by Sarah Rayne
Edmund read his post while he ate his supper.
There was the quarterly electricity bill – it was criminal how much they charged you for electricity nowadays – and also a circular for a pizza delivery house, which irritated Edmund, who disapproved of the slovenly practice of delivering cooked food to people’s houses.
The third letter was not immediately recognizable, but it had a vaguely official look. He slit the envelope and unfolded the contents, and with a lurch of anticipation saw it was from the Land Registry: the results of the search he had requested following Trixie Smith’s death. The name of Ashwood’s present owner. And an address in Lincoln.
He stared at the sheet of paper, because he had seen that name very recently. He had seen it on Michael Sallis’s phone barely half an hour ago. He reached for the phone to make sure. Yes, there it was, along with a number and dialling code. But surely it was simply coincidence. Surely there could not be a link between Sallis and Ashwood’s owner? Or could there…?
He took down the BT phone directory, turning to the list of dialling codes for the whole country. It took a few minutes to match the code stored on the phone, but in the end he found it. The code was for Lincoln.
Edmund thought for a moment, and then dialled one of the big, anonymous directory Inquiries services. He gave the name printed on the Land Registry’s documentation, and when asked for the address, merely said it was in Lincoln. Within seconds an electronic voice recited a number. The number was the number on Michael Sallis’s mobile phone.
How much of a danger might this be? Edmund had no idea, but he did not like discovering this link between Sallis and Ashwood, he did not like it at all. He considered what he should do. How about phoning the Lincoln number to see who answered? He could dial 141 beforehand so that his own number would not register at the other end, and pretend to have called a wrong number. But a voice on a phone would not tell him much. He needed to see the set-up – he needed to be reassured that it was only some faceless property company, and that there was no threat.
How long would it take to drive to Lincoln? He reached for the road atlas and saw that it would not take very long at all, in fact if he made use of the new bypass near Doncaster it would not take much over an hour. Could he do that tomorrow? It would have to be very early, because there was Michael Sallis’s body to discover – at least, Edmund hoped there was – and he must not seem to have done anything out of his normal pattern.
But if he left before seven, he ought to reach Lincoln by eight thirty at the outside. Allow for rush-hour traffic and say nine o’clock. A time when there were plenty of people around, so that he could take a discreet look at the set-up and decide what to do. Probably he would not do anything, but he needed to know. He needed to know exactly what and who Ashwood’s owners were.
Short of the absolute unforeseen, he ought to get back here for eleven to eleven thirty. That was a bit later than he would have liked for discovering Sallis’s body, but there was no reason for anyone to drive along that lane to the house; there would not be any milk delivery or anything like that, and even the post – if there was any – would not be delivered until nearly midday. And even if things had gone wrong – even if Sallis had survived or escaped – there was still nothing to throw suspicion on to Edmund. Yes, it ought to be all right.
He washed up his supper things and then sat down to dial his own office number. No one would be there, of course, but he left a message on the answerphone saying that first thing tomorrow morning he was going out to measure the paths in the right-of-way dispute, and that he also had to call at Mrs Fane’s house, which meant he would not be in until later. The measuring of the paths was a perfectly credible story; it was a case that had been going on for a number of weeks now; it was, in fact, the very case Edmund had been working on the day Deborah Fane had phoned to tell him about Trixie Smith’s approach. Then he did have his tot of whisky, and finally went to bed.
But despite the whisky and despite having worked everything out so carefully, he did not sleep very well. His mind went over and over the details of what he had done and of what he might have to do tomorrow. Surely he had not missed anything, though?
He got up at six, showered and dressed, and made a pot of tea, carefully not opening curtains or switching on lights, in case of any chance passer-by noticing anything out of the normal pattern. You never knew who might be watching you – several times recently he had had the impression of eyes watching him.
He washed up his tea-cup and put it away as normal – there must be nothing done out of pattern; nothing that his cleaning lady might spot and say, My word, that’s unusual. That’s not like Mr Fane. After this he dressed as normal in his office suit with a clean shirt. As he put on his jacket, he caught a glimpse of Crispin watching him from the depths of the hall mirror. You’re doing very well, said Crispin’s expression. But isn’t there one more thing…?
One more thing…
Edmund went back upstairs to where the syringe lay discreetly at the back of his dressing-table drawer. He had contemplated disposing of it after Deborah’s death – he had thought he might throw it into the river or bury it in garden rubbish at the municipal tip – but then he had thought that you never knew what you might need. And today, depending on what he found at the end of his journey, he might need it.
It was a few minutes before seven when he left the house, and by seven fifteen he was heading for the bypass, the syringe in his jacket pocket.
The traffic was still fairly light at this hour. The map was open on the seat beside Edmund and Crispin was with him as he drove along. Once or twice he thought he could hear Alraune’s voice but he pushed it away, because he no longer wanted Alraune. Go away, you’re a cheat, he said to Alraune. Two-faced, like the rest of your family. Like that cat Lucretia, whom Crispin had loved so much it had destroyed him – yes it had! And like Mariana Trent – another sly deceiver. ‘We’re all so sorry for Edmund,’ she had said that night. ‘We’ve primed some of the girls to flirt with him, to give him some fun for once…’ But Mariana had got what she had deserved that night, even though Edmund had not intended her to die in the fire. Still, you might almost say that both Lucretia’s daughters had had rough justice meted out to them, first Mariana and then Deborah. The symmetry of this pleased Edmund.
As the road unwound, the years continued to unwind as well, taking him into the night his father had died. I couldn’t let you live, he said silently to Crispin’s ghost. You understood that, didn’t you? After you told me the truth, I couldn’t risk you talking. And you would have done. You were losing your hold on sanity fast, and you would have talked.
A mad old man’s ramblings, dear boy, said Crispin’s voice sadly. You said yourself I was as near mad as made no difference by then…Would anyone have listened or believed…?
But I couldn’t risk it! cried Edmund silently. I couldn’t be sure! I needed to kill the past! You do understand that?
Of course I understand, Edmund, said Crispin’s voice. I understand it all…Suddenly it was the remembered, infinitely loving voice of Edmund’s childhood, and Edmund frowned because just for a moment his sight had misted over. Stupid! He brushed his hand impatiently across his eyes, and concentrated on the unfamiliar road.
You were afraid I might talk, weren’t you…? That was it, wasn’t it…?
Yes, said Edmund gratefully. Because you had talked to me, you see. You couldn’t stop yourself. (‘I just kept on stabbing him, over and over again,’ Crispin had said. ‘I had to wipe out the words he had said; I brought the knife down on his face – on his mouth – over and over again. And there was so much blood…’)
So much blood. The words had dropped into Edmund’s mind that night, exactly in time with the rhythmic ticking of the old clock on the landing. So-much-blood. Tick-tick-tick…Like little jabs into your mind. So-much-blood…
With the words ticking inside his mind, he had taken his father into the bathroom. ‘A nice warm bath – it’ll be refre
shing. I’ll run the water for you, and then you can get in. I’ll help you – I won’t let you slip. And you’ll feel much better afterwards.’
I did all that, thought Edmund. But I did it for you, Crispin. And while you were in the bath I came in, and I brought the razor down on your throat, and you died, there in the steam-filled bathroom, and there was so much blood, you were right about that, Crispin…
Afterwards I did all the things I would have been expected to do if it had been a real suicide. I felt for a heartbeat and when I was sure there wasn’t one, I phoned the doctor.
And while I waited for the doctor to arrive, I sat on the stairs, watching the man I had murdered and the father I had loved and admired grow cold and stiff, listening to the ticking of the clock repeating his words over and over. So-much-blood…After a time it changed to No one-must-know…No one-must-know…
No matter the cost, no one must ever know that you were a murderer, Crispin.
One of the main problems was actually to find the address. Lincoln was a big place, and Edmund could not risk asking for directions. So before coming off the motorway, he pulled in at a big service station with a self-service restaurant and several small shop units.
Once inside, he wandered casually along the shelves of the shops. Magazines, convenience foods, cans of fizzy drink of all kinds. Ah, local street maps. Lincoln? Yes, there it was. Good. He picked it up in a rather absent-minded fashion: a traveller taking a break from his journey, spotting a map he did not possess and thinking it might come in handy sometime. You never knew where you might have to drive. He dropped a pack of sandwiches into his wire basket, along with a can of lemonade, a box of tissues and some peppermints, so that the map would not particularly stand out. He paid for everything in cash, of course.
The voice on Lucy’s phone was brisk and businesslike and very apologetic for the fact that the time was a few minutes before eight o’clock in the morning.
Lucy had been snatching a hasty breakfast before setting off for work, and she had taken the call in the kitchen. She said it was quite all right to be ringing; was anything wrong?
‘Probably not. But we need your help, Miss Trent, and I’m afraid this might be a distressing call for you.’
Lucy asked what had happened.
‘I’m ringing about your cousin, Edmund Fane,’ said Fletcher, and Lucy felt a stab of apprehension.
‘Nothing’s happened to him, has it?’
‘Not as far as we know. But we need to talk to him quite quickly.’
‘Why?’
A pause, as if the inspector was deciding how much to say. Lucy waited, and then Fletcher said, ‘Last night Michael Sallis telephoned me to make a statement. He says that earlier in the evening Edmund tried to kill him.’
For a moment the words made absolutely no sense to Lucy. Edmund tried to kill Michael Sallis. She tried them over again in her mind. Edmund-tried-to-kill-Michael-Sallis. This time the words fell into the proper pattern, but even though Lucy understood them, she did not believe them. But with the idea of trying to establish a degree of normality, she said carefully, ‘When you say “kill”, do you mean in a car? A road accident of some kind?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ said the DI. ‘It seems that Mr Sallis drove up to your aunt’s house yesterday—Your aunt Deborah Fane, I mean—’
‘Yes, I knew about that.’ Here, at least, was something reasonably ordinary and understandable. ‘Some of the furniture was being given to CHARTH – that’s the charity Michael Sallis works for.’
‘While they were at the house, there was an injury to Mr Sallis’s hand. It meant he couldn’t drive, and he stayed at the house for the night. He’s made a statement, saying that while he was in a room in the front of the house Edmund Fane came in through a back door, very quietly and furtively, and turned all the gas rings of the cooker fully on. And then stole out again, locking the door behind him.’
‘Leaving the gas escaping into the house? With Michael locked in?’
‘Yes.’
‘But that means,’ said Lucy, wanting to be sure she had not misunderstood, ‘if Michael hadn’t realized what was happening, he would have been gassed?’
‘Almost certainly.’
‘But – but this is ridiculous. For one thing Edmund hardly knew Michael. Why on earth would he try to kill him?’
‘We don’t know yet that he did, although so far there’s no reason to doubt the substance of Mr Sallis’s statement – or his integrity. As far as we can make out, he’s a perfectly sane person, quite highly regarded by the charity he works for, with no axe to grind against Edmund Fane.’
‘But so is Edmund sane and highly regarded,’ said Lucy at once. ‘He’s the most correct, most law-abiding person—It’s a family joke, how correct he is. And he’s – he’s devoid of nearly all the emotions! Aunt Deb used to say he was entirely passionless.’ At least Deb had been spared this. ‘What’s happening now?’
‘Well, we’ve certainly got to talk to Mr Fane as soon as possible,’ said Fletcher. ‘The immediate problem is that we don’t know where he is. I drove up here in the early hours, and we went out to his house shortly after seven. But there’s no sign of him, his car’s gone, so it looks as if he either went off somewhere very early or he’s been out all night. Normally in this kind of situation we’d check with neighbours – perhaps the staff at his office – but I’m loath to do that yet in case there’s some innocent explanation for all this. I thought I’d talk to you first.’
‘In case I might know where he is?’ said Lucy. ‘Or in case he might be here? Well, I don’t know where he is, and he certainly isn’t here.’
‘Might he have stayed overnight somewhere? With friends, perhaps?’
But Edmund had never, to Lucy’s knowledge, stayed out all night. ‘He lives a very quiet life. Beyond the office and his clients he hardly has any social life at all – maybe the odd Rotary Lunch or a Law Society dinner, but nothing else. And even on the rare occasion he does go out in the evening I don’t think he stays anywhere much after half past ten.’
‘Is he likely to have gone out very early?’
‘I shouldn’t think so. He’s hardly the early-morning jogging type.’
‘What about friends? Do you know the names of any of them?’
‘I don’t think he’s got any – not close ones,’ said Lucy. ‘Just acquaintances and business associates.’
‘No ladies in his life?’
‘No.’ But this was all sounding so sad for Edmund that Lucy tried to qualify it by saying that Edmund was a bit of a loner.
‘We do want to find him fairly quickly,’ said Fletcher. ‘Just to check Mr Sallis’s story, you understand. I daresay it’ll turn out to be a misunderstanding.’
It would be a misunderstanding, of course. This was Edmund they were discussing, and it was simply not possible to think of Edmund skulking into a darkened house with the aim of killing another human being, or to imagine him on the run from the police. Lucy found this such a disturbing image that she said, ‘Inspector – would it be all right if I drove up there?’
‘D’you mean right away?’
‘Yes. I can set off more or less at once – I’ll tell Quondam there’s a family crisis and that I won’t be in for a couple of days. I’ve got some holiday leave owing, and I’ve just finished putting together a project so it won’t be a problem. I can get there in a couple of hours if there aren’t any snarl-ups – it’s practically motorway all the way and I know the roads.’ She hesitated, and then said, ‘I wouldn’t get in the way or anything, but he’s my cousin and we more or less grew up together. If he’s in trouble, I think I ought to be there. I don’t think he should be on his own.’
And there isn’t anyone else, said her mind. Edmund really hasn’t got anyone else. Was that why he had made that odd approach that night? ‘You’re footloose and fancy-free, Lucy,’ he had said. ‘It seemed an alluring idea.’ And his hand had curled around hers…And his body pressing against her…
>
‘All right,’ said the inspector, having apparently considered the idea. ‘You’d better come straight to the White Hart; I expect you know it, do you? Good. Mr Sallis is still there, and the manager’s let us have a little coffee-room as a base to work from. We haven’t divulged anything to the staff, of course: we’ve just said we’re involved in an investigation.’
‘Edmund will appreciate that when all this is cleared up,’ said Lucy, hoping that it would all be cleared up.
‘I hope he’ll also appreciate what a good cousin he has,’ said Jennie Fletcher rather dryly.
‘He won’t,’ said Lucy. ‘He never appreciates anyone. But I can’t help that.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
At eight thirty the traffic was pouring into London. Lucy battled doggedly through it, and finally got clear of the M25 and on to the northbound M1. At least this was a familiar journey; there was something reassuring about familiar things when your mind was in turmoil. An hour and a half of motorway, a brief stop at the usual Little Chef just before Nottingham for a break and a cup of coffee and to top up with petrol, then on again.
As she drove, she tried to think what she would say to Edmund – always assuming he turned up – and wondered if he would be grateful to her for coming. If he was his more sneering self she would leave him to stew and drive straight home. No, she would not, of course. Concentrate on the journey, Lucy. There’s the new bypass that Aunt Deborah hated because it had churned up so much pastureland, although now it was finished it took miles off the last stretch.
When she reached the White Hart she asked for either Mr Sallis or Inspector Fletcher, and was directed to a small coffee-room.
‘Hello, Lucy,’ said Michael Sallis. He looked pale and there were shadows around his eyes as if he might not have slept much; one of his hands bore a professional-looking bandage, but he came towards her, holding out his other hand. Lucy took it, relieved to find that there was no awkwardness between them. She had not wanted to discover that she hated Michael for making this accusation and she had not wanted any embarrassment between them. But it was all right.
