Roots of Evil(123)

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 refreshing. 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.’