by Sarah Rayne
The actual conception of Alraune in the gallows’ shadows was rather tame compared with some of the stuff you saw on film today, but it was still extraordinarily evocative, and the music held a strong undercurrent of sexuality at this point. There was a faint rhythmic pattern that, at the romantic end of the spectrum, might have been a lover’s heart beating but that, at the comic end of the spectrum, might have been a bedspring twangingly bouncing. And then listen to it again, and it could equally well be the sound of a gibbet, creaking and swaying with the weight of a strangled murderer…I do wish I’d known you, said Lucy to Conrad Kline’s ghost. You’ve got a bit overshadowed by Lucretia as far as the family’s concerned, but I think I’d have liked you very much.
The scenes slid into one another – to one accustomed to twentieth-and twenty-first-century technology they were not entirely seamless, but the links were smooth enough not to be distracting. Lucy spared a thought to wonder if Inspector Fletcher’s own experiment, whatever it might be, was working. She glanced round the room. Michael Sallis’s face was partly in shadow; he had not said a great deal since arriving, but he had seemed pleased to see Lucy again, and he appeared interested in the film. He was sitting with Francesca Holland, Trixie Smith’s colleague, who had raised the alarm when Trixie vanished. Lucy thought Francesca was not exactly pretty but she had the kind of face you would want to keep looking at. She was watching the film closely, and as the prostitute who was Alraune’s mother harangued the scientist, Lucy saw her exchange a brief appreciative grin with Michael, as if they had both recognized some allusion or allegory in the scene.
On Lucy’s left, Edmund had donned a pair of spectacles and was looking over the tops of the lenses with scarcely veiled disapproval.
Liam Devlin, on Lucy’s right, was watching the film as well and with unexpected absorption. But as if becoming aware of Lucy’s covert regard, he half turned his head to look at her and sent her a slightly quizzical grin. He had the mobile mouth of many Irish people, and very bright, very intelligent eyes. Lucy blinked, and turned hastily back to the screen, where the scientist, by now realizing the evil results of his gallows-tree experiment, was carrying his sulky and soulless child through the night to place her in the keeping of the cloisters. The music went with him, a faint element of menace creeping in now, like a heart knocking against uneasy bones. There was a nicely brooding shot of the convent for which they were bound, standing wreathed in mist in some unidentifiable forest remoteness.
And then without any preliminaries, she was there. The young Lucretia von Wolff, her face flickering and erratic and her movements slightly jerky because of the hand-cranked camera of the day. But smoulderingly charismatic and chockfull of sex appeal. Lucy realized afresh how incandescently sexy her grandmother had been.
When Inspector Fletcher suddenly leaned forward and said, ‘Could we just freeze that frame?’ several people jumped.
‘Certainly,’ said the projectionist, and there was a loud click. Lucretia, reclining Cleopatra-like on a sumptuous, absurdly unmonastic chaise-longue, preparing to be seduced by the convent’s music-master, regarded the world from insolent slanting eyes, half predatory, half passionate. Her curtain of dark hair swung silkily around her face, and the actor playing the music-master knelt adoringly at her feet.
‘Oh, Grandmamma,’ murmured Lucy, ‘why couldn’t you crochet sweaters and join ladies’ luncheon clubs, or take up gardening like other people’s grandmothers?’
‘It’s a perfectly respectable scene, though,’ said Liam, his eyes still on the screen. ‘Your man’s still got one foot on the floor.’
‘The old censor’s law,’ said Lucy, amused.
‘Of course. You can’t get up to much if you’ve got to leave one foot on the floor.’
Edmund frowned, as if he thought this to be another remark in questionable taste, but the others grinned.
‘She was a stunning-looking lady,’ said Liam thoughtfully. ‘I didn’t realize what a knock-out she was. In fact—’
‘Yes?’
He frowned. ‘Oh, I was only thinking that the reputation’s suddenly very understandable. Wasn’t she supposed to have had a fling with von Ribbentrop shortly before the outbreak of World War II? Or is that another of the rumours?’
‘Nothing would surprise me,’ said Lucy. ‘Ribbentrop was a champagne salesman before World War II, wasn’t he? And Lucretia was never especially discriminating, and she did have a taste for champagne.’ Sorry, Grandmamma, but you did bring this kind of conversation on yourself. Fairness made her add, ‘The spying rumours were never proved, of course.’
‘I don’t know about spying, but with looks like that I wouldn’t be surprised if she took the entire Third Reich to bed on the same night,’ remarked Liam.
Edmund made a tsk sound of impatience, and the inspector glanced over her shoulder to where the projectionist was waiting. ‘Thanks, we can go on now if you would. I just wanted to check the faces.’
As the film rolled on again, Lucy saw Edmund set his coffee cup down and lean back in his chair with an air of bored resignation.
Edmund was bored and resigned in about equal measures. He had not been in the least apprehensive about this afternoon’s outlandish experiment, because he knew he had nothing to worry about; there was nothing anywhere to link him to Trixie’s death, and it was patently clear that this female, this Detective Inspector Jennie Fletcher, was simply casting around in the dark. Looking for clues within the film – which she would not find, because there were none there. He would be glad when the charade was over and he could catch his train home, although it was a pity that he would not be having that cosy alluring meal with Lucy.
But as for this film, this apparently acclaimed piece of early cinema, Edmund simply could not see the point of it. If you asked him, Alraune was nothing but a dismal dreariness, the story incomprehensible, the behaviour of the actors meaningless and overdone. He sneaked a quick look at his watch, and saw that they had about another half hour to sit through. To while away the time he looked surreptitiously at the others. They all seemed to be watching with interest – Lucy was clearly enthralled, which annoyed Edmund.
Francesca Holland looked enthralled as well. Edmund considered her for a moment, remembering that she had been staying with Trixie Smith, wondering whether the two of them had talked about Trixie’s research for the thesis. Presumably you did not share a house with somebody without referring to your work. What shall we have for supper tonight, oh, and by the way, I’ve found out who really killed Conrad Kline…Or: Your turn to pick up the dry-cleaning, and did I tell you that Lucretia von Wolff had an affair with a young man called Crispin Fane…Now Edmund came to think about it, he could see that this was exactly the kind of thing that might have been said. Was there any real danger here? He thought probably not. Still, Francesca Holland might need to be watched.
Michael Sallis was seated at the end of the small row of chairs, leaning back slightly, one arm resting on the arm of his chair. Edmund was about to look back at the screen, when Sallis half-turned his head to say something to Francesca. His profile caught the faint glow of the overhead light, and Edmund stared at him, the juddering screen images and the other people in the room momentarily forgotten. Deep inside his mind something was starting to thrum and he thought: I know that profile. Those eyes, that slightly too-wide mouth – I’ve seen them somewhere. But where? And then: why am I so concerned? he thought. So Michael Sallis resembles a client or someone on TV or the man who services the photocopier in the office. So what?
But as he turned back to the screen, the throbbing unease was increasing. His mind darted back and forth, trying to pin down the resemblance. There’s something to be wary of here. Something I need to identify. Someone I need to identify. A nervous sweat had formed on his forehead; he blotted it with his handkerchief, doing so discreetly, pretending to dab his nose as if he had a slight cold, and keeping his eyes fixed on the screen. In a moment he would look back at Sallis, doing so quickly,
as people did when they could not read someone’s handwriting and tried the trick of taking it by surprise. He would take Michael Sallis by surprise, and hope his mind would make the identification ahead of his eyes.
He watched the screen for a few moments – something about Lucretia and the scientist outside a burning house. It was all very flimsy and childlike: anyone could see the actual house had been constructed out of cardboard and plywood.
And now Lucretia was in the centre of the action, flinging herself about with over-emphatic melodrama, covering her mouth with the back of her hand in the classic gesture of shock and fear, and then suddenly facing the camera in close-up, her eyes narrowed and glittering, her lips curving in a smile of evil calculation. She was plastered with make-up; Edmund thought it very unbecoming. All that eye-black, and some sort of dark shiny lipstick. He dared say it had been all very fashionable and daring in Lucretia’s heyday, but it was not his idea of what was attractive.
On the outer rim of his vision he saw Michael Sallis turn his head again, and this time he looked directly across at Sallis. And with a shock so deep that he felt as if a fist had slammed into his stomach, he knew exactly who Sallis reminded him of.
The film wound to the final reel, and the doomed scientist was lured to his fate against a background of claustrophobic skies and what Edmund considered some rather showy music. But he was only dimly aware of it, although he did look with attention at the climax, when Lucretia von Wolff, as Alraune, brought her creator to his grisly end.
(The eyes, Edmund, the ghost-child Alraune had said in Ashwood that day. There is no other way…Remember the eyes, Edmund, remember mord…)
It made several people jump when Inspector Fletcher said, in her cool detached voice, ‘Can we have a replay of that scene again, please?’ but Edmund had no real interest in Fletcher now, and he no longer had any energy to spare for Alraune. His entire attention was focused on Michael Sallis. He knew, with an unshakeable conviction, who Sallis was.
What he did not yet know was what he was going to do about it.
‘Did you get what you wanted out of that?’ asked Lucy of Inspector Fletcher, as they all dispersed. ‘Or shouldn’t I ask?’
‘You shouldn’t ask,’ said Liam Devlin, overhearing this.
Fletcher regarded Lucy for a moment, and then said, ‘I did get something, Miss Trent. Not quite what I was expecting, but something very interesting indeed. I can’t tell you any more than that.’
‘I didn’t expect you could,’ said Lucy. ‘I’m glad it wasn’t a waste of time though.’
‘It wasn’t a waste of time as far as I was concerned, Miss Trent,’ said Liam, and Lucy glanced at him in surprise because this was the first time she had heard him speak seriously. ‘Thank you very much for arranging it.’ He sent Lucy another of the quizzical smiles, and went out.
The inspector said, ‘It wasn’t a waste of time for me, either.’
It was dark by the time Edmund reached home, and he went all round his house, closing curtains and switching on lights. Then he poured himself a drink and sat down at the little desk in the sitting-room, reaching for the phone.
But he hesitated for a moment before dialling. The spider-strands of the plan that had formed throughout the homeward journey were still strong and good; Edmund had tested each one as the train sped away from London and he knew they formed a sound plan. But dare he carry that plan out?
Of course you dare, said Crispin’s voice in his mind. Trust your instinct…And if you can’t do that, then trust mine…When did I ever let you down…?
There had been times lately when the two voices – the silky assured voice that was Crispin, and the sly childlike voice that was Alraune – had fused in Edmund’s mind so that it was not always easy to tell which of them was speaking. Like a radio when it was slightly off the station, so that you got two sets of voices warring with one another. Once or twice Edmund had been a little confused by these blurred-together voices, although he always sorted them out after a moment or two.
But now, as he dialled Michael Sallis’s number, there was no doubt about who had the upper hand. This was unmistakably Crispin, and when Michael answered, it was Crispin at his most charming who said, ‘Sallis? Oh good. I hoped I had the right number. It’s Edmund Fane.’
‘What can I do for you?’ Sallis sounded polite but not especially friendly.
‘It’s about my aunt’s house,’ said Edmund. ‘As you know, although your company gets the actual building and gardens, the contents come to me.’
‘Yes, I do know.’
‘The auction firm’s coming out next week to pack everything and take it to the sale-rooms,’ said Edmund. ‘I’m keeping one or two bits for my own house—’ No need to mention that the one or two bits included an eighteenth-century writing table and a set of Sheraton dining chairs. ‘I thought,’ he said, ‘that if you will be using the house for these homeless youngsters, you might like some of the more basic furniture. Wardrobes or tables. The fridge is only a couple of years old, as well. And there’s quite a good set of gardening tools in the potting shed.’
Sallis said slowly, ‘Yes, I believe we might like them very much. Are you offering to give them, or can we negotiate a figure?’
‘Oh,’ said Edmund offhandedly, ‘I don’t want anything for them. I’m happy to let you have them if they can be of some use.’
‘Thank you very much.’
‘Is there a day you could come up here and see which of the things you’d like?’ said Edmund. ‘It would need to be some time in the next week, because the auction people are coming next Friday. I need to know what to let them take, and what to tell them to leave in place.’
‘I could probably make it on Tuesday,’ said Sallis. ‘Would that be all right?’
Edmund pretended to consult a diary, and then said that Tuesday would be convenient. He had no appointments that day. ‘Shall you be staying overnight? It’s a hellishly long drive to do in one day. I could book you into the White Hart – you stayed there last time, didn’t you? Or you could camp out at the house itself – the electricity’s still on.’
He felt the other man’s hesitation. Then, ‘I’d rather not stay overnight,’ said Michael. ‘If I set off early enough I can get to you around mid-morning. That would give me a good three or four hours at the house.’
Not ideal, of course; Edmund wanted Sallis there all night. But the essence of a good plan was to adapt as you went along, so he said, ‘All right. I’ve still got a bit of clearing out to do, so I’ll be there from ten o’clock onwards.’
‘If there’s any heavy lifting or anything massive to shift, maybe I can give you a hand.’
‘That would be kind. I’m afraid it’s a dismal business sorting out the possessions of someone who’s just died,’ said Edmund.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
It’s a dismal business sorting out the possessions of someone who has just died, and when that someone has been brutally murdered, the task is a hundred times worse. But when DI Fletcher’s men had finished their search of the house, Francesca discovered that there was no one else to take it on.
She rather diffidently suggested to the Deputy Head that perhaps the school should assume responsibility for packing away Trixie’s things, but the Deputy Head instantly said, ‘Oh, I don’t think we could interfere in anything like that.’
‘But she hasn’t got any real family, you know,’ said Fran.
‘I know. It’s very difficult. Of course, you having lived in the same house for the last few weeks—’
So much for paternalism. Fran supposed she had better get on with it. The police seemed to have been looking particularly for a will, but there had not appeared to be one – or if there was it was as well hidden as if this was a Victorian melodrama with a final chapter involving secret marriages and unknown heirs, which were all unthinkable in connection with Trixie.
Bank statements and bills had all been in order, and the only money owing was a couple of hundred pounds
on a credit card, from Trixie’s purchase of new dog kennels last month. It also turned out that Trixie had owned the house outright, which rather surprised Fran, who had assumed there would be a mortgage. But perhaps Trixie had inherited money or even the house itself from her parents: Fran did know they had died when Trixie was quite young. As well as the house there was a modest building society savings account and a couple of insurance policies, both timed to mature in just over fifteen years’ time.
‘I suppose she was planning on retiring early,’ said DI Fletcher, preparing to leave Fran to her dismal task. ‘She was almost forty, wasn’t she?’
Fran said she had not actually known Trixie’s age; it was not something that had ever come up. She asked if the police really thought anyone would commit that nightmare murder for a house in North London and a few thousand pounds?
‘At the moment, Mrs Holland, we’re prepared to believe anything of anyone. But I’d have to say I don’t see this as being linked to sordid coinage. We haven’t been able to trace any family, by the way. Except for the elderly aunt – great-aunt, I should say – and even the wildest stretch of imagination couldn’t cast her as first murderer.’
‘I do know Trixie used to visit that aunt in the holidays,’ said Francesca thoughtfully. ‘But I believe she’s at least ninety. I shouldn’t think she could even manage the journey to Ashwood, let alone anything else.’
‘I shouldn’t think so, either.’
