. Trixie, who had doggedly tracked down people who might provide links back to that tragic old scandal – and who had probably annoyed several of them in the process, because she often did manage to annoy people, poor old Trixie, poor old thing.

Her head with the dreadful dark tracks beneath each eye was turned towards the door, as if watching for someone to come in and find her. But she could not be watching for anything because she was dead, and even if she had not been dead, she could not have seen anything, because—

Because someone had re-created Ashwood’s brutal legend exactly. Some time between Monday night and today, someone had stabbed Trixie through the eyes, first the right and then the left, using a skewer. Francesca knew this, because she could see the skewer that Trixie’s murderer had used, sticking out of the left eye.

The entire studio began to blur, and Fran backed away, banging into the sheeted mounds, making stupid ineffectual movements with her hands as if to push away the sight of the terrible thing sitting in the chair.

‘For Jesus Christ’s sake get her out,’ said Liam’s voice angrily, and Fran heard her own voice saying she was all right, but she had better have some air—

And then, blessedly, she was outside, with the night coldness on her face, and Michael was telling her to take slow deep breaths, and his arm was around her, which
was a good thing really, because Fran thought she might have fallen over otherwise.

‘I’m sorry – didn’t mean to make a scene. I really will be perfectly all right in a minute—’

‘I know you will. Devlin’s phoning police and ambulances, and in a minute I’ll get you somewhere where you can have a drop of brandy or something.’ He paused. ‘Francesca, I’m so sorry you had to see that.’

Fran managed to straighten up at last, and discovered that the world had at least stopped spinning. ‘Michael, she – she was dead, wasn’t she?’

He understood at once. ‘Yes,’ he said quietly. ‘Yes, she was dead.’

But neither of them said there was no means of knowing whether Trixie had still been alive when her murderer left her here, or how long it might have taken her to die in the dark and lonely studio.

Edmund thought it could be assumed that somebody somewhere would miss Trixie Smith reasonably soon, and that inquiries would be put in hand. He wondered how long it would take for people to work backwards to the visit to Ashwood Studios. A week, perhaps? Yes, a week seemed a reasonable length of time. On this basis, he set himself to expect a call by the weekend, and he thought it would be interesting to see if his psychology had been sound and if the crime was put down to someone with a fixation on that old case.

But whatever the police decided, once they had found Trixie, they would presumably want to talk to Edmund himself. His fingerprints would be on the main door of Studio Twelve, of course, and the forensic people might find one or two of his hairs – you had only to read a detective novel nowadays or watch a television police drama to know all about that particular tripwire! But
that would be perfectly in order because he had openly been inside the place. He went over everything he had done, and he knew he had not left any evidence at Ashwood that might damn him.

He had not left any evidence in Deborah Fane’s house that might damn him either, but he was not going to take any chances on that count. It was a big old house and it had belonged to the family for a good many years, and Edmund could not be absolutely sure that there were no dangerous fragments of the past still tucked into any of its corners. After the funeral he had cleared out all of the cupboards and desks, conscientiously labelling everything as he went. The missing share certificates and title deeds had finally turned up, and he had placed them in a folder which he had taken to the bank.

But despite his care there could still be unexpected notes or photographs in chimney nooks or crannies – or old letters folded up to wedge rattling windows, or newspaper cuttings lining kitchen drawers…So early on Friday morning he dictated several lengthy reports to his secretary to keep her busy for the rest of the day (you could not trust these girls not to sneak off to the hairdresser or spend hours gossiping on the phone to friends), and drove out to the house to make one final check before probate was granted and the keys irretrievably handed to CHARTH.

As he went methodically through the rooms, paying careful attention to the backs of drawers and little tucked-away cubbyholes, he wondered if Michael Sallis’s charity would sell the house and invest the proceeds, or whether they would let their yobs actually live in it. Well,
it was nothing to do with Edmund what they did with the place, and he would not want to live here himself – there were too many memories. But even though it was a bit remote for some people’s tastes – right at the end of that bumpy unmade lane – it was a good big house with good big gardens and when Edmund thought about the price it might have realized, he could not find it in his heart to regret putting Deborah Fane out of the way.

He ended up in the main bedroom at the front of the house. It was very quiet everywhere and the soft autumn sunshine came gently in through the deep bay window, lying across the slightly worn carpet. There were fade marks on the old-fashioned mahogany wardrobe where the sun had touched it every day for goodness-knew how many years. Deborah Fane’s clothes were folded in boxes and a couple of suitcases, ready for a local charity to collect, but Edmund went through the boxes, feeling inside coat pockets and linings and examining the zipped compartments of the handbags. Nothing. He straightened up and crossed to the deep bay window for one last check of the tallboy and the dressing-table. And there, lying flat on the bottom of a small shallow drawer at the dressing-table’s centre – the filigree key so flimsy it could be snapped off with a fingernail – was the long brown envelope.

It was so faded that it was almost indistinguishable from its background, and it was not really surprising that Edmund had not noticed it earlier. It was probably nothing of much importance, but…

But as he lifted the envelope out, he was aware of his skin starting to prickle with nervous tension. It’ll be nothing, he thought. It’s an old envelope, but it’ll contain
an ancient seed catalogue or a forgotten bank statement or something of the kind. But his hands were shaking and he suddenly knew that whatever was inside the envelope was very important indeed. He took several deep breaths and then, moving with extreme care, he slid the contents out.

The quiet bedroom began to disintegrate into splinters of whirling, too-bright sunlight like a fragmented looking-glass, and Edmund reached out blindly to the dressing-table’s edge to stop himself from falling headlong into the tumbling maelstrom of light and dancing dust-motes. He had no idea how long he sat like that, clutching on to the solid wood, waiting for the room to stop spinning – it was as if time had slipped its moorings or as if Edmund himself had stepped completely outside of time – but when finally he was able to release his grip he was trembling and out of breath as if he had been running too fast, and he had to wipe sweat from his forehead with his handkerchief.

He stared down at the single sheet of paper in his hand and felt cold and sick at how he had so nearly missed this.

The surface of the paper was faintly yellow and the edges were splitting, and it was sad, it was so infinitely sad to be looking at this tiny, fragile shred of the past…Edmund ran his fingers lightly over the brittle surface of the paper, which was brown-spotted with age, the ink so faded that the writing was almost indecipherable.

But it was not so faded that he could not read almost all of it. The headings were in German, but it was easy enough to translate.

Certificate of Birth
, said the heading in black ornate lettering. And underneath:
Date of birth: 10th December, 1940. Place of Birth, Poland. Mother, Lucretia von Wolff. Father, unknown.

Beneath that again were the words:
Child’s name: Alraune.

Alraune.

So you really did exist, said Edmund to the thin sheet of paper. The legends were all true, and you really did exist, and after all Lucretia really was your mother. But he had known ever since the day inside Studio Twelve that Alraune existed. Even if Trixie Smith had not said, ‘A child listed as “Allie” was there that day,’ Edmund would have known, because he had felt Alraune’s presence in the deserted studio, and he had been aware of Alraune’s hand taking his, and he had heard Alraune’s childish voice whispering to him.

You don’t need to believe in me
, Alraune had said that day.
All you need to believe in, Edmund, is the practice of
morthor – mord…

Returning to the office was unthinkable; Edmund could not have concentrated on ordinary routine work if his life had depended on it.

He locked the damning sheet of paper in his briefcase, and drove back to his own house. Once inside he carried the briefcase and its explosive contents through to the sitting-room, where a small fire was laid ready for lighting. He liked to have a fire in the evenings at this time of year – people said it made a lot of work and what about polluting the environment, but Edmund did not consider the environment to be his responsibility, and most of the work fell on his cleaning lady who came
in three times a week from the nearby village and had instructions to rake out the ashes and re-lay the fire ready for the next day. The room was at the back of the house and no one could possibly see in, but Edmund drew the curtains before opening the briefcase.

He carried the certificate to the fireplace, holding it flat on his upturned palms (Like a sacrifice? Don’t be ridiculous!), and placed it in the exact centre of the hearth. Then he lit a match and set it to a twist of newspaper. It caught at once, and the flames licked across the brittle sheet with its spider-faded writing. Edmund watched the sad dryness curl in on itself, and the tiny charred flakes shrivel into powdery ash.

And now you’re really gone, Alraune. Even if you ever existed, there’s no longer anything left to prove it. I’ve put an end to you once and for all.

Are you so sure about that?
said the sly scratchy voice deep within his mind.

Yes, I am. In fact I still question whether you did exist. That certificate could have been a fake. Part of the legend they created about you.

Oh Edmund
, said Alraune’s voice reproachfully.
We shared a killing
…
We shared
mord,
Edmund
…

We shared a killing…But I’m perfectly safe on that score, thought Edmund. They’ll never trace it to me. And I’ve burned the birth certificate, and I’ve severed all the links to the past.

But,
said Alraune’s voice inside Edmund’s mind,
can the past – particularly that past – particularly MY past – ever really die, Edmund
…
?

Some pasts might never die, and most pasts could not really be rewritten, but it was gratifying to find that when it came to the present, Edmund had got it right.

Early on Saturday morning, just as he was eating his leisurely weekend breakfast and scanning the papers, a young but perfectly polite voice telephoned from Ashwood police station, apologized for disturbing Mr Fane and explained that the body of a Miss Trixie Smith had been found at the derelict Ashwood Studios site.

‘Dead?’ said Edmund in a shocked voice. ‘Trixie Smith? You
did
say dead?’ He paused, and the polite voice said, yes, certainly dead, and the body had been found early on Friday evening.

‘Good God,’ said Edmund. ‘What exactly happened?’

The voice said that a colleague of Miss Smith’s had found the body – a Mrs Francesca Holland. A clear case of murder it was, and a very nasty business, as well. Inquiries were already in hand, but the reason for this call was to arrange for Mr Fane to give a statement. Their understanding was that Mr Fane had been at the studios with the lady earlier in the week, was that right?

‘Yes, it is,’ said Edmund, switching from shock to concern. Nice helpful Mr Fane, distressed by what had happened, eager to assist the police in any way he could. Certainly he would make a statement, he said. Of course he would. A terrible thing to have happened. A wicked world we live in, don’t we?

Well, yes, he might manage to come to Ashwood for his interview, if they preferred that, he said. When exactly might that be? Oh, within the next forty-eight hours. That was extremely short notice, but of course
he understood that with a murder inquiry time was of the essence. Very well, he would see what he could arrange.

‘We could send a police car for you if transport’s a problem, sir,’ said the polite voice. ‘Or if it’s a question of expense, we do have a small budget for this kind of thing. If you wanted to submit a note of the cost – along with receipts – we can reimburse you for petrol or train tickets.’

But Edmund was not going to have a police car with its gaudy paintwork roaring up to his well-mannered house for all and sundry to see and speculate about, and he was not going to let anyone think he could not afford a piffling little tank of petrol either.

He said, coldly, that he would make his own way there, thank you very much. Would mid-afternoon today suit them? Very well, he would be there as near to half past three as possible.

He rang off thoughtfully. The family would have to be told what had happened, and it might be as well for Edmund to get his version in first. He made a few notes so that he could present the information in the way he wanted to present it, jotted down possible answers to potential questions, and then dialled the number of Lucy’s flat. It rang for quite a long time before Lucy answered, sounding a bit out of breath.

‘Hi, this is Lucy Trent, and whoever you are, sorry to have taken so long but I was washing my hair and—Oh, it’s you, Edmund – hold on a minute while I get a towel—OK, I’m with you now.’

Edmund had a sudden mental picture of Lucy curled
into the deep armchair of her flat in the rackety old house, wearing a bathrobe, her wet hair tumbling around her face, turning her into a mermaid or a naiad. To dispel this somewhat disturbing image, he said in his briskest voice that he was phoning with some rather unexpected news. No, he was perfectly all right, and so far as he knew everyone in the family was perfectly all right as well. But something rather – well, rather disturbing had happened, and he was letting her know before the wretched tabloids got their paws on the thing.

‘I suppose it’s something to do with Lucretia, is it?’ said Lucy.

‘It is, as a matter of fact,’ said Edmund. ‘How did you know?’

‘The words “tabloids” and “unexpected news” were the clue,’ said Lucy. ‘In this family they nearly always add up to something to do with Lucretia. What’s emerged about her this time?’

Using his notes Edmund explained about Trixie Smith, and about how her body had been found inside Studio Twelve at Ashwood.

Lucy’s distress reached him strongly, even over the phone. ‘Oh no! Edmund, that’s dreadful. Oh God, that poor woman. Do they know who did it?’

‘I shouldn’t think so,’ said Edmund. ‘It’s barely twenty-four hours since they found her.’

‘Oh, I see. Yes, of course. Who
did
find her?’

‘Some woman who was staying with her, apparently. I don’t know any details, but they want me at Ashwood this afternoon.’

‘Why on earth?’

‘To make a statement. I seem to be the last person who saw her alive.’

‘If we were in the pages of a whodunnit that would be rather sinister,’ said Lucy, and Edmund replied coldly that he did not find it a subject for facetious remarks.

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to be flippant. Nervous reaction.’

‘Understandable,’ said Edmund. ‘But I’d better go now, Lucy, because if I’ve got to get to Ashwood Police Station for three-thirty, I’ll have to leave fairly soon. It’s a two-hour drive.’

He paused rather deliberately, and Lucy said, ‘Will you let me know what happens at the police station?’

‘I suppose I could call on you,’ said Edmund, as if this had just occurred to him. ‘It wouldn’t be much further to drive. Assuming you’d be in, of course. Saturday night, and all that—’