Roots of Evil (7 page)

But then he pulled her back against him – she felt the hot hard excitement of him pressing against her body. God, this was obscene! One of his arms hooked around her throat, slamming into her windpipe and driving the breath from her body. She gasped, and struggled again but he still had that half-stranglehold on her, and before she could kick out again, he released his hold slightly, and a split-second later something hard and hurting smashed down on her skull. The world exploded
in starbursts of light before she tumbled down into a spinning blackness.

Edmund had been careful to open and close the outer door loudly enough for Trixie Smith to think he had gone. In fact he had remained just inside, standing quietly in the shadows of the lobby, his heart racing with anticipation, his muscles taut with nervous tension.

But he was already imagining that Crispin was with him – if he could surround himself with Crispin’s personality, he always felt so much stronger. Like chanting a spell to make you brave. (How flattering, Crispin had said, amused, when Edmund had once tried to explain this. I’ve never been compared to a magic spell before.)

The initial plan had been to use the empty hypodermic syringe on Trixie Smith, as he had done on Aunt Deborah. Quick and simple and relatively painless, and the verdict would be heart failure exactly as it had been with Deborah. It would be a gentlemanly way to commit a murder, if you could have such a thing. A coroner might say that Ms Smith was rather young to suffer a heart attack, but these things did happen; it was very sad, and deeply unfortunate that she should have been on her own at the time, but there you were.

But Crispin, with that devastating logic Edmund could never quite master on his own account, had pointed out a flaw in this plan. Yes, he had said, fine, dear boy, very good indeed, to go for that verdict of heart attack. But here’s the thing, Edmund: mightn’t such a verdict cause people to ask
why
a young and presumably healthy woman should succumb to a heart attack?
In such a place? And how about the danger of tabloid newspapers picking the thing up and speculating as to what, precisely, Trixie Smith might have seen inside Ashwood to terrify her into it? A series of headlines had flashed across Edmund’s mind at this.
‘Death inside haunted studio
…
’ ‘Ashwood claims another victim
…
’
Perhaps even,
‘Was schoolteacher frightened to death?
…
’

It would be very newsworthy indeed, Edmund had seen that at once. It could mean that the whole Ashwood tale would be rehashed all over again, and Lucretia’s name would be splashed across the newspapers once more. People would become interested – worse, they would become curious.

Edmund had been aware of self-anger, because he had not seen any of this – he, who was so methodical and so meticulous, had almost bloody
missed
the great gaping flaw in his plan!

All right, so you didn’t see it, Crispin had said. But it doesn’t matter, because I saw it for you.

Yes, but what do I
do
? What do I do instead of shoving a prick into the bloody woman?

There had been the familiar ruffle of amusement from Crispin at the slight
double entendre
– he loved it when the normally prim Edmund occasionally became risqué – but he had said very coolly that for goodness’ sake, Edmund could surely make it appear that the Smith female had been attacked by a tramp or a drug-addict. Hit her over the head with an empty whisky bottle and leave the bottle there for the police to draw their own conclusions. And then, said Crispin, you can jab needles into her to your heart’s content.

Edmund had taken a moment to weigh this up. Both methods together?

Certainly. Blows to the head are unpredictable things, said Crispin. But this way you’re making sure. The verdict can be heart failure after a severe blow to the head. So set the scene for that, dear boy.

Set the scene. Edmund took off the rain-jacket he had been wearing, and retrieved the empty whisky bottle and the hypodermic from its capacious pockets. He was already wearing gloves, which were important because of not leaving fingerprints on the bottle, but he took a knitted balaclava helmet from the jacket’s inner pocket. A touch dramatic this last, perhaps, but you never knew.

He left the bulky rain-jacket on the floor, and when he stepped quietly back into the main studio the Crispin-spell was already working, and the feeling of Crispin’s presence was so strong there was even a moment when Edmund thought he glimpsed Crispin’s outline, slender and young, the glossy reddish hair tumbling over his forehead.

The light switches were on the left of the door – he had marked their position earlier – and he took the two steps that brought him within reach of them. A quick movement and a soft click, and the single overhead light was quenched.

The instant the darkness closed down, Edmund was aware of a hard throbbing excitement engulfing him. And instead of inhibiting his movements, the lack of light was heightening his senses and even lending him other senses he did not normally possess. The ability to sense his victim’s presence, in the way of hunting animals
…Edmund could not see Trixie Smith and he could not hear her, but he knew exactly where she was; he knew she had backed away to the far wall on his left, and that she was kneeling down, hoping to evade him.

She did not evade him, of course. When he stepped out of the darkness, he felt her bolt of fear and surprise and he was aware of a deep triumph because after all she had not known he was so close to her. Strength poured into him – his own and Crispin’s together – and he knew himself strong enough and confident enough to kill twenty prying schoolteachers.

He twisted her arms tightly behind her back – the bitch kicked him quite hard but he knocked the breath from her by hooking his right forearm around her throat. And then he lifted the whisky bottle high and brought it smashing down on her head.

As Trixie slumped to the ground, the whole of Ashwood’s past seemed to jump straight at Edmund; ghosts stirred and slithered within the darkness, and a confusing jumble of echoes swooped and spun around his head.

Ghosts.

Deep within the swirling echoes he could just make out a soft whispering voice; distant and blurred at first, but then becoming more distinct.

Well done, Edmund
…said this whispering voice.
Oh, well done
…
And now you’re going to kill her, aren’t you?

It was a very young voice – almost a childish voice, and Edmund knew it was a voice he had never heard in his life. Was it the voice of a child who had not lived to grow up…?

He stood very still, concentrating intently on this light, young voice, and gradually he understood that it
was asking why he did not forget that careful precise plan he had made – that murder committed by a fictitious drunk or a convenient tramp. Why did he not use Ashwood’s legend in his plan?

Ashwood’s legend. With the words came a sudden thump of such searing excitement that for a moment Edmund thought he was going to lose consciousness under its impact.

But of course he could not use Ashwood’s legend. It was far too dangerous. It would make people remember.

Scaredy cat
…said the voice mockingly. (Yes, it
was
a child’s voice.)
Couldn’t you cope, Edmund, if people did remember?

The excitement was pulsating through Edmund’s entire body, and the darkness was throbbing and becoming laced with the fear that still lay on the air from when he had stalked Trixie Smith a short while ago. Fear was the colour of crimson, like old blood; Edmund could feel the lingering fear and he could almost see it.

Ashwood’s legend. Dare he use it? But the possibility was already zinging around his brain like arcing electricity, setting up little sparks of shivering anticipation.
Ashwood’s legend
…But could he cope with the memories being resurrected?

Oh, of course you could
…said the whisper.
Do you really think that anyone has ever forgotten what happened here, once upon a time
…
? The story will be dug up again anyway when Trixie Smith’s body is found
…
And this always was the Murder Studio, Edmund, let’s not forget that
…

The words hissed lightly to and fro, like silk being spun in the dark. I’m imagining it, thought Edmund.
I’m not really hearing anything at all. It’s just the rain outside. Yes, but
‘A child, listed simply as “Allie”, was at Ashwood that day
…’ Could that child have been Alraune? Was Alraune here now? But Alraune had never really existed…

Didn’t I, Edmund? Are you sure about that?
The whisper was so light and insubstantial – it was like the dry husks of flies in a spider’s web. Was this really Alraune’s ghost, Alraune’s voice?

I don’t believe in you, said Edmund, half-angrily, half-pleadingly. I don’t dare believe in you.

You don’t need to believe in me
…
All you need to believe in is the practice of
morthor…
Remember that, Edmund
…
And remember, as well, that it’s akin to the ancient High German word of
mord…

Mord.
Edmund still did not believe in Alraune, but he could not stop thinking that something that might be Alraune was very close to him. He found that he had already crossed the floor to the light switches, and that he had reached up to switch the single light back on. Trixie Smith lay in an ungainly huddle where she had fallen. Still unconscious? Yes. But breathing. He walked towards the suite of dressing-rooms and the wardrobe-room.

You’re going to do it, aren’t you, Edmund?
There was a sudden burst of glee.

Am I? thought Edmund.

The wardrobe-room, when he pushed the door open, was dark and evil-smelling – Liam Devlin had been right about that – and it was smaller than Edmund had been expecting. Clothes rails were still fixed to the walls, and
although some of them had fallen away from their moorings it was not difficult to imagine the rows and rows of costumes and hats and shoes that would have been stored here. Lucretia would have known this place very well, of course; she had probably sailed imperiously through here, demanding expensive outfits for her scenes, refusing to wear anything that did not meet her exacting standards. Self-centred bitch, thought Edmund.

But there would be something in here that would chime with the legend, and he was starting to see that Alraune was right about using it; he could not think why he had been so chary of the idea. He would meet it head-on, that legend; he would take the history of this place by the scruff of its neck, and make use of it when he killed that snooping Trixie Smith. He would teach her not to disturb his calm, well-ordered life, and it would be a warning to anyone else who might try the same thing.

He was still alert for any sign that Trixie might have regained consciousness, but almost his entire mind was focusing on what he might find in here. Trying not to breathe in too deeply because of the disgusting stench, he wedged the door open so that there was a spill of light from the main studio, and began opening sagging old cupboards and worm-eaten drawers, deeply thankful for his leather gloves as he did so. Nothing. I’m not going to find what I want, thought Edmund.

Yes, you are
…Again the sly amusement came.

And quite suddenly, there it was, exactly as he had hoped, and exactly as Alraune had known. It was lying at the back of a small drawer, probably pushed in there
by some long-forgotten wardrobe mistress or make-up girl, and it was black with tarnish, but the thin spiked point was still cruelly sharp.

A spike, a skewer, a gimlet.
A stiletto
…The one used all those years ago? Probably not, but close enough to the original.

He came slowly out of the wardrobe-room, the thin sharp instrument in his hand. Stay with me, Alraune.

Oh yes, Edmund, I’ll stay with you
…
And Edmund—

Yes?

Remember the eyes,
said Alraune’s voice.
Remember the EYES, Edmund
…

Trixie came swimming and struggling up out of the sick-feeling darkness, and for a moment had no idea where she was. And then memory rushed painfully in – yes, of course, she was in the old Ashwood studios, and some maniac had hit her on the head, and it must have knocked her out.

She was aware of a banging headache, but she was also aware of bitter fury because she had been so easily attacked – she, who had so often boasted that it ought to be child’s play to foil an assailant or a mugger! A swift kick in the balls and most men were disabled, that was what she had always said.

She sat up carefully, aware now that the light had been switched on again. Did that mean he had gone? Dare she hope that he had got his horrid kicks by knocking her out, and had simply scuttled out into the night? Was she going to be able to get away? Her senses were still spinning from the blow and she had a three-aspirin
headache, but that would not matter if she could just get back to her car. Car keys? Ah, in her bag, and there it was, lying on the ground barely four feet away. She was just reaching out for it when several of the dust-sheets stirred slightly as if someone had walked past them.

She had not heard his footsteps this time, but he was already standing on the edge of the pool of light cast by the single overhead bulb, and for the first time Trixie saw that he was wearing one of those woollen helmets, like you saw on members of the IRA. His eyes glittered through the slits – it was extraordinarily eerie to just see someone’s eyes. Did she know him? Was there something familiar about him after all?

But then she forgot about who he might be, because in one hand he held something that glinted sharply, and the sight of it brought the panic rushing in all over again. A knife, was it? No, much thinner than a knife. She tried to get to her feet but she was still dizzy and uncertain from the blow, and even before she was halfway to standing up he was bending over her, one gloved hand curling around her throat, forcing her back down on to the floor. There was a smell of mildew and dirt from the hard floor, and he was raising his free hand high above her head, and whatever he was holding had flashed evilly in the overhead light…

There was a split-second – barely the space of a heartbeat – when Edmund felt the throbbing excitement falter.

But the childish whisper came in at once.
Go on, Edmund! This is right! This is what you have to do! So do it, Edmund, do it NOW! And I will help you
, said Alraune’s voice.

Incredibly there was the feeling of a small firm hand curling around the stiletto, and of Alraune’s hand guiding the glinting point downwards.

Down and down and down…Yes, thought Edmund, breathing fast, as if he had been running hard for miles. I can do this and I will do this. I am a giant, a titan, and I am invincible.

As Trixie began to scream and struggle, the person that most people knew – the polite, slightly pedantic Mr Fane – seemed to shrink into a tiny insignificance, and the other Edmund, the secret Edmund, the one whom only Crispin had ever known, surged uppermost. When the stiletto’s point punctured Trixie’s eye, this Edmund did not feel repulsed or disgusted, and when viscous eye-fluid spilled out over his gloved fingers he only felt the bursting strength urging him on.

He straightened up at last, looking down at Trixie. She was no longer screaming, but she was still moving which he had not expected. Could you survive with a steel point thrust into your brain? You could not tell with these things.

But dead or not-quite-dead, there was something not quite right about what he had done to her. What was it? Edmund studied her carefully. The right side of her face was grotesque; it was slicked in blood and not-quitecolourless fluid, and the eye socket was a wet dark wound…But the left side – Ah yes, of course, that was it. The left side of her face was untouched, unbloodied, and it was the lack of symmetry that was bothering him. He could not bear anything to be lopsided or uneven.

Edmund raised his hand again, and this time the
stiletto came down with more intensity and more assurance. He felt the deep shudder go through the prying snooping creature, and he saw a spasm wrack her body. And then she was still. Ah, she had not been quite dead, then. He straightened up for the second time. Yes, that was better. Both eyes gone now. Now you really won’t be able to see anything that might be dangerous, my dear.

Her body would be found eventually, of course. Someone would miss her and make inquiries, and backtrack to her journey here; her car, still parked at Ashwood’s entrance, would be spotted. That was all perfectly in order, and it did not matter who found her; what did matter was whether Edmund had left any telltale traces.

But he was certain he had not. Any fingerprints or traces of his hair found here would be ascribed to his earlier visit, and he had worn gloves for the return. The stiletto was still in the left eye, though; he was uncertain whether it would be better to remove it.

But the point was embedded so deeply in the bone behind the eye socket he could not get it out. The gloves which he dared not take off slid over the smooth steel surface, and although he made several attempts, it resisted him. But did it really matter? The thing had been here all along; it was not as if he had purchased it anywhere and brought it with him. No, it would be all right to leave it in place.

The crackling starbursts of energy were gradually dimming and he was aware of a dull ache across his temples and of his hands trembling. No matter, he
would overcome that sufficiently to drive home. But he did not move yet. He stayed where he was, looking down at the crumpled thing that had been Trixie Smith. Something was still not quite right. Something still needed doing.

And then he knew what it was. On the day Lucretia von Wolff died, the people who had broken down her dressing-room door had been greeted by a macabre tableau. If Edmund was really going to echo that day, he must re-create that scene as closely as he could.

He walked cautiously around the studio again, and after a few abortive explorations beneath the dust-sheeted mounds, he found a large, high-backed chair near one of the walls. On closer inspection it turned out to be a rather elaborate affair, ornately carved. The satin or velvet upholstery had long since gone, of course, but it was still an imposing-looking thing. Edmund smiled to himself as he dragged it clear and set it in the centre of the studio. It was exactly right. It might even be the original chair Lucretia had used that day. Your chair, Madame von Wolff. Your stiletto. Who would have thought it?

He turned it to face the main door, and then he arranged Trixie Smith so that she was sitting upright, her hands lying along the carved wooden arms, her head turned slightly as if she was watching for someone to enter. It took longer than he had expected because Trixie was heavier than he had allowed for. Dead weight, of course. But in the end it was done and he stepped back to consider the effect. Yes, very good indeed.

And now there was one final thing. It must seem as
if the killer had had to break in. The police were not fools; if there were no signs of forced entry, they would instantly start suspecting anyone who knew where the keys were kept. That would mean Liam Devlin, and possibly his staff if he had any: presumably Devlin employed other people at his office. Edmund would not lose any sleep if Devlin came under suspicion, but he was not going to risk coming under suspicion himself.

It was clearly impossible for the door to be broken in or the lock snapped off, but what about those nailed-up windows? Edmund walked across to examine them. They were a bit more solid than he had previously thought, but he managed to prise a corner free, and saw that there was a second board nailed on outside. Awkward, but not insurmountable, although he would need something to use as a lever. He hunted around again, and found a section of steel that appeared to have fallen off some sort of structure – it was impossible to know what it had originally represented, but the steel piece would do very well for Edmund’s purpose.