by Sarah Rayne
It had been hoped to indicate a resemblance between Alice and the actress playing the prostitute, and Alice thought this had been reasonably successful, although the woman looked blowsy and over-painted on the screen. What Alice’s mother might have called laced mutton, although whatever you called it, it was to be hoped that Alice herself did not look the same in a few years’ time. I’ll cut down the kohl on my eyes when I’m thirty-five, promised Alice. I really will. Or could I stretch that to forty? But I think I’d rather become a plump grey-haired grandmother-figure than look so tawdry.
The audience stirred expectantly at the baroness’s first appearance, which was the grown-up Alraune being incarcerated inside a convent so that the scientist could study her as she grew up. Do they like me? thought Alice glancing round the theatre. Or are they simply curious?
Here was the brief scene with the music-master, with whom Alraune had her first real taste of passion. There had been some anxious moments about the timing of this, and Conrad had threatened to walk angrily out of the theatre if his music did not synchronize perfectly with the actor’s simulated playing of a violin, but Alice knew he would not do so, because he would not spoil her night.
But it was all right. The music – beckoning and faintly sinister – came in exactly on cue, and the scene moved from the music room to the bedroom, the bed discreetly veiled in gauze drapings, again in deference to the censor. It was a sumptuous setting, and Alice was still surprised that no one had seen anything bizarre about having such a sensual scene inside a convent.
The story spun itself on to the discovery by Alraune of her own heredity, and to the first unfolding of the black and bitter hatred. Alice remembered that scene very vividly indeed; she had found it almost impossible to imagine how a girl of sixteen or so would react on learning she had been conceived in such circumstances. The pain and the self-loathing all looked convincing on the screen though; in fact they looked frighteningly real, and Alice was again aware of a sense of deep unease. Where did I get those emotions from? Supposing such feelings don’t always come out of the past or the present? Supposing they sometimes come from the future…?
The writers had added a scene in the fourth reel, in which Alraune, now eighteen, destroyed the damning evidence of that grotesque conception. Alice watched critically as the camera moved to the tall old house where the prostitute lived. In an upstairs room, stuffed into an old bureau, were the letters exchanged between the scientist and the prostitute, clearly testifying to their dark pact. A good scene, the writers had said, pleased. A shocking and dramatic scene. Herr Ewers had been consulted, partly as a courtesy, but mostly because of copyright, and he had approved the scene. Entirely in character for Alraune to do that, he had apparently said. Very good indeed.
As the cloaked and hooded outline that was Alraune crept up the stairs of the house, casting its own distorted shadow on the wall, Conrad’s music began to trickle in again. At first it was so fragile it was barely audible – no more than a wraith of sound, tapping gently against your mind. But then it began to take on strength and substance, becoming rhythmic and menacing. The beating of a hating heart…
As the fire, ignited to burn the letters, blazed up, the camera panned outwards to take in the whole house front, and there, at one of the windows, surrounded by the leaping flames, was the terrified figure of the prostitute. Alraune’s mother. Trapped in the burning building, her hair already alight and blazing, her mouth wide open in a silent cry for help…Get-me-out…Get me out before I burn alive…
There was a brief shot of Alraune standing in front of the house, her eyes on the trapped figure of her mother, her eyes huge with terror, thrusting her fist into her mouth to force back her own screams. And then the music spiralled upwards, shrieking out panic-notes like sirens, throbbing like the boiling blood in a burning woman’s veins…The flames blazed into the night sky – a matchwood house frontage had been built for the scene and then set alight, and the prostitute was a dummy-figure, manipulated on the end of a long steel rod. Everyone had been a bit worried about how it would look, but Alice thought it looked convincing.
And now, at last, here was the room that Alraune had prepared for the scientist: the room with the velvet hangings and the trailing greenery framing the silken couch. The film slid seamlessly into the second of the scenes written in – that of the darkened and altered climax to Ewers’ book. Despite herself, Alice felt again the sick apprehension at the sight of Alraune approaching the prepared death-chamber, the glittering stiletto in her hand. Take it slowly, they had said to her when they shot that. Go catlike and menacingly towards the door. There won’t be any sound, of course, but let people feel your footsteps. Pad-pad, I’m-going-to-kill…Hold the stiletto up as you go along, let’s see it catch the light, let’s signal to the audiences that you’re intent on murder.
Alice leaned forward, gripping the sides of her seat, knowing she was being absurd, but a tiny ridiculous part of her hoping that in some undreamed-of way it might come right after all, that Alraune might not commit that last appalling act…
It did not come right, of course. Conrad’s music was filling up the auditorium, echoing the thrumming of a mind embittered and corroded by the need for revenge, and the sound of Alraune’s footsteps were inside the cadences. Pad-pad-I’m-going-to-kill…And for the second time tonight Alice had the curious impression of scudding emotions pouring down from the future…
As Alraune raised the stiletto, and as the once-mesmeric figure of the scientist turned his head and widened his eyes in horror, the stiletto came flashing down on to his face…Once…Twice…
The screaming music reached its impossible heights, and the final frame came up: shocking, pitiable. As the music began to fade in a long and terrible moan, the man who had created Alraune pawed in helpless agony at the dark bloodied holes where once his eyes had been…
Alraune watched for a moment, and then took the man’s hand and led him solicitously to a high-backed chair. While he thrashed in his death throes, as if in macabre echo of her years in the convent she lit votive candles which she placed on each side of him. A sacrifice. A libation. The dark flames burned up, casting unearthly shadows on the dying man.
Alraune studied the effect, and adjusted one of the candles. Then she sat on the ground at the feet of her creator, and watched him die.
It was not until the lights were turned back up in the auditorium that Alice became aware again of the packed theatre, and the looks being sent in her direction, half-admiring, half envious. A very dark film, people were saying to one another. Very dark indeed, and far more shocking than the version done by Brigitte Helm a few years ago. Very disturbing. That final scene…Ah, that had not been in the original book? Most explicit it had been, one felt quite upset. And were they to understand that the scientist had died from Alraune’s attack on him or not? Oh, left to the imagination of the audience, was it? Very modern. Er – was it correct that champagne was to be served in the foyer now? Ah, it was correct. And a little supper as well? Caviare and smoked salmon? Well, that would be very acceptable indeed.
It was necessary, as it always was, to remain cool and distant; to appear unmoved by the attention and the curious looks. But actually, thought Alice, sipping her champagne, actually I’m loving every moment of it, although I mustn’t let anyone guess that. And yet at the deepest level of all was still the thread of anxiety that seldom left her, because it would be so easy for this to suddenly end. If I were to be recognized – if I were to be confronted with a visitor to the house where I was a maid, or even a man from those shameful, shaming nights near to St Stephen’s Cathedral…
I could be anywhere, in any company, she thought, and someone might suddenly fling out an accusing finger, and say, But this isn’t a real baroness at all. This is only some drab little servant girl, brought up in an English village, aping her betters, pretending to be grand and rich and beautiful, drinking champagne as if she’s used to it, wearing expensive clothes instead of the ones sui
table to her rightful station…What would I do if that happened? thought Alice.
She would not contemplate it. She would keep Lucretia’s mask firmly in place, and she would make sure that no one ever connected the dazzling baroness with a little brown-haired lady’s maid who, once upon a time, rather than face starvation, had sold her body in Vienna’s streets.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
It was rather odd the way that word, secret, had kept cropping up while Edmund was having that meal in Lucy’s flat. Edmund had always thought that Crispin was the only one who knew about the secrets in this family, but after that evening he had several times caught himself wondering. ‘I’d have thought Ashwood would be the last place you’d want to visit…’ Lucy had said. And when Edmund had asked why, she had said, ‘Well, because of Crispin…’
How much might Lucy know about Crispin? About the secrets?
They had played a game called Secrets on that night all those years ago when Lucy’s parents died. Edmund had been invited for the weekend; Lucy’s mother, bright, butterfly creature that she was, loved filling the house with people and she had said that of course Edmund must come, wasn’t it his autumn half-term from Bristol, or something? Nonsense, of course he could be there; all work and no play, remember the old warning, Edmund.
Mariana Trent’s party-game that weekend was a hybrid: a mixture of the old-fashioned Murder and Sardines, all to do with hiding in the dark (which would be pleasantly flirtatious, said Mariana), and with trying to elude the designated murderer (which should be deliciously spooky). It was Mariana’s own invention: a super game and it was called Secret Murder, and everyone would hugely enjoy it.
The party had a 1920s theme, which meant the females could dress up like mad in fringed outfits, and Mariana could wear a jewelled headband and a feather boa, while the men were persuaded fretfully into dinner jackets. There would be a nice supper, and Bruce would see to the drinks; he mixed a lethal Sidecar and they would have White Ladies or Manhattans with the food.
‘She’s trying to re-create Lucretia,’ said Deborah, on hearing Mariana planning all this. ‘She’s always doing it and I wish she wouldn’t, because no one ever will re-create Lucretia. You’d think Bruce would get tired of it, wouldn’t you, but he’s nearly as bad as she is. I suppose that’s why they married. Kindred spirits. She’ll be nicknaming people Bunty or Hugo next, and telling Lucy to call her mumsie-darling. Like something out of Somerset Maugham or a Noel Coward play.’
Lucy, who was only eight, would go to bed as usual; her room was at the top of the house, so she would be far enough away from the party not to be disturbed. They would look in on her from time to time, said Mariana, but she would sleep through it all, the lamb.
Everyone was very complimentary about the 1920s theme, saying wasn’t it fun to dress up like this, and imagine playing a Murder game before supper, what a hoot, and it would be just like an Agatha Christie book. And look at this – Mariana had set out little displays of ’20s and ’30s photographs and theatre programmes and things, how clever of her, where on earth had she found all that?
‘Oh, I just ferreted around a bit,’ said Mariana, delightedly. ‘There’s oceans of stuff in the attics, all packed away in trunks, in fact no one’s thrown anything away for the last hundred years; we’re all absolute magpies, you could write a whole family saga from the stuff if you wanted to. Eat your heart out, Mr Galsworthy.’
The game of Secret Murder required everyone to imagine the house to be in the middle of nowhere. There had been a power cut, and it had just been discovered that there was a mad killer among the house-guests…
‘It’s not Agatha Christie at all, it’s a remake of The Cat and the Canary,’ said somebody disagreeably and was told to hush.
‘And,’ said Mariana, with mock-severity, ‘you’ll all be given a folded-up card, which will assign you a role at the house-party. There’s a shady lady and a sinister foreigner and a colonel and so on – oh, and a butler, of course. And whoever gets the card marked with a cross is the murderer.’
Bruce, chiming in good-humouredly, explained that everyone’s identity must be kept secret, but the object of the game was for the guests to keep out of the murderer’s reach until the lights came on again. They could all go anywhere in the house, well, anywhere except Lucy’s bedroom, which was on the little second floor, and the killer had to find as many people as possible in the dark and murder them.
‘How?’ demanded the person who had said this was The Cat and the Canary.
‘Well, by tapping the victim on the shoulder and saying “You’re dead”.’
‘How extremely polite and refined. If I get the murderer’s card I’ll do a bit more than tap shoulders, I promise you.’
This was greeted by several, slightly nervous, female giggles.
Bruce was on light-switching duty, said Mariana, and the lights would go off exactly ten minutes after the printed cards had been drawn, and remain off for half an hour. Then they would all gather in the big sitting-room for the interrogation.
Edmund had joined in, agreeing that it was marvellously spooky. A terrific game. He had been enjoying the party; there were one or two younger girls to whom he had been introduced, and everyone was friendly. Just before the lights went out, he heard one of the older female guests asking Mariana who was that nice-looking boy, and he paused, pleased to hear himself described as nice-looking and wanting to hear the reply.
‘Oh, that’s Edmund Fane,’ said Mariana. ‘He’s a relation of Deb’s husband. He’s reading law – it’s only his first year, but they say he’s so clever. Yes, he is nice-looking, isn’t he? But he has such a bleak time of it, poor Edmund, with the most frightful father, you wouldn’t believe how awful – well, yes, it is a medical condition, melancholia or something, and we’re all so sorry about it. That’s why I said to Bruce, let’s for goodness’ sake give the poor boy some fun for once, prime some of the girls to flirt with him a bit…I said to Bruce, it’s only kind…’
The bitch. The all-time, gilt-edged, venom-tongued bitch. Edmund stood very still, the noise and the laughter of the party going on all round him, but coldly and angrily detached from it all. As if a glass panel had come down between him and the guests.
They were sorry for him. Mariana and Bruce Trent were sorry for him because of his father – that was why he had been invited. ‘He has such a bleak time of it, poor Edmund…’
He heard, as if from a long distance, an amiable response from Bruce, saying something about it being open house here, everyone welcome, but how about getting on with the game. Nearly time for the murders, ha-ha, hope everyone’s enjoying themselves, let’s have some more drinks before the lights go out, shall we…?
The drinks were duly distributed, and the cards were given out, and the lights went off on schedule. There was a good deal of scuffling and giggling and muffled squeaks as people trod on other people’s feet, and anxious questionings about what on earth one was supposed to do for goodness’ sake, and shrill-voiced girls saying, Oh, Henry, wherever are you? and, Do hold my hand.
The darkness seemed to rush at Edmund, and it was a thick smothering darkness, full of hateful whisperings, ‘He has such a bleak time of it, poor Edmund…’ ‘That frightful father…’ ‘Give him a bit of fun for once…’
Edmund shivered, despite the well-heated house, and wondered if he would ever get Mariana’s words out of his mind. He could feel them trickling through his brain like acid.
And he had forgotten how alive the darkness inside a house could be, and how it could fill up with sly whisperings and scalding emotions. His father, retreating more and more into a terrible inner darkness of his own, sometimes talked about it, and although nowadays the old man was as near mad as made no difference, lately Edmund had found himself understanding. Once or twice during these holidays, his father had taken to mumbling about his own past, dredging up memories.
Memories. As Edmund crossed the hall, the photographs and the faces that Mariana Trent had t
hought interesting enough and fun enough for her display swam out of the shadows. Memories. Lucretia von Wolff and those long-ago glittering glamorous years. Mariana loved them; she adored her mother’s legend, and she was always trying to revive it, exactly as Deborah said.
It would teach Mariana a lesson if all those memories were destroyed tonight. If every snippet and every tag-end – all the cuttings and photographs and scrap-books about Lucretia – were to be irretrievably lost, and it would serve the smug bitch right for pitying Edmund, ‘Prime some of the girls to flirt with him a bit…I said to Bruce, it’s only kind…’
His heart beating furiously, the uncertain light casting his shadow before him, Edmund began to climb the stairs to the attic floor.
Lucy had gone obediently to bed just after eight o’clock and had lain awake listening to the party sounds, which were all mixed up with the sounds of the rain outside.
She liked lying in bed hearing rain pattering down on the windows and the roofs; it made her feel warm and cosy and safe. Mother usually complained if it rained when she was giving a party because she liked people to wander into the garden with their drinks, but tonight she had been pleased about the rain; she said it would add atmosphere to a game they would be playing later on.
The party was being pretty noisy. There was a lot of shrieking and laughing going on. Lucy hoped her father would not sing the extremely rude song he sometimes sang at parties after he had drunk too much and which made everyone helpless with laughter, but which always made Mum say, Oh, Bruce, half embarrassed, half laughing with the rest.
But whether Dad sang the song or not, it did not seem as if Lucy was going to be able to sleep through the noise. It did not much matter, because tomorrow was Saturday and not a school day, but she was starting to be very bored with just lying here doing nothing. She might read a bit of her book and hope to fall asleep over it, or she might get out her drawing-book which she could prop up on her knees, and the coloured pencils, or…
