by Sarah Rayne
‘We haven’t met,’ said DI Fletcher, brusquely polite. ‘But I know who you are, of course, and I expect you know that I’m heading the investigation into Trixie Smith’s murder.’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Lucy, assuming the inspector wanted to know about that original meeting with Trixie.
‘I’ve got a favour to ask,’ said DI Fletcher.
‘A favour?’ This was unexpected. ‘What kind of favour?’
‘I want to know about Alraune.’
‘Oh,’ said Lucy a bit blankly. ‘The film or the child?’
‘The film. What exactly is it? I mean – what’s it about?’
Lucy had the feeling that DI Fletcher knew quite a lot about Alraune already – the fictional one and also the real one – but the mental exercise of rolling up the plot into a couple of sentences was unexpectedly calming. She said, ‘Well, I’ve never read the original story, but I do know it’s a pretty freaky one.’
‘So I understand.’
‘It’s sort of Frankenstein re-told, only the “creature” is female: a girl who’s conceived in the shadow of a gallows-tree as an experiment, and named Alraune after the mandrake root that’s supposed to grow beneath the gibbet, due to – well, perhaps you know the hoary old myth about hanging, do you?’
‘Spontaneous ejaculation because of the spasming? Yes, I do know.’
Lucy thought that on balance this was a nicely polite and suitably clinical way of putting it. She said, ‘Alraune’s conceived from the mandrake’s – um – potency, I suppose is the term. She’s beautiful but evil and she ends up destroying both herself and the tormented genius who created her. Maybe it’s Frankenstein meets Svengali.’
‘Silent films used to evoke a remarkable atmosphere, didn’t they?’ said Inspector Fletcher. ‘As much because of the silence I’ve always thought.’
‘That’s true. The film versions of Alraune are all based to a lesser or greater extent on a book written around 1910 or 1912 by a German author called Hanns Heinz Ewers. At least three or four films were made of it – some silent, some with sound, all mostly in the 1920s and early 1930s, although Eric von Stroheim did a rather cheesy re-make in 1951 or 1952.’ Lucy thought it was not necessary to mention that von Stroheim was credited with having been one of Lucretia’s lovers.
Inspector Fletcher appeared to be making notes of all this. After a moment, she said, ‘What else?’
‘The early versions were considered rather shockingly erotic for their day,’ said Lucy, hoping she did not sound as if she was giving a lecture. ‘But the film my grandmother made is generally accepted as the darkest and most dramatic version of them all – in fact before the Ashwood murders it was regarded as one of the great examples of early film noir.’
‘But not any longer?’
‘After Lucretia died the cranks and the weirdos latched on to it,’ said Lucy. ‘And it achieved a sort of underground near-cult status. Unfortunately it’s got all tangled up with the legend – Conrad Kline and Leo Dreyer butchered at Ashwood, and Lucretia committing that spectacular suicide – so nobody’s very objective about it any more. That’s a great shame, because it really was a remarkable film. Very innovative and quite daring in parts. And the director achieved some terrific effects.’
‘You’ve seen it?’
‘Yes, I saw it when I was at university.’
‘Is it ever shown publicly now? On TV for instance?’
‘I don’t think so. It sometimes gets trotted out at film festivals, or rented by the more avant-garde film clubs – that was where I saw it.’ It had been fashionable, in her second term at Durham, to admire film noir and the gloomier epics of German Expressionism – she was always vaguely irritated that the loss of her virginity would forever be associated in her mind with Orson Welles and the zither music of The Third Man. To Inspector Fletcher, she said, ‘It’s probably a bit heavy for modern tastes, so it isn’t usually seen—Oh, no, wait, one of the satellite TV companies showed it a few years ago. They offered it to viewers as a curio. A stormy petrel, or the Macbeth of the silent film era, the announcer called it.’
The inspector appeared to absorb this, and then said, ‘There are still copies of the film in existence, then?’
‘Yes, certainly,’ said Lucy, feeling on slightly safer ground. ‘Not too many, and what there are are a bit weather-beaten by now – it was 1928 or 1930, which means it’s the old cellulose nitrate composition, and that sometimes decomposes beyond recall. The layers of film actually weld together.’ She paused, and then said, ‘But it’s still around. D’you want to see it?’
‘Yes, I do. Could it be arranged?’
‘I think Quondam have got it, but if not I can probably track it down with one of our rivals,’ said Lucy, who knew perfectly well that Quondam had got it, because she had looked for it within a week of joining the company. ‘How about my grandfather’s backing music? Conrad Kline, I mean. He tends to get a bit overshadowed by Lucretia, but he was a gifted composer in his day. D’you want that as well?’
‘Well, if it’s to hand, yes. But it’s the film I really want.’ A pause. Lucy waited, hoping to find out what might be behind all this, but Fletcher only said, ‘We don’t know yet if there’s any connection between the old murder case and Trixie Smith’s death, but we want to consider every angle.’
‘Starting with a look at Alraune,’ said Lucy.
‘Yes.’
‘The murderer more or less copied the last scene of Alraune, didn’t he?’
‘It sounds as if you’ve been reading the tabloids, Miss Trent. Very unwise. How soon could you let me know about viewing the film?’
‘I’ll do it at once,’ said Lucy. ‘And I’ll phone you back. If I hit any problems, you can invoke the might of the British constabulary.’
‘What about actually running it? We’re fairly high-tech in the police, but I don’t know if we’d be equal to a seventy-year-old reel of – what did you say it was made of?’
‘Cellulose nitrate. Actually, a lot of the early stuff is being fairly successfully transferred to DVD these days. I don’t think that’s happened to Alraune though, so you’d probably need the old projectors. But that needn’t be a problem: I expect I can set up a viewing for you. We’ve got a couple of viewing rooms here, and the larger one will seat about ten people. Would that be enough?’
‘Yes, I think so. Thank you very much. I’ll wait to hear from you.’
‘The viewing’s on,’ said Fletcher to her sergeant after Lucy had called back to say that as she had thought, Quondam did possess a copy of the film, although it had not gone through any kind of restoration process. ‘But I still want you to work through that list of the film clubs. If anyone’s recently hired the von Wolff Alraune, I want to know about it.’
Sergeant Trendle said there was nothing to report from the film clubs yet, and asked why they needed to view the film.
‘I want to see exactly how closely our man did copy this famous final scene,’ said Fletcher. ‘If it looks as though he knows the film in real detail, that might give us a lead – there can’t be all that many people who’ve seen the thing; not these days. And you’ve got the list of satellite TV companies as well, haven’t you? Lucy Trent said one of them put it out a few years ago. If it was eight or ten years back, it probably isn’t relevant, but if it was only a couple of years, we might have to start getting lists of satellite TV subscribers. Yes, I know it’s tedious, but think of it as an armchair version of door-to-door inquiries.’ She frowned, and then said, ‘I think we’ll fix this viewing for Saturday afternoon if Quondam will agree.’
Trendle, who viewed the prospect of Alraune with dismay (it had been made before sound even, could you credit it!), asked who was to be at the viewing. Just their own people, was it?
‘No,’ said Jennie. ‘I want to watch one or two reactions while it’s being played. Lucy Trent will have to be there, of course. Partly courtesy, because she works at Quondam, but I’m not forgetting she’s Lucretia von
Wolff’s granddaughter. She knows the film, as well – she saw it when she was at university.’
‘We aren’t suspecting her, though, are we?’
‘We’re suspecting everybody at this stage. But I don’t really think she’s a contender. But listen now, the ones I do want to be there – and don’t make any mistakes or hand me any excuses, sergeant – are those three who found Trixie Smith’s body. Francesca Holland, Michael Sallis, and that insolent Irishman.’
‘The solicitor?’
‘The solicitor,’ said Jennie Fletcher. ‘He’s an irreverent devil, although I’d have to say he’s an efficient irreverent devil. As a matter of fact he’s got rather a good reputation when it comes to criminal law – the ACC thinks very highly of him – and he’s a tiger in the magistrates’ court, I’ve seen him in action. That’s the silver-tongued Irish, of course.’
Sergeant Trendle, who had been checking the list of Ashwood’s previous owners, said it looked as if Liam Devlin had given them genuine information about the land.
‘It’s mostly been owned by small-time entrepreneurs, who thought they were getting a bargain, and then couldn’t get rid of the place quickly enough when they realized it wasn’t a bargain at all.’
‘Which is what we thought. I think Devlin’s all right, but we’ll still have him in for this film experiment, although we’d better have a pinch of salt with us when we’re talking to him. Do you ever read Shakespeare, Trendle?’
Trendle, who liked a bit of a laugh on his days off, said he did not.
‘There’s a line in one of the plays – “First thing we’ll do, let’s kill all the laywers,”’ said the inspector. ‘Remember that. Always watch a lawyer, Trendle.’
Sergeant Trendle, who could not cope with the inspector when she was in this mood, suggested that if they were speaking of lawyers, what about the other one?
‘Edmund Fane?’ said Fletcher, softly. ‘Oh, yes, I want him there as well.’
‘You don’t like him?’
‘I don’t trust him, Trendle. So I don’t care if you have to invoke Magna Carta or the European Human Rights Law, just make sure he’s there.’
Edmund was not best pleased to be telephoned by Sergeant Trendle and politely requested to come to Quondam Films’ premises on Saturday afternoon for the purpose of viewing the infamous von Wolff Alraune.
He thought it a preposterous idea to screen the film – in fact he had thought the thing had been lost years ago. It had not been lost? It never had been lost? Oh well, Edmund had never bothered overmuch about all those old-fashioned films or books. Still, he would come along if the police really insisted.
He was, in fact, rather pleased at the thought of seeing Lucy again, and it might be intriguing to see her in her professional setting, so to speak. Would she wear a sharp, dark office suit? And would it be possible to have supper with her afterwards? Perhaps she would invite him to her flat again. His mind flew ahead, seeing the two of them seated at the little table in the deep bay window, and then moving across to that deep sofa before the fire…And then…? There was a sudden strong pleasure in remembering how his father had gone to bed with Lucy’s grandmother all those years ago, and in wondering if, on Saturday night, Edmund might go to bed with Lucy herself. There was a symmetry about it which pleased him. I’m not re-creating what you did, he said to Crispin’s image in his mind; I’m really not. No? said Crispin’s voice, mockingly. Whatever you’re doing, the symmetry of it sounds slightly skewed to me. But let’s go for it anyway, dear boy. Lucretia’s granddaughter…Oh yes, Edmund, oh yes, let’s go for it…
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.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
‘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.
