Roots of Evil(115)

He fumbled it quite badly, in fact. The packing case slithered from his hands just as they were going past the stairs, and Michael Sallis made an instinctive grab to stop it falling against the carved newel post. There was a moment when he took the full weight, and then the heavy corner smashed down with a rather sickening dull crunch. It might have gone on his foot – Edmund had, in fact, been aiming for that, but it went on his left hand as he snatched at the corner. Almost as good. Blood gushed to the surface from a deep gash made by the case’s sharp corner, and a huge blind weal rose across the knuckles.

Edmund was instantly and deeply contrite. He could not think how he had been so clumsy; he had just been negotiating the jutting wall by the little window recess…And oh dear goodness, that looked like a very nasty injury indeed. It might be as well to just run down to the local emergency room to get it looked at.

‘Please don’t bother. It’ll be all right in a minute – I’ll put it under the cold tap,’ said Michael. But his face was white with pain and he swayed for a moment as if the injury had made him dizzy. Edmund waited, trying to decide if it would further his plan if Sallis passed out or not. Probably not. Fortunately Sallis seemed to regain control, and he went a bit unsteadily through to the kitchen, turning on the tap full blast and wincing as he held his hand under the cold water.

‘I am so sorry,’ said Edmund in the tone of a man wringing his own hands with distress. ‘How could I have been such a fool—But just as we turned the stair corner—You know, I do think that ought to be X-rayed. It’s bleeding quite badly as well, it might need stitching. And you could have snapped a small bone or cracked a knuckle or something. You really shouldn’t take any chances with hands.’ He saw Sallis hesitate and he saw that Sallis was in too much pain to think straight. ‘I’ll drive you there at once,’ said Edmund firmly. ‘No, really, I insist. I’d never forgive myself if there was any serious damage and we ignored it. Wait a moment and I’ll see if there’s any ice in the fridge. Oh good, yes. I’ll fold some ice cubes in a towel and we’ll wrap it round your hand—Yes, like that. That might ease it a bit. It doesn’t matter about taking your jacket, does it?’

‘Yes. Mobile phone and wallet,’ said Michael through waves of pain.

‘Oh yes, of course.’

All the way to the hospital Edmund could feel how much Sallis was hating this enforced dependency. Serve you right, he thought viciously. How dare you come out here like this, pretending to be someone you’re not! Did you really think you wouldn’t be recognized? You’re Alraune’s son, for pity’s sake! Did you honestly expect to get away with that?



They had to wait in the Accident & Emergency Department for two hours before they were seen, and then they had to wait a further hour for an X-ray. Not broken, said the harassed doctor at last, but there was a hairline fracture on the metacarpus – the little finger, and a tendon was badly bruised. No treatment was needed, other than to strap it firmly up, which they would do now, and then to keep it immobile for about twenty-four hours. And they would put a couple of stitches in the cut, which was quite nasty, although luckily not sufficiently deep to have damaged any nerves. Michael’s own GP would take them out in three or four days, and would check on the damage to the tendon. And in the meantime, here was a prescription for some strong painkillers which could be got from the hospital pharmacy; they would help Mr Sallis through the next twenty-four hours.

Drive a car? he said, in answer to Michael’s question. Good God, quite out of the question. Apart from anything else, with the tendon injury it would almost certainly be impossible to hold the steering wheel.

‘I’m sure I could manage,’ said Michael a bit desperately.

‘I don’t think you could. Can’t someone drive you home? Oh, London. Oh, I see. But you really mustn’t drive yourself.’

‘I’ll sort something out,’ said Michael.



Since Edmund knew the White Hart’s number, and since dialling a number with one hand in a sling would be awkward, he phoned them on Michael’s behalf to see if there was a room for the night. He accepted the use of Michael’s mobile phone to make the call – he was a bit old-fashioned when it came to mobile phones, he said; he found them intrusive and he had never acquired one. Still, here was an occasion where it was very useful indeed. It took him a moment or two to understand about switching the phone on, and about tapping out the number, and then there seemed to be a problem with getting a signal. Perhaps he should get out of the car to make the call – would that help?

Getting out of the car apparently solved the weak signal problem, but the call itself did not solve the problem of where to spend the night.

‘No rooms at all?’ said Michael, rather dismayed.

‘No. Sorry. It’s a very small place – only three or four rooms.’

‘What about a railway station? If there’s a train to London I could get a taxi at the other end.’

‘Well, the nearest station is twelve miles from here, but I do know the last train to London is mid-afternoon, and that’ll have long since gone. I’m trying to think where else we could ring for you—’

‘Don’t bother,’ said Michael. ‘Why don’t I just doss down in Mrs Fane’s house – you wouldn’t have any objection, would you? I’d be quite all right there.’