Roots of Evil (14 page)

‘I’ll be in, Saturday night or not,’ said Lucy rather dryly. ‘If you recall I’m entirely footloose and fancy-free at the moment.’

‘Oh yes, I remember now.’ Lucy had recently parted company from some man whom Aunt Deborah had said was not worthy of her, although Aunt Deborah had never thought anyone worthy of Lucy. Edmund knew this perfectly well, of course, just as he always had known the precise timing of Lucy’s entanglements. (Had those men seen her with rippling wet hair and bare shoulders…?)

‘I’m not sure what time it will be when I get to you, though. Somewhere between six and seven, I should think.’

‘That’s OK. Uh – will you be wanting something to eat?’

‘Oh, I think so,’ said Edmund, who had assumed that Lucy would make this offer. Family was family and there were certain obligations. ‘Then I could drive back later. I’d have had a break, you see, and it would be less tiring.’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Don’t go to a lot of trouble, though. I don’t want to eat a heavy meal with the drive home ahead of me. Just something light and nourishing.’

Dry-as-dust Cousin Edmund, with his delicate digestion and his old-maidish insistence on regular meals. Edmund could hear Lucy thinking it and he smiled. But she said she would have some food ready, and to just turn up when he could.

Edmund took to the Ashwood police interview neatly prepared notes of conversations and phone calls, and dates of meetings with Trixie Smith. Correct, precise Mr Fane, efficiently prepared for whatever questions might be asked.

Still, it was slightly disconcerting to find that the interview was to be conducted by a woman – Detective Inspector Jennie Fletcher. No doubt it was rather old-fashioned of him, but Edmund would have thought it more suitable for a man to be in charge of this kind of case. But he shook Inspector Fletcher’s hand, and nodded pleasantly to the very young sergeant who was with her. He was offered and accepted a cup of tea, and while it was being brought took his own notes from his briefcase, so that he could refer to them.

He explained about Trixie Smith’s approach to his aunt, careful to keep solely to the facts, and when he
had finished, Inspector Fletcher said, ‘That seems quite clear. Let’s talk about your own involvement, Mr Fane.’

‘Certainly,’ said Edmund, who had not been expecting the police to regard him as involved in this at all.

‘First of all, was there any particular reason why you went to Ashwood Studios that day? Or were you just along for the ride?’ A slight edge to the voice there, which Edmund did not care for.

But he explained that he had driven down to meet Miss Smith from what one might call a sense of responsibility. Of courtesy. ‘My aunt had died before she could provide the promised information to Miss Smith – a rather sudden death, that was – and so I thought the least I could do was help by getting access to the studios for her.’

‘I’m sorry to hear about your aunt’s death,’ said Fletcher conventionally. ‘Presumably you met Miss Smith at the site that day—’

‘I met both Miss Smith and Mr Devlin there,’ corrected Edmund, who was not going to have that disreputable Liam Devlin overlooked.

‘Ah yes, Mr Devlin. You had contacted him direct, I think you said?’

‘I phoned the local council to find out who looked after the place,’ said Edmund. ‘And Devlin agreed to give Miss Smith access. He may have checked that with the owners, or he may have just used his own discretion. I didn’t ask him who the owners were,’ said Edmund. ‘Because of client confidentiality. But I had the impression it was some property developer.’

‘Yes, we know about that. Mr Devlin’s letting us have
the address of the owner, although it sounds as if it’s changed hands a few times over the years. It’s probably been a case of small property developers wanting to build on the site, but encountering problems and selling again as quickly as possible.’

‘Fly-by-night profiteers, I expect,’ said Edmund disapprovingly. ‘Buying land cheaply in the misguided belief that there’s easy money to be made from building ugly little dolls’ houses on it.’

‘Perhaps. Although the Ashwood site is quite near to the Green Belt, so there might have been difficulties about planning consent.’ She looked at him thoughtfully. ‘You went to considerable trouble on Miss Smith’s behalf.’

‘Not especially. I’ve already told you I felt a degree of responsibility on my aunt’s behalf,’ said Edmund, and then, in case this had sounded defensive, spread his hands in a deprecatory gesture – Crispin’s gesture – charming and frank. ‘I was curious about the place, Detective Inspector,’ he said. ‘All the tales, all the ghosts in my aunt’s family. The disreputable Lucretia von Wolff and Conrad Kline and so on.’

‘Family ghosts,’ said Fletcher expressionlessly, making a note. ‘So you drove to Ashwood on Monday afternoon. What time did you arrive?’

‘About four,’ said Edmund, disliking Fletcher’s tone even less this time. ‘I can’t be precise, although I remember it was already getting dark. Miss Smith had arrived ahead of me, and so had Devlin. He might know the exact time if it’s important. Was he there when the body was found? I suppose he’d have to be, because of unlocking the place.’

‘Mr Devlin was certainly there,’ said DI Fletcher. ‘But Mrs Holland was accompanied by a Mr Michael Sallis.’ She looked up. ‘Do you know Mr Sallis?’

‘As a matter of fact I do,’ said Edmund shortly, angry that he had apparently displayed a reaction and that Fletcher had spotted it. ‘He works for an organization called CHARTH.’ That sounded better; it put Michael Sallis in his place, and it also made it sound as if Edmund himself was associated with charity work.

DI Fletcher did not comment on this and she did not explain Michael Sallis’s involvement. She said, ‘You got to Ashwood around four. And you went into Studio Twelve with Miss Smith.’

Edmund gave another of the rueful smiles. ‘Yes. I told you – I was curious. I thought I’d take the opportunity to see where Lucretia’s legend had ended.’

‘And so having taking the opportunity, and having communed with the ghosts and the legends, you left?’

‘Yes. Miss Smith stayed on, though; she wanted to sketch some layout plans, and also to soak up the atmosphere – her expression, not mine. She was going to slam the door shut when she left. It’s a Yale lock, and she was the kind of person who could be trusted to slam it properly. I drove home; I got back about half-past seven as far as I recall.’

‘So,’ said Inspector Fletcher, eyeing him thoughtfully, ‘You didn’t actually see Miss Smith leave Studio Twelve?’

‘No,’ said Edmund. ‘No, I didn’t see that.’

It was well after five when Edmund finally left the little police station, and he drove back through Ashwood’s
main street, curious about the place, slowing down to take a look at Liam Devlin’s offices when he spotted them. They seemed to take up most of a large old house near to Ashwood’s centre, and Edmund grudgingly acknowledged that the building itself was attractive with its bow windows and wavy glass, although everywhere could have done with a lick of paint. He remembered with satisfied pleasure his own immaculately restored house at home, and the neat offices where he worked.

It was annoying to see Devlin himself coming out of the building – Edmund certainly would not have been in his office on a Saturday afternoon – and it was even more annoying that Devlin should see Edmund and put up a hand in greeting. Clearly, it would be the height of rudeness to simply drive off, so Edmund wound the car window down, and prepared to be politely friendly.

Liam asked had the police hauled Edmund in for questioning about the murder.

‘Just a few questions to establish times and background and so on,’ said Edmund repressively.

‘Ah, isn’t that always the way of it with the law. And they’ll go for the alibi every time, of course. Not that any of us will have one. I certainly didn’t.’

‘They questioned you, I suppose?’

‘Grilled me for hours,’ agreed Liam cheerfully. ‘I daresay they did you, as well. But you’ll be used to police stations.’

Edmund took this as an assumption that he handled criminal work, and said his practice was mostly conveyancing and probate with a few boundary disputes.

‘I do a fair bit of criminal work,’ said Liam. ‘I enjoy
it. They’re good company, the villains. Many a burglar I’ve restored to his friends and relations. Are you driving straight home, or will we have a drink together along at the wine bar?’

But Edmund had no intention of drinking in some sleazy bar with Liam Devlin, and certainly not at this time of day, for goodness’ sake, so he said thank you, but he had an appointment in London, and drove on.

Lucy’s flat, when he reached it, was warm and welcoming, and although Edmund would have preferred a more conventional set-up himself, he acknowledged that the disreputable charm of the place suited her.

They ate at the table by the window – Lucy did not draw the curtains, which Edmund thought peculiar, but Lucy said she liked looking down on the lit streets. She liked it best when they were shiny with rain, and you could see the reflections of street lights and cars.

She had prepared a fluffy fish pie for him, which Edmund found very acceptable, and there was a bowl of crisp salad.

‘And Edmund, if you don’t tell me exactly what this is all about – Trixie Smith and you being at Ashwood and everything – I’ll explode from sheer curiosity. What on earth were you doing at Ashwood in the first place?’

Edmund explained about meeting Trixie, and about leaving her in the studio to make her notes and sketch plans.

‘And it seems that when she didn’t turn up after three or four days, some colleague worked back to her visit to Ashwood and went along there to check. That’s when
they found the body. The police contacted me because I was the one who arranged for the access to the studios.’ He looked up. ‘That surprises you?’

‘Yes, it does. I’d have thought,’ said Lucy, speaking as if she was choosing her words very carefully, ‘that Ashwood and Studio Twelve would be the very last place you’d want to visit.’

‘Why?’

She looked back at him, and this time Edmund was aware of a flicker of apprehension. What’s she going to say? What might she know that I wasn’t expecting?

Lucy said, ‘Well, because of Crispin.’

Crispin. Silence came down between them. In a moment I’ll be able to say something, thought Edmund. Something quite ordinary, so that she won’t think I’m at all thrown by this. But alarm bells were sounding in his mind, because Lucy had used Crispin’s name so lightly and so familiarly. As if she knew all about Crispin. Did she? But how much could she know – really, actually know…?

He resumed eating, and said offhandedly, ‘Oh. Yes, I see what you mean. Crispin. Did you say there was pudding, Lucy?’

‘What? Oh yes, sorry.’

The pudding was some kind of pastry concoction with honey and nuts in it.

‘It’s Greek baklava,’ said Lucy, when Edmund expressed his appreciation. ‘And before you ask, no, I didn’t make it myself, I bought it from the delicatessen on the corner. I’ve tried to get the recipe out of them, but they won’t tell anyone; it’s a family secret, or something.’

A family secret. The words set the alarm notes jingling in his head all over again. Family secrets…And some things must be kept secret, at all costs.

Lucy was saying, a bit hesitantly, ‘Edmund, while you were there, did you actually go inside Studio Twelve?’

‘What? Oh, yes, I did. Just for a short time.’

She had stopped eating, and she was fixing him with a wide-eyed stare. ‘What was it like?’

It was peopled with ghosts who watch while you commit murder, only the ghosts at Ashwood don’t call it murder, they call it
mord…
And what would you say, Lucy, my dear, if I told you that I think one of those ghosts was Alraune
…

Edmund said, ‘It was dark and dismal and the whole place was in a disgraceful state, in fact it was little more than a few muddy fields with most of the buildings falling down where they stood.’

‘How sad,’ said Lucy softly. ‘I rather wish I hadn’t asked you, now. All those years of films and people, and all the friendships and romances and quarrels and feuds there must have been inside the studios. All those years of spinning dreams and now it’s just a clump of ruined bricks and mud.’

Go on, said Crispin’s voice in Edmund’s mind. There’s your cue. And she’s always attracted you, hasn’t she,
hasn’t she
…?

‘Oh, Lucy,’ said Edmund softly, ‘you’re such a romantic under that tough façade.’

Lucy, disconcerted, looked sharply up and met Edmund’s eyes. ‘Am I?’

‘I’ve always thought so,’ said Edmund very deliberately. ‘Didn’t you know?’

‘No,’ said Lucy, still staring at him. Silence hung over the table for a moment, and then, with what was clearly an effort to return the conversation to a more ordinary level, she said, ‘But Edmund, you have to admit Ashwood is romantic. All the ghosts of the past—’

‘Oh, I’m not very keen on ghosts,’ said Edmund.

‘I know you’re not.’

‘I’d rather have the living than the dead.’ He put his hand out to take hers. Good! said Crispin in his mind. Go for it, dear boy! But as Edmund’s fingers closed around Lucy’s, she gave a start, and then pulled her hand free.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘I could be wrong, but for a moment I thought you were trying to hold hands with me.’

‘I dare say there are worse ideas,’ said Edmund, offhandedly. He finished the last spoonful of the Greek pudding, and looked at his watch. ‘It’s nearly nine o’clock. Did you say we’d have coffee? I usually have a cup after my evening meal, but I don’t want to be too late getting home.’

He followed her out to the kitchen, putting the dishes in the sink, and then standing behind her as she spooned coffee into the percolator. When she turned round, he put his arms round her and pulled her hard against him. Her body felt slender and supple, and there was a scent of clean hair and clean skin.

This time there was no doubt about her reaction; she flinched from him as if his touch had burned her, and put up a hand as if to defend herself.

‘Edmund, what on earth are you doing?’

‘I’ve had an extremely upsetting day,’ said Edmund. ‘Police statements and that wretched Trixie Smith’s murder. Poor woman,’ he added conscientiously. ‘And so I just thought a little human warmth might—And you said you were footloose and fancy-free.’ This came out in a slightly injured-sounding voice.

‘Yes, but we’re cousins!’ said Lucy, backing away from him. ‘I can’t—I mean, not with you I can’t! It’s – it’s very nearly creepy!’

Creepy. She would pay for that one day, the bitch. Edmund turned away as if he had lost interest, but he was having to beat down a strong desire to grab her and force her against him. And then? Back into the sitting-room, to that deep comfortable sofa before the fire? Or into her bedroom, which he had never seen…? An image of Lucy, her hair rippling against white sheets, rose up tauntingly, but he only said, in an offhand voice, ‘We’re quite distant cousins as a matter of fact. William Fane was my real uncle – he was my father’s brother – and Deborah only became my aunt when she and William were married. So you and I aren’t actually related at all, Lucy. But we’ll forget it. It was only an idea I had for a moment.’ Your loss, my dear, said his tone. ‘I hope there’s semi-skimmed milk to go with that coffee,’ said Edmund. ‘I only ever drink semi-skimmed milk these days.’