by Sarah Rayne
‘If you read any of the newspaper articles, they seem to assume Alraune was a girl,’ said Michael. ‘He was born inside Auschwitz.’
‘How dreadful.’ Lucy hesitated, and then said, ‘And he really is Lucretia’s son?’
‘Yes.’ He smiled at her. ‘We’re cousins,’ he said. ‘Half cousins.’
‘I rather like that thought.’
‘So do I.’
Lucy looked back at the bed. ‘Michael, I’m so sorry about all of this.’
‘I know quite a lot of his history,’ said Michael. ‘And what I do know is a very bad history indeed. I suspect that Edmund Fane knows some of it as well. I think he found out that I was Alraune’s son, and he was afraid I had some kind of knowledge – something that Alraune had told me or passed on to me – about Ashwood and Crispin. That’s why he tried to kill me.’
‘Edmund thought you’d know Crispin killed Conrad Kline?’
‘Yes. In fact Alraune never told me anything, and I ran away from home when I was eight.’ There was a sudden note of reserve.
Lucy looked back at the figure in the bed. ‘Is he – dying?’
‘Yes,’ said Michael. ‘He’s in the last stages of cancer. He was gaoled for killing my mother all those years ago, but they released him last year on what they called compassionate grounds. So it was arranged that he came here for the final months of his life. Elsa is marvellous, and there’s a local doctor who comes.’
‘Do they know who he is?’
‘Elsa knows, of course. But local people don’t. He’s known as Alan Salisbury.’ He hesitated, and then said, ‘Since we’re cousins, Lucy, and since there’s already been far too much mystery about all this, in the privacy of this room, I’ll tell you that Alraune von Wolff was a violent man and he had been a vicious child.’
‘You said he killed your mother?’
‘Yes. My mother,’ said Michael, ‘is one of the good memories I have of my early childhood, though.’ He glanced back at the figure in the bed. ‘But my grandmother – your grandmother – once told me that I should try to forgive Alraune, because he was not entirely to blame for what he had done.’
Lucy turned to look at him. ‘You knew my grandmother?’ she said in disbelief, and saw a very sweet smile widen his face.
‘Oh yes,’ said Michael softly.
Edmund was quite happy to go along with the two men who had turned up at the house, and who seemed so interested in Crispin.
He did not in the least mind talking about Crispin. He was unusually tired after the tension of the day and the long drive, and because of that his mind did not feel as sharp as usual, but it sounded as if there was some research being done into the particular form of melancholia that had afflicted Crispin, and so it would be as well to appear co-operative. Edmund knew a moment’s apprehension in case this was a ploy to get at the truth about Crispin – you had to be so watchful for that kind of thing, you could not relax your guard for even a moment. But he had not spent the last twenty-odd years keeping Crispin’s secret to fall into a trap now. If they thought they were going to catch him out, if they were planning on sneaking under his defences, they would soon find out they were wrong. Edmund was a foe worthy of any man’s steel.
All he needed to do was to get Crispin back in place, and regain control. If he could just do that, everything would be all right and he could handle the situation with his customary efficiency and courtesy.
But Crispin would not go back to his place. Every few minutes, Crispin’s words kept bubbling and dribbling out of Edmund’s mouth, and Edmund could hear with horror that Crispin was telling these men everything, everything…Lucretia and the shameful untidy affair – the satin sofa in the dressing-room that had been stained because Crispin had not been able to contain himself that first time—The amused tolerance of Conrad Kline. He laughed at me, cried Crispin to the listening men. I couldn’t bear to see him laughing at me.
And then the knife – lying there, ready to hand, part of the film set, sharper than anyone had realized. And Crispin’s sudden realization that this was the only way to silence Conrad, the only way to stop him laughing. And it had stopped him. The blood had spurted out and Conrad had fallen back, a look of surprise in his eyes, clawing at the air, emitting dreadful wet cries through the blood that was filling up his mouth…
Dreadful admissions, all of them. Shameful and embarrassing, and Edmund could not bear hearing any of them. He could not bear to think of how Crispin had run in fear and panic from the studios, leaving Conrad dying there on the floor.
He began to tell Crispin to keep quiet. Because after all the years of silence, after all the risks and the planning, to hear it all come spilling out like this…His voice came out louder than he had intended, but that was all right, because it would drown Crispin’s voice. After all I did for you, screamed Edmund at Crispin. All those deaths…Trixie Smith, stabbed in Ashwood Studios. Mariana and Bruce Trent, died in that fire that had only been meant to punish…And Aunt Deborah…The sheer unfairness rose up like bile in his throat, choking him. You shouldn’t have made me kill Aunt Deborah, cried Edmund, and to his complete astonishment, he began to sob.
There was the faint whiff of something antiseptic, and then the hurting jab of a needle in his arm, and then of someone counting, and saying, ‘He’s going.’
And then the counting faded away and Edmund sank thankfully into a deep, soft darkness where he could no longer hear Crispin’s voice.
The sun was starting to set in huge swathes of colour as Francesca drove away from the house, with Michael in the passenger seat, and Lucy in the back.
‘It’s not far,’ said Michael, and Lucy heard that his voice held the deep contentment of someone turning homewards after a deeply disturbing journey.
They went past the road signs that many years ago a fearful eight-year-old boy had believed to have been placed by friendly will o’ the wisps and darting marsh creatures, mischievously beckoning the traveller into a whole new world.
‘Mowbray Fen,’ said Fran, picking out a sign.
‘Yes. We’re almost there.’
A village street, with the glow of the setting sun lighting up the trees and bathing an old grey stone church in fiery radiance. The houses and the shops looked as if they had not altered much in the last fifty years.
Lucy’s mind was still in tumult from what had happened in the last twenty-four hours, but as they drove along she was aware of a feeling of immense peace and acceptance. People living out here would have time and inclination to pause and talk to you. When Francesca said, softly, ‘It feels as if time stopped here and never got wound up again,’ Lucy at once said, ‘I was just thinking that.’
The house stood at the end of a little lane, just outside the main village. It was built of grey stone, and there was a white gate. There was a sign on the gate that said, ‘The Priest’s House’.
As Fran stopped the car, Michael said, ‘The house is much older than it looks. It was built in the days when there was a lot of religious persecution, and it’s supposed to have been a hiding-place for Catholic priests waiting to be smuggled across to Holland.’
Fran switched off the engine, and looked at Michael for guidance as to what happened next.
‘Lucy, would you go ahead of us?’ said Michael. ‘Francesca and I will wait here.’ And, as Lucy looked at him questioningly, he said, ‘It’s all right. I promise.’
Walking down the path, Lucy once again had the sensation of falling deeper into the past. Or was it Looking Glass Land again? Here was the door, with a nice polished brass knocker. But before she could reach up to it, the door opened, as if whoever lived here had been looking out of a window, or perhaps had been waiting and listening for the car. Lucy’s heart began to beat very fast, because of all the things in the world, this could not be possible, it simply could not—
Framed in the doorway was a thin but very upright old lady, with the translucent pallor of extreme age but with smouldering dark eyes and long sensitive
hands and the most beautiful smile Lucy had ever seen.
‘Hello, my dear,’ said this figure, putting out both hands in welcome. ‘We’ve never met, and please don’t let’s have any vulgar displays of emotion. But I think you must be my granddaughter, Lucy, and I’m very glad indeed to meet you.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
After what seemed to be a very long time Lucy said, ‘This isn’t really happening, is it? This is a dream, and you aren’t actually real.’
‘Certainly I’m real,’ said the lady with the dark eyes, sounding amused. ‘I always have been real, Lucy. And since Michael’s phone call half an hour ago, I have been watching for you. But I think we should talk about all this in civilized comfort. Come inside, and tell Michael to bring your friend in as well.’
The inside of the house had the same tranquil feeling as the village, and the lady whom Lucy could not quite think of as her grandmother, but whom she could not quite think of as Lucretia von Wolff either, led the way into a room at the back of the house. There was a low ceiling and an old brick fireplace with pleasantly scented logs burning in the hearth, and there were deep comfortable armchairs. The curtains were partly drawn against the encroaching darkness, but it was possible to see a large garden with lawns and old-fashioned flowers, and chairs where you could sit on summer afternoons. Exactly the kind of house and garden a very old lady might be expected to have. Totally conventional and predictable. But if this really was Lucretia von Wolff, she had never been either conventional or predictable.
Lucretia von Wolff. Lucy could not stop looking at her. Michael and Francesca were in the room as well, but Lucy could not think about anyone except the slender figure in the chair by the hearth. She said, ‘I don’t understand this. You – you’re dead.’ And then at once, ‘I’m sorry, that was an outstandingly stupid thing to say, never mind sounding rude. It’s just that – you’re supposed to have been dead for over fifty years. All the reports say you died in Ashwood Studios that day—You killed yourself. There were witnesses!’ This came out in a confused blur of annoyance and bewilderment, with, under it all, an unfolding of delighted hope, because this was the real heart of the legend; this was the imperious baroness, the adventuress who had snapped her fingers at Viennese society, and had strewn lovers and scandals half across Europe. I’m going to know her, thought Lucy. After I’ve sorted all this out, I’m going to be able to talk to her. Like touching a fragment of the past. Oh, don’t let this be a dream, please let this be really happening.
‘My dear Lucy,’ said the dark-eyed lady, ‘I spent a large part of my life spinning illusions for people. Do you really think I wasn’t capable of spinning that last illusion at Ashwood Studios that day?’
Michael said, ‘We’ll explain everything, Lucy. Alice will tell you it all. She tells a story better than anyone I’ve ever known. And she still loves an audience, even after all these years.’
They smiled at one another, and Lucy felt a sharp and rather shameful stab of jealousy. But then one of the ring-clad hands came out to her. ‘I hope, Lucy, that you’ll call me Alice, as Michael does,’ said the lady who loved an audience. ‘I really cannot support the title of grandmother, you know.’ For the first time Lucy heard very clearly the baroness’s voice. Half imperious, half mischievous. Underneath it all hugely enjoying being an enfant terrible. And she’s drawing me into that charm and that warmth she shares with Michael, thought Lucy. I think she might deliberately be weaving a spell, but I think it’s probably a good spell, and I don’t give a hoot anyway. Alice, that’s what she wants me to call her. It’s rather nice. Tennyson and Looking Glasses – I knew this was Lewis Carroll territory!
‘And we’ll have something to drink, in fact I think we should have champagne,’ said Alice briskly. ‘And if you can stay on for supper, that would be best of all. You might not want to do that, but I hope you will. All of you, I mean.’ She turned her attention to Francesca. ‘Do stay, Francesca. I’d like it if you would.’
‘Well, actually,’ said Francesca rather diffidently, ‘I was thinking I’d leave you to it for a couple of hours. There might be all kinds of family things – private things for you to talk about. And I truly wouldn’t mind walking down to the village. It looked so nice when we drove through. I could have something to eat in the pub and come back later.’
‘There’s no need whatsoever for you to leave,’ said Alice firmly. ‘And I hope you won’t think of doing so. In any case, from what I understand you’ve been as much involved in this as anyone, so you deserve to hear the explanations and the truth.’ She studied Francesca for a moment, and then nodded slightly as if pleased with what she was seeing. ‘Most families are usually better for a little leaven, and I think you’d be a very nice leaven in this family tonight, my dear. In fact you’d be—’
She broke off, and turned her head, and Lucy caught the sound of a car drawing up. Was this something else about Edmund? A jab of panic spiked into her. But Alice was saying with perfect equanimity that it would be her other guest arriving. ‘Michael, be a dear and let him in.’
‘Other guest?’ said Lucy as Michael went out.
‘Yes. After Michael telephoned me this morning – he was in a shocking panic, the dear boy, in case Edmund Fane came out here. As if,’ said Lucretia von Wolff in parenthesis, ‘I couldn’t deal with Crispin Fane’s son. Well, anyway I came to a decision about something, and so I telephoned—’
‘She telephoned me,’ said a voice, and Lucy turned sharply to see Liam Devlin standing in the doorway, looking as dishevelled as if he, and not Michael, had been the subject of yesterday’s murderous attack.
The ridiculous thing was that for several minutes Lucy was so extremely pleased to see Liam that she very nearly forgot everything else.
He appeared totally unruffled at finding himself confronted with a roomful of people, and he merely looked round like a cat surveying a new territory. But when his eyes lit on Alice he smiled at her. ‘Baroness,’ he said softly, and crossed the room to take her hand.
Alice regarded him approvingly, but said, ‘So you’ve realized who I am at last, have you?’
‘I have. But it wasn’t until I saw the film of Alraune that I did realize it,’ said Liam. ‘It’s a very remarkable film, of course, and Lucretia von Wolff was a very remarkable lady. But once I had seen her, I couldn’t mistake the resemblance. It’s the eyes and the bones of the face.’
‘The silver tongue of the Irish,’ said Alice, but Lucy thought she was secretly pleased. ‘And you’re here in time for supper, I’m so pleased about that. Come along into the dining-room as soon as you’re all ready. Some of the story I’ll have to tell you is tragic, and some of it is scandalous,’ she said. ‘And I think most of it had better be forgotten after today. But scandal always seems gentler when there’s food to flavour it, and tragedy’s easier to take with wine to smooth the rough edges.’ She considered this, and then added, ‘Someone once said that to me, but I forget precisely who he was. It’s so infuriating to forget things – I know we all have to get old, but you’d think that by now evolution could have worked out a way for us to keep our memories intact—’
‘There’s nothing wrong with your memory, Alice,’ said Michael.
‘I know there isn’t.’
Supper was an easy, uncluttered affair of salad, thin slices of smoked salmon with lemon wedges, a platter of cheeses, and crusty bread, warm from the oven.
‘It’s quite a plain meal,’ said Alice, surveying the table. ‘Because there wasn’t much time. But perfectly substantial, I hope.’
The food, in fact, was very substantial indeed, and Lucy realized with surprise that she was ravenously hungry. She was just wondering who had prepared everything, when Alice said, ‘I’m no longer as domestic as I used to be, Lucy, but fortunately there are two very nice girls in the village who come in a couple of times a week to deal with cleaning and cooking. So after Michael made his second phone call to say he was bringing you and Francesca here, I rang one o
f them. Do all help yourselves to whatever you want, won’t you. Don’t wait to be offered anything, it’s so stultifying to have to wait to be offered things.’
Lucy thought: she has dined with crowned heads and exiled royalty and she has entertained the rich and the famous and the fabulous. And she probably half starved inside Auschwitz along with goodness knows how many other poor wretches. But now she’s presiding over this quite ordinary table with us. And then she looked at Alice again, and knew nothing she did would ever be entirely ordinary.
‘Michael, I don’t suppose your injured hand will allow you to brandish a corkscrew or deal with a champagne cork, will it? No, I thought not. Then, Mr Devlin, could I impose on you for that small service, please.’
‘Baroness, if you are serving us Clicquot, I will open an entire cellarful of bottles for you,’ said Liam, and Lucy saw that three bottles of an honourable champagne were standing in a silver cooler but that there was mineral water and fruit juice as well. Style, she thought. That’s what she’s got, and that’s what she’s always had. She’s over ninety years old, but she’ll have style until she dies. If this really is a dream I don’t want ever to wake up.
Liam dealt with the champagne competently and filled the glasses, somehow ending up in a seat next to Lucy. ‘Are you thinking this is pure gothic?’ he said. ‘Unknown cousins, and wicked family solicitors turning up?’
‘I was thinking it’s like something from The Prisoner of Zenda or Rudolph of Rassendyll,’ rejoined Lucy. ‘I wasn’t expecting the wicked solicitor as well.’
‘When this particular client calls, I ditch everything else to obey,’ said Liam, and smiled across the table at Alice. ‘She never pays my bills, although that might be because I usually forget to send her any. But she’s my favourite client.’
‘Mr Devlin’s been my agent at Ashwood for several years,’ said Alice. ‘It’s a good relationship. He’s a very good lawyer.’
