Roots of Evil(122)

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…?