Roots of Evil(114)

How much had Alraune seen and understood that day at Ashwood? Enough to pass it on to Michael, years afterwards? ‘Once upon a time, Michael, there was a place called Ashwood where a murder happened, and there was a man called Crispin Fane who committed that murder and no one ever knew…But I knew, Michael, I knew because I saw it all…’

There was no way of knowing how much Sallis had been told, but Edmund was not going to take any chances. There was also no way of knowing if Sallis, or indeed Alraune, might have talked to anyone about the Ashwood murders, although on balance Edmund was inclined to think not. The police did not seem to know much about Alraune, and Sallis did not seem to have told them anything. And although Alraune’s birth certificate had been in Deborah’s house, if she had known of Michael’s existence she had never talked about it, just as she had never talked about Alraune.

Edmund was not, of course, some vulgar, out-of-control serial murderer who killed for the sake of it, and who was destined for the flashier pages of the tabloids followed by a life sentence inside some grim institution. But the jealous hatred of Michael Sallis was seeping into every corner of his mind, and he could not bear to think of Alraune as other than his own – helping him, encouraging him. ‘Go on, Edmund, go on…’ Alraune had said that day in Studio Twelve.

And if Michael had grown up with Alraune, as presumably he must have done, even if he had broadcast his parentage to the entire western world, he was still far too much of a threat to be allowed to live.

Edmund remembered that he had never liked the man since the day he came to Deborah Fane’s funeral, and it was at this point that he knew he was going to enjoy killing Michael Sallis.



The first step had been to get Sallis somewhere on his own, which Edmund thought he had already achieved rather neatly. Once he might have considered Ashwood for the setting, believing Alraune to be there and trusting to Alraune to help him. But Alraune could no longer be permitted into Edmund’s thoughts, and in any case, Ashwood was still the scene of DI Fletcher’s murder investigation. Also, Sallis would never go there without a lot of questions.

But accidents could happen in old houses, especially rather remote old houses that had been lived in by an elderly lady who might not have been as assiduous in having things like electrical wiring or gas pipes checked…



It took longer than might have been expected to go through the house, and decide which pieces of furniture would be most useful to the house’s new incarnation, but Edmund was meticulous about considering every item.

‘We’ve definitely decided to use the place as a halfway house,’ Michael said, as Edmund made diligent notes about wardrobes and tallboys and library shelves, and stuck gummed labels on to each item so that the removal men would not cart them off to the sale rooms by mistake. ‘We’ll probably put another little bathroom in if the funds stretch to it – that little boxroom on the half-landing might do for that – but other than that we’ll just give everywhere a lick of paint…oh, and mend some of the tiles on the roof where they’ve become unseated.’ He stood in the hall, looking about him. ‘In a way it’s rather a shame that it won’t be a family house any longer,’ he said. ‘It’s a lovely old place. You and your cousin must have had some good times here.’

‘Yes, we did.’ You’re looking in from the outside, thought Edmund. You’d have liked to share in all that, wouldn’t you? You’re thinking you had as much right to this place as I did, and you’re resenting it like fury. It rather pleased him to identify these fragments of emotion from Sallis, and with the idea of administering a further jab, he said, ‘My aunt loved us to stay with her in the long summer holidays. We used to have picnics by the river, and cycle rides through the lanes. And huge Christmas parties – all very traditional. Roaring log fires and spiced punch and presents under the tree.’

‘Wonderful for you to be able to look back on those years,’ said Alraune’s son politely, and Edmund smiled. Last night he had thought that he would know when the moment to set the plan in motion arrived, and he knew that the moment was now. A little hammer-pulse of excitement began to beat in his mind.

Sallis was looking at his watch, and saying something about it being well after one o’clock. ‘Before I set off for home I think I’ll have something to eat in the village, though. The White Hart does food, doesn’t it?’

‘Only bar meals at this time of day,’ said Edmund. ‘But they’re quite good.’

‘Do you have to be back at your office, or could you have some lunch with me?’

Edmund had not expected this but he took it in his stride. ‘I don’t see why not. Yes, thank you.’ Now, said his mind, and at once the little hammer-pulse quickened. As they went out to the hall, as if it had just occurred to him, he said, ‘Before we go, would you mind giving me a hand with that box of books in the corner? It’s not very heavy – not hernia weight or anything like that – but it’s a bit awkward. It’s only got to go as far as the boot of my car…’

Sallis was entirely unsuspicious. He said, ‘Yes, of course. Hold on, I’ll prop the door open, and we’ll carry it out between us.’

And of course, gentle impractical Mr Fane was not accustomed to humping packing cases around. He was more used to sitting behind a desk, and when he needed something moving or mending or adjusting, he rang a suitable workman. A bit of a wimp, really; hopeless when it came to understanding how you walked backwards when carrying something, or how you manoevred around an awkward corner. It was inevitable that he should dither a bit, and that the dithering should result in him fumbling his hold of the heavy case.