Roots of Evil (25 page)

Edmund phoned Lucy there and then, explaining about Sergeant Trendle’s call. He was not going to drive up, he said – all that traffic, and parking in London on a Saturday. He would get the twelve thirty train; it got in just before two, and he could have his lunch on the train.

‘But I’m not sure what to do afterwards. Perhaps we could have a meal together. The last train back is at ten, so there would be plenty of time.’

‘Oh, what a shame,’ said Lucy at once. ‘I’m going out later on. But you could easily get the six fifteen back after the viewing, couldn’t you?’

‘I suppose so,’ said Edmund, annoyed. ‘It’ll mean getting home rather late, and not eating until at least half past eight. Still, it can’t be helped.’

Lucy felt guilty at having lied to Edmund about going out, but relieved to have sidestepped any idea of spending the evening with him. He would probably annoy everyone all afternoon by making pointed remarks about his delicate digestion, and how he had only had a British Rail sandwich for his lunch and how he would not get home for his supper until late. Oh, blast Edmund, thought Lucy, crossly. I refuse to feel guilty about him. He can perfectly well have something to eat before getting the train back; Quondam’s smack
in the middle of Soho, for pity’s sake – eating-places every ten steps!

And at least there would not be any embarrassingly unfamiliar seduction techniques to contend with, or pounces over the coffee percolator to ward off. Lucy was not sure if she could cope with Edmund being amorous and seeing Lucretia as Alraune all on the same day.

‘Jesus God Almighty,’ said Liam Devlin, eyeing Quondam’s projector for the running of
Alraune
. ‘Are you sure you actually need electricity to power that thing? If you told me it relied on the magic lantern principle, it wouldn’t be a surprise.’

Devlin had arrived late for the viewing, which Edmund thought just went to show what kind of feckless person he was; his black hair looked more than ever as if it needed combing, never mind cutting, and he was wearing cord trousers, a ramshackle pullover and a long raincoat that looked as if it had been dragged on in the dark. It was annoying to see Michael Sallis shake hands with him in a very friendly way – from what Edmund remembered of Sallis at Deborah Fane’s funeral, he could not have very much in common with the disreputable Devlin. He noticed, as well, that the females present all sat up a little straighter at Devlin’s entrance – including
Lucy. This annoyed Edmund so much that he pointed out with some acerbity that Devlin’s arrival was a good twenty minutes after the arranged time.

‘Yes, I’m late,’ agreed Liam. ‘And I’m sorry for it, what with punctuality supposedly being the politeness of kings, although I shouldn’t think the particular king who said that had ever tried getting across London on a Saturday afternoon – it’s nearly as treacherous as negotiating the waters of the Styx, in fact the Styx would be preferable because you could bribe the ferryman to queue-jump—Will I sit down now I am here?’

‘Sit where you like,’ said Inspector Fletcher, and Liam considered the room for a moment and then took a seat next to Lucy.

‘You’re the wicked baroness’s granddaughter,’ he said, which Edmund felt to be an ill-chosen remark but which Lucy did not seem to mind. ‘So if this film is very high-brow and esoteric you can explain it to me as we go along. I’ve never actually seen Lucretia von Wolff on film, in fact I’ve never seen a silent film at all now I come to think about it. Although I have,’ he added unexpectedly, ‘heard Conrad Kline’s music somewhere or other, and it’s extraordinarily good.’ He regarded Lucy for a moment, and then said, ‘He would be your grandfather?’

‘It was never proved, but we’re pretty sure he was,’ said Lucy tranquilly, and Edmund sucked his teeth at the indelicacy of this. She glanced at the inspector. ‘I’ve got the backing music Conrad wrote for
Alraune
. It’s an old vinyl recording and it’ll be pretty scratchy because it’s nearly as old as the film – it was recorded quite soon
after the premiere – but I’ve played it and it’s reasonable. I know you said it wasn’t vital to have it, but since it was available I thought I’d bring it. We can put it on the turntable when the film starts and with a bit of luck it’ll be in sync with the action.’

‘I’d like to hear it,’ said Liam at once. ‘If Inspector Fletcher doesn’t mind.’

‘So would I.’ This was Michael Sallis.

‘By all means let’s have it,’ said Fletcher, and nodded to the projectionist, who had been earnestly explaining to Sergeant Trendle about intermittent motion and toothed sprockets and escapements.

The lights were turned down, although it was not as dark as a conventional cinema would be – Edmund presumed this was because Quondam’s staff would need to make notes when they watched a film in here. A rather sparse set-up it was though; just a few chairs grouped around a couple of tables, although one of the tables had a computer terminal on it. There were no windows, of course, and the screen took up three-quarters of the far wall. Still, Lucy had arranged for a pot of coffee and a pot of tea to be brought in, which Edmund supposed was something.

A few scratchy clicks came through the loudspeakers as the old gramophone record was set on the turntable, and the heavy whirring of the old projector began. There was a crackle of light, and then an oblong of fly-blown whiteness appeared on the small screen, immediately followed by the German studio’s symbol.

Lucy had thought she would be able to face watching this film perfectly calmly, but as soon as Conrad Kline’s
music swept in, her heartbeat punched painfully against her ribs, and she was aware all over again that a tiny fragment of a long-ago world was about to be prised open. And there are some pasts that should be left alone, she thought. There are some pasts that should be allowed to die and I think this is one of them.

The opening sequences of the film were darker and more menacing than she remembered, or perhaps she had simply been too young to pick up the darkness. She was able to pick it up now, though, and she found it disturbing. And how much of the film’s present impact was down to what had come afterwards, to the inevitable parallel between Alraune’s mad scientist creator and the Nazis’ macabre attempts at altering the blueprint of human life – the experiments on Jews and on twins…? Astonishing to remember that the film predated that by at least ten years, thought Lucy.

The actual conception of Alraune in the gallows’ shadows was rather tame compared with some of the stuff you saw on film today, but it was still extraordinarily evocative, and the music held a strong undercurrent of sexuality at this point. There was a faint rhythmic pattern that, at the romantic end of the spectrum, might have been a lover’s heart beating but that, at the comic end of the spectrum, might have been a bedspring twangingly bouncing. And then listen to it again, and it could equally well be the sound of a gibbet, creaking and swaying with the weight of a strangled murderer…I do wish I’d known you, said Lucy to Conrad Kline’s ghost. You’ve got a bit overshadowed by Lucretia as far as the family’s concerned, but I think I’d have liked you very much.

The scenes slid into one another – to one accustomed to twentieth-and twenty-first-century technology they were not entirely seamless, but the links were smooth enough not to be distracting. Lucy spared a thought to wonder if Inspector Fletcher’s own experiment, whatever it might be, was working. She glanced round the room. Michael Sallis’s face was partly in shadow; he had not said a great deal since arriving, but he had seemed pleased to see Lucy again, and he appeared interested in the film. He was sitting with Francesca Holland, Trixie Smith’s colleague, who had raised the alarm when Trixie vanished. Lucy thought Francesca was not exactly pretty but she had the kind of face you would want to keep looking at. She was watching the film closely, and as the prostitute who was Alraune’s mother harangued the scientist, Lucy saw her exchange a brief appreciative grin with Michael, as if they had both recognized some allusion or allegory in the scene.

On Lucy’s left, Edmund had donned a pair of spectacles and was looking over the tops of the lenses with scarcely veiled disapproval.

Liam Devlin, on Lucy’s right, was watching the film as well and with unexpected absorption. But as if becoming aware of Lucy’s covert regard, he half turned his head to look at her and sent her a slightly quizzical grin. He had the mobile mouth of many Irish people, and very bright, very intelligent eyes. Lucy blinked, and turned hastily back to the screen, where the scientist, by now realizing the evil results of his gallows-tree experiment, was carrying his sulky and soulless child through the night to place her in the keeping of the cloisters.
The music went with him, a faint element of menace creeping in now, like a heart knocking against uneasy bones. There was a nicely brooding shot of the convent for which they were bound, standing wreathed in mist in some unidentifiable forest remoteness.

And then without any preliminaries, she was there. The young Lucretia von Wolff, her face flickering and erratic and her movements slightly jerky because of the hand-cranked camera of the day. But smoulderingly charismatic and chockfull of sex appeal. Lucy realized afresh how incandescently sexy her grandmother had been.

When Inspector Fletcher suddenly leaned forward and said, ‘Could we just freeze that frame?’ several people jumped.

‘Certainly,’ said the projectionist, and there was a loud click. Lucretia, reclining Cleopatra-like on a sumptuous, absurdly unmonastic chaise-longue, preparing to be seduced by the convent’s music-master, regarded the world from insolent slanting eyes, half predatory, half passionate. Her curtain of dark hair swung silkily around her face, and the actor playing the music-master knelt adoringly at her feet.

‘Oh, Grandmamma,’ murmured Lucy, ‘why couldn’t you crochet sweaters and join ladies’ luncheon clubs, or take up gardening like other people’s grandmothers?’

‘It’s a perfectly respectable scene, though,’ said Liam, his eyes still on the screen. ‘Your man’s still got one foot on the floor.’

‘The old censor’s law,’ said Lucy, amused.

‘Of course. You can’t get up to much if you’ve got to leave one foot on the floor.’

Edmund frowned, as if he thought this to be another remark in questionable taste, but the others grinned.

‘She was a stunning-looking lady,’ said Liam thoughtfully. ‘I didn’t realize what a knock-out she was. In fact—’

‘Yes?’

He frowned. ‘Oh, I was only thinking that the reputation’s suddenly very understandable. Wasn’t she supposed to have had a fling with von Ribbentrop shortly before the outbreak of World War II? Or is that another of the rumours?’

‘Nothing would surprise me,’ said Lucy. ‘Ribbentrop was a champagne salesman before World War II, wasn’t he? And Lucretia was never especially discriminating, and she did have a taste for champagne.’ Sorry, Grandmamma, but you did bring this kind of conversation on yourself. Fairness made her add, ‘The spying rumours were never proved, of course.’

‘I don’t know about spying, but with looks like that I wouldn’t be surprised if she took the entire Third Reich to bed on the same night,’ remarked Liam.

Edmund made a
tsk
sound of impatience, and the inspector glanced over her shoulder to where the projectionist was waiting. ‘Thanks, we can go on now if you would. I just wanted to check the faces.’

As the film rolled on again, Lucy saw Edmund set his coffee cup down and lean back in his chair with an air of bored resignation.

Edmund was bored and resigned in about equal measures. He had not been in the least apprehensive about this afternoon’s outlandish experiment, because he knew
he had nothing to worry about; there was nothing anywhere to link him to Trixie’s death, and it was patently clear that this female, this Detective Inspector Jennie Fletcher, was simply casting around in the dark. Looking for clues within the film – which she would not find, because there were none there. He would be glad when the charade was over and he could catch his train home, although it was a pity that he would not be having that cosy alluring meal with Lucy.

But as for this film, this apparently acclaimed piece of early cinema, Edmund simply could not see the point of it. If you asked him,
Alraune
was nothing but a dismal dreariness, the story incomprehensible, the behaviour of the actors meaningless and overdone. He sneaked a quick look at his watch, and saw that they had about another half hour to sit through. To while away the time he looked surreptitiously at the others. They all seemed to be watching with interest – Lucy was clearly enthralled, which annoyed Edmund.

Francesca Holland looked enthralled as well. Edmund considered her for a moment, remembering that she had been staying with Trixie Smith, wondering whether the two of them had talked about Trixie’s research for the thesis. Presumably you did not share a house with somebody without referring to your work. What shall we have for supper tonight, oh, and by the way, I’ve found out who really killed Conrad Kline…Or: Your turn to pick up the dry-cleaning, and did I tell you that Lucretia von Wolff had an affair with a young man called Crispin Fane…Now Edmund came to think about it, he could see that this was exactly the kind of thing that might
have been said. Was there any real danger here? He thought probably not. Still, Francesca Holland might need to be watched.

Michael Sallis was seated at the end of the small row of chairs, leaning back slightly, one arm resting on the arm of his chair. Edmund was about to look back at the screen, when Sallis half-turned his head to say something to Francesca. His profile caught the faint glow of the overhead light, and Edmund stared at him, the juddering screen images and the other people in the room momentarily forgotten. Deep inside his mind something was starting to thrum and he thought: I know that profile. Those eyes, that slightly too-wide mouth – I’ve seen them somewhere. But where? And then: why am I so concerned? he thought. So Michael Sallis resembles a client or someone on TV or the man who services the photocopier in the office. So what?

But as he turned back to the screen, the throbbing unease was increasing. His mind darted back and forth, trying to pin down the resemblance. There’s something to be wary of here. Something I need to identify. Some
one
I need to identify. A nervous sweat had formed on his forehead; he blotted it with his handkerchief, doing so discreetly, pretending to dab his nose as if he had a slight cold, and keeping his eyes fixed on the screen. In a moment he would look back at Sallis, doing so quickly, as people did when they could not read someone’s handwriting and tried the trick of taking it by surprise. He would take Michael Sallis by surprise, and hope his mind would make the identification ahead of his eyes.

He watched the screen for a few moments – some
thing about Lucretia and the scientist outside a burning house. It was all very flimsy and childlike: anyone could see the actual house had been constructed out of cardboard and plywood.

And now Lucretia was in the centre of the action, flinging herself about with over-emphatic melodrama, covering her mouth with the back of her hand in the classic gesture of shock and fear, and then suddenly facing the camera in close-up, her eyes narrowed and glittering, her lips curving in a smile of evil calculation. She was plastered with make-up; Edmund thought it very unbecoming. All that eye-black, and some sort of dark shiny lipstick. He dared say it had been all very fashionable and daring in Lucretia’s heyday, but it was not his idea of what was attractive.

On the outer rim of his vision he saw Michael Sallis turn his head again, and this time he looked directly across at Sallis. And with a shock so deep that he felt as if a fist had slammed into his stomach, he knew exactly who Sallis reminded him of.