Roots of Evil(129)

‘We need to go straight across the next traffic island, and then turn sharp right after about two miles.’

‘It’s quite well signposted,’ said Fran, negotiating the traffic island. ‘But I’m glad Michael wrote down that list of villages, or we’d have been hopelessly lost.’

The names on the signposts were like something out of an old-fashioned children’s fairy-story. Grimoldby and Ludford Parva and Osgodby. A fat little country bus jogged along behind them for a few miles, and then turned off down a lane marked Scamblesby.

‘You don’t suppose we’ve fallen into Beatrix Potter territory and not noticed it?’ said Francesca.

‘It feels like that, doesn’t it? Or is it nearer to Lewis Carroll?’

‘Straight down the rabbit-hole and through the looking-glass,’ agreed Fran.

They were passing through stretches of flat, reed-fringed marshlands now, and once or twice there was a feeling that the skies might be moving downwards, blurring with the land. Lucy thought the winter days would be very short here but memories would be long. All kinds of forgotten secrets might live out here for a very long time.

She had thought they would need to ask for directions, but in the event it was easy enough to follow Michael’s hastily-scrawled notes.

‘The house must be along there,’ said Fran.

‘Yes. It isn’t quite what I was expecting though,’ said Lucy, and as Fran turned the car into the narrow lane she thought: we’re going back into the past, I can feel that we are.

But I don’t know whose past it is.



Crispin had been furious when the woman attendant came back into the bedroom, just as he was reaching for the syringe. He had whipped round and called her an ugly name – almost spitting it out at her – and Edmund had been horrified. He had wanted to apologize to the woman; to explain that Crispin had been startled, but he found it difficult to make himself heard because Crispin was smothering him. Keep your stupid mouth shut, Edmund – that was what Crispin had said. Keep quiet and let me deal with this bitch. It was worrying to find Crispin so strongly in control and it was also a bit frightening.

But the woman seemed not to have heard the epithet and she seemed not to have noticed that Crispin was glaring at her with his hands curling into claws. She smiled and said the coffee was ready, and perhaps he would like to come into the dining-room to drink it. As she led the way out of the big bedroom, she talked in an ordinary voice, asking about his journey here: had the roads been crowded? It was a nightmare to drive anywhere these days, wasn’t it?

After that swift eruption of rage died down Crispin became his normal courteous self once again. He knew how to handle women, and he knew how to charm and flatter – Edmund had always admired that in Crispin. He sipped the coffee which was strong and sharp, and listened to Crispin setting himself out to charm this woman. It was only as the coffee was finished and the cup set down that a faint concern crept in. Was Crispin talking a little too much? There was a slight blurriness to his voice, but every so often a sneering arrogant note came to the fore, which Edmund disliked. Crispin had every right to be arrogant – he was the golden charming young man of Edmund’s childhood and everyone had loved him – but it did not do to let that arrogance come to the surface. It was always better to present a deferential fa?ade; to fool people into thinking you were quiet and modest and entirely trustworthy. You needed to be diffident, that was the word.

Edmund tried to remind Crispin to be diffident and modest, but Crispin’s voice became louder and louder. It went on and on – like a fly buzzing against a window-pane. Irritating. Edmund had never before found Crispin irritating, but this torrent of words was starting to be very annoying indeed.

He was thankful when the sound of a phone ringing somewhere in the house reached him, and the woman had to go out to answer it, leaving Edmund on his own with Crispin.



Lucy tried to concentrate on what Inspector Fletcher was saying. They were in a small and rather cosy room in the quiet house; Michael was in a deep armchair and Inspector Fletcher had taken a high-backed chair by the window. Fran had curled up on the window-seat, as if she was trying to give Lucy some privacy but was trying not to be obvious about it. An unknown woman with an efficient manner but kind eyes had let them in, and at a signal from Michael had taken a chair near to the fireplace.

Lucy had asked if Edmund was here, and Inspector Fletcher and Michael had exchanged quick glances. Then the inspector said, carefully, ‘Edmund got here well ahead of us, as we thought he would. But I’m afraid that he is – very disturbed indeed. I’m so sorry about it, Miss Trent.’

‘Disturbed?’ said Lucy blankly, and Fletcher looked at Michael, as if she might be thinking this would come better from him.

With the air of a man taking a run at a high fence, Michael said, ‘I don’t know how to explain without it sounding utterly bizarre, Lucy. But I’ve talked to Elsa – I did introduce Elsa, didn’t I—?’

‘You did,’ said the woman with high cheekbones, who was studying Lucy with interest.

‘And as far as we can all make out, Edmund believes himself to be Crispin. Or to be under Crispin’s influence,’ said Michael.

‘Crispin? You mean Edmund’s father?’ said Lucy, not questioning yet how Michael knew about Crispin. ‘You do mean that?’ She looked at the woman called Elsa.