by Sarah Rayne
Lucy’s interest was briefly caught by a long-distance shot of Leo Dreyer arriving at the studios for some reception or other. She leaned forward, trying to make out his features, but there was little more than an impression of a rather tall man wearing one of the long dark overcoats of the day and a Homburg hat.
The clip came to an end and the projectionist began to wind the second film. There would probably not be anything of use on this one, either. Still, you never knew.
The quality of this reel was poor; the soundtrack was tinny and there were a number of white zigzags on the surface, indicating scratches or imperfect storage. The commentator was either the same man as on the first reel, or had attended the same elocution classes.
‘And now a sight of one of the technological wonders of the age – one of the world’s first fully pressurized four-engined airliners – the Boeing Stratoliner 307. And this one is the most famous of them all – it’s the “Flying Penthouse”, bought by multi-millionaire Howard Hughes to convey him around the world in the style to which we would all like to become accustomed.’
There was a happy pause, presumably for audiences to enjoy the joke, and then the commentator went merrily on. ‘The Stratoliner can fly at an astonishing 220 miles an hour, and the pressurized cabin makes it possible to fly at altitudes of 14,000 feet or even higher. That’s what they call being above the weather – now there’s a good way to escape the English winter!’
The bouncing, isn’t-this-a-happy-world, music cut in, and there were shots of what was presumably the Stratoliner taking off and landing, and one of it flying over some unidentifiable country. There were patches of fogginess that might have been the monochrome film, or that might have been the flaws, or that might simply have been the weather that day.
There was nothing about Lucretia, and Lucy was beginning to wonder if the can of film had been wrongly labelled, or if someone had made a mistake in the listings, when the commentator said, ‘But here’s something that doesn’t come as standard with the Stratoliner 307. On this trip, Mr Hughes loaned his plane and a pilot for the transporting of a very decorative piece of cargo – none other than the famous star of the silent screen, Baroness Lucretia von Wolff.’
Lucy’s heartbeat punched breath-snatchingly against her ribcage, and she leaned forward, hardly daring to blink in case she missed anything.
‘A smooth-as-silk landing for a smooth-as-silk lady,’ said the commentator in a rather knowing, nudge-nudge, manner as the huge plane touched down. ‘The baroness, on her way to Switzerland, travelled in her usual style, thanks to Mr Hughes’ generosity.’
Switzerland, thought Lucy. Switzerland.
There was a three-quarters close-up of Lucretia descending the plane’s steps, stepping as delicately as a cat on four-inch heels. Even on the scratched foggy film, the mesmeric allure was apparent. Lucy, who had not watched any of Lucretia’s films for years, had forgotten how incandescently lovely and how smoulderingly sexy Lucretia had been. No wonder you slayed them in the aisles, grandmamma.
‘And,’ said the commentator archly, ‘for the ladies who are watching, our fashion editors say the baroness is wearing Christian Dior’s New Look.’
Behind Lucy, the projectionist sneezed and blew his nose with gusto.
‘But something that isn’t a fashion accessory is the cuddlesome armful,’ went on the commentator. ‘On this trip, Madame von Wolff had with her the newest addition to her family – the ten-month-old Mariana, named, so we’re given to understand, for the lady in Tennyson’s famous gothic poem.’
Lucy felt like sneezing disgustedly herself at this, because gothic Tennysonian poetry and Lucretia von Wolff were not terms you would expect to encounter in the same sentence. Still, Mariana had been her mother, so there was interest in seeing the chubby toddler who was eyeing the camera dubiously.
The commentator made the predictable remark about the baby having her mamma’s affinity with a camera, which Lucy thought was stretching it a good deal, and then said, ‘Also on this journey, the baroness seems to have brought along another small friend.’
Without any warning, the camera panned down to an older child at Lucretia’s side – a child of perhaps seven or eight years. And this time there was no forced jollity about affinity with a camera. Deepset eyes, slightly tilted above high cheekbones, stared suspiciously from under a square fringe; the dark hair was cut short, and for a boy it would have been slightly too long, for a girl slightly short. Which is it? thought Lucy, her eyes fixed on the screen.
There was time to register that the child was wearing a kind of butcher-boy’s cap and a buttoned jacket, and then the camera swung back to Lucretia. The commentator gave a few more technical details about the plane, and although there was an almost throwaway reference to Lucretia’s plans to make a film at Ashwood Studios next year, it was fairly clear that the point of the newsclip had been the juxtaposition of the eccentric Howard Hughes, the opulent aeroplane, and the infamous Lucretia von Wolff.
The screen flickered and the clip ended, and Lucy sat back, her mind whirling. Had that been Alraune? Was there anyone else it could conceivably be? It could not be Deborah, for Deb would have been thirteen or so by this time, and in any case, Deb had never possessed that thatch of dark hair, or those deep eyes. Right up to her death Deb had had a beautifully smooth English-rose complexion, and bright blue eyes.
The date was about right for Alraune, who was supposed to have been born at the outbreak of war – say 1939 or 1940. What was this clip’s date? 1947, was it? Yes, October 1947. In 1947, Alraune would have been seven or eight, which meant the dates fitted. The journey to Switzerland might fit as well, because part of Alraune’s legend was the exodus to a neutral country. Had that country been Switzerland?
But, thought Lucy, am I forcing the facts to fit my theory? That child could have been anyone. A friend’s child, or the child of one of the air-crew. But she went on staring at the darkened screen. Had she just seen a fragment of the past that everyone had always insisted never existed?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Francesca Holland thought life must be so much easier for people who did not have a conscience. People without a conscience, for instance, would not have spent a Friday afternoon fighting to get out of London (the M25 was at a standstill again!) to a house in the back of beyond.
Most people had thought Fran was mad to be making the trip. Most likely Trixie had simply gone off to interview somebody in connection with her thesis, they said; she was taking it very seriously, that thesis. Anyway, Fran was out of her tree to be dashing off into the wide blue yonder like this.
To all of the protests and reassurances Francesca had said, ‘Yes, but the dogs. Trixie would never go off and leave the dogs,’ and people had said vaguely, oh well, you could never tell, and had melted away because no one had really wanted to take on the responsibility.
That had been when Francesca had known she would have to take the responsibility herself, because Trixie had been good to her since the day Fran had got home early and found Marcus in their bed with a blonde. Trixie had been the one who had come into the senior staff-room that day and said that if Fran liked, she could have the spare room for a few weeks. Until things got sorted out, she had said, and Francesca had accepted, because there had not seemed to be anything else to do and she could not think where else to go. Walking out on your husband in just the clothes you had on and with only the money you had in your handbag was a deeply satisfying gesture, but it brought a few practical problems – especially when you tried to sneak back later to pack a suitcase and retrieve your credit cards, and discovered your husband had changed all the locks and that his blonde was already firmly in residence.
Fran had tried not to be a nuisance to Trixie, who thought nearly all emotions a waste of time, and she had taken on a share of the household expenses, along with half the cooking and cleaning. She had tried not to mind the smell of the dogmeat that had to be stewed for four hours at weekends and stank out the house for
the rest of the week, and she had tried not to mind Trixie’s habit of noisily getting up at six a.m. every morning so that the dogs could be exercised on the heath. In her gruff way, Trixie had been very kind. Fran had been in pieces all over the floor about Marcus, and Trixie had been the only one to offer any kind of help, especially after everyone heard how Fran had burst into tears in the middle of taking Middle Year Three for English Literature.
‘I dare say,’ the Deputy Head had said, interviewing Francesca in some embarrassment, ‘that it was the Shakespeare lesson, was it?’ Fran had said, yes, that was what it had been, but had not bothered to try explaining how the words of Shakespeare – and come to that, the words of John Donne and Robert Browning and his Elizabeth, and all the rest of that gang – could suddenly come smack-down on a tender spot and send you into floods of stupid tears in Middle Three’s English-lit class. The Deputy Head, who taught maths and chemistry, would not have understood, although some of Middle Three might have understood it only too well, providing you discounted the bored and sophisticated fourteen-going-on-twenty-five-year-olds, condom-carrying as a matter of course and imbued with the your-place-or-mine culture.
So in view of Trixie’s brusque kindness, Francesca could not simply let her vanish and do nothing about it, and after thinking it over, she decided to begin the search with Lucretia von Wolff’s family. Trixie had been in the process of arranging an interview with the surviving daughter – an elderly lady called Deborah Fane. Mrs Fane had died before the interview could take place, although Trixie had driven up to her home all the same, Fran did know that, and she also knew that Deborah Fane’s address was in Trixie’s address book. It had felt like the worst kind of intrusion to go through this, but Fran had done it because she had needed a starting-point. And there the address had been, in Trixie’s firm clear writing.
There had not been a phone number though, and Directory Enquiries did not have anything listed, which was why Fran had decided to drive up there to see if Mrs Fane’s family would talk to her. It was a reasonably straightforward journey – a small market town on the edge of Nottinghamshire – not quite Derbyshire, but nearly. A couple of hours’ drive? Yes, not much more than that. She would do it, and she would look on it as a small adventure.
The family might still be knocked out by Deborah Fane’s death, in which case Fran would retreat with as much tact and politeness as she could manage. But they might remember Trixie’s visit, or even know about the research, and they might provide a couple of clues that could be passed to the police. A house where Lucretia von Wolff had lived, perhaps, and where Trixie might have gone, or even an address of someone who had known the baroness or worked with her, and who was worth paying a visit. Fran would have to make it very clear to them that she was not taking up the mantle of Trixie’s researches; she was simply trying to track down a mysteriously vanished colleague. It was annoying not to know names or anything; Trixie had merely said that as well as Deborah Fane, there was a granddaughter and some man who was related to Deborah from her husband’s side of the family. Edmund Fane, had she said? Yes.
She waited until Friday afternoon, when Middle Three were allowed to finish at two o’clock in order to go about their lawful occasions, God help them; consigned the dogs to their spare-time kennels, threw a few things into a weekend case, topped the car up with petrol, and set off. It felt rather good to be doing something like this on her own, without Marcus pointing out her inadequacies in driving, or sneering if she missed a turning or went wrong at a traffic island.
Deborah Fane’s house, when Francesca finally negotiated the narrow lane, turned out to be quite large and also quite old, although Fran, whose tastes ran to the clean uncluttered lines of the later Georgians, thought it rather ugly. It had a lot of character though, and it probably had a lot of history, as well. She wondered how long Lucretia’s daughter had lived here.
She was relieved to see lights on in the downstairs rooms, because there had always been the possibility that the house would be empty and shut up. But someone was definitely here, even if it only turned out to be squatters or gypsies or men with a distraint on the furniture. The baroness seemed to have had such a colourful history that Fran was prepared for anything from her descendants.
But the man who opened the door to her was clearly neither a bailiff nor a gypsy. He was thin-faced and he had what Francesca could only think of as a quiet air about him. He asked politely enough if he could help, although he sounded wary.
Francesca had rehearsed what to say on the way here, and it came out more or less all right, although like most rehearsed speeches it sounded a bit stilted.
‘I’m sorry to turn up out of the blue like this. I’m Francesca Holland and I’m a colleague of Trixie Smith – the lady who’s been researching Lucretia von Wolff’s life. And I’m sorry if this sounds melodramatic, but I’m a bit concerned about Trixie, because she seems to have vanished.’
She thought there was a reaction at the mention of Lucretia, which, if this really had been her daughter’s house, was understandable. But he appeared to be waiting, quite politely, to see if there was any more, so Francesca went on to the next part. ‘I have phoned the police—’ That was intended to provide a reference if it was wanted. ‘But they’re not inclined to crank up the missing-person machinery yet – not for an adult anyway. So I’ve driven up from North London to see if I can retrace Trixie’s steps and pick up any odd clue that might spur them into action.’
‘That sounds quite worrying for you,’ said the unknown man. ‘But I should explain that I don’t actually live here and I’m nothing to do with the family.’
‘Oh, I see,’ said Francesca rather blankly, and as if realizing that this had not been much of an explanation, he said, ‘The lady who lived here left the place to a charity I work for – my name’s Michael Sallis, by the way, and the charity’s called CHARTH.’ This was said in a perfunctory manner, as if he thought he had better offer his own credentials in exchange for Francesca’s. ‘I’ve been meeting a surveyor here – he’s just gone, and I was getting ready to leave. Did you say you’d driven from London? Well, you’d at least better come inside and have a cup of tea or something. Nobody’s cleared the kitchen out yet, and I shouldn’t think the odd teabag would be missed.’ He stepped back, holding the door open for her.
One of the things you absolutely never did in life was step over the threshold of a remote house, occupied by a lone and unknown man. Lions’ dens and wolves’ lairs, thought Francesca. Oh, bother it, he looks perfectly all right. In any case, I’ve just spent five years living with one wolf, so by the law of averages I shouldn’t think I’m due to encounter another one for a while.
She said, ‘I’d love a cup of tea. Thank you very much.’
And stepped over the threshold.
If Michael Sallis was a wolf, he was a very well-mannered one. There was no milk in the big old-fashioned larder, so he made black coffee, apologizing for the fact that it was instant, and searching the cupboards until he found clean cups.
‘We can be civilized and drink it in the sitting-room if you want, but the kitchen’s the only place with any heating on.’
‘I like kitchens.’ Fran accepted the coffee gratefully, and Michael Sallis sat down on the other side of the big scrubbed-top table.
‘How unusual is it for your friend to go off without telling anyone?’ he said.
‘It’s very unusual – she’s rather a conscientious sort of person. And she has three dogs who she would never abandon.’
‘Have you taken on the dogs as well as the task of tracking her down?’
Fran explained about the kennels, and added, carefully, that she was staying with Trixie after an acrimonious separation from her husband. ‘She and I teach at the same school; that’s how I know her.’
Michael Sallis studied her for a moment, and then said, ‘History or English literature?’
‘What—? Oh, I see. English literature. Some grammar as well if I can force it in w
ithout the artless little grubs noticing. I help with the drama side a bit, too.’ She regarded him over the rim of the cup. ‘That was quite perceptive of you.’
‘You didn’t look like maths or chemistry,’ he said, and Francesca grinned, remembering the Deputy Head.
‘Why d’you think your friend might be here?’
‘I don’t think she’s actually here,’ said Fran. ‘But I know she was here a couple of weeks ago, so she might have met some of the family. I wondered if she might have been given some information, something about Lucretia von Wolff, and gone hotfoot after it, and – well, got into difficulties of some kind. The thing is that she hasn’t got any family – only an old aunt somewhere in the north – so as I’m still living in her house…’
‘You’ve had the task thrust upon you.’
‘Yes. I didn’t really think it could be passed to the aunt – she’s about ninety or something.’
Michael finished his own coffee, and said, ‘I wonder if it would be any good to phone Deborah Fane’s nephew. He only lives about five miles from here, and he might know something. I’ve got his number. Would he be of any use, d’you think?’
‘Is that Edmund Fane? Trixie did mention him. He’d be worth trying, wouldn’t he? Thank you very much.’
‘I don’t think the phone here is connected, but I’ve got a mobile if not,’ said Michael, reaching into a battered briefcase.
‘You’re being very kind.’
‘That’s because this is the classic situation,’ said Michael lightly. ‘Damsel in distress turning up out of the blue and requesting help. How could I refuse? Although to be correct you should have waited until a blizzard was raging, or at the very least a thunderstorm – you said you taught drama: where’s your sense of theatre, Ms Holland?’ He smiled and suddenly he no longer looked quiet or scholarly; he looked mischievous and as if he might be rather fun if you could get through the outer layers of reserve.
