Roots of Evil

by Sarah Rayne

  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 j
ust occurred to him. ‘It wouldn’t be much further to drive. Assuming you’d be in, of course. Saturday night, and all that—’

  ‘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.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  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?’