Roots of Evil(132)

‘Edmund thought you’d know Crispin killed Conrad Kline?’

‘Yes. In fact Alraune never told me anything, and I ran away from home when I was eight.’ There was a sudden note of reserve.

Lucy looked back at the figure in the bed. ‘Is he – dying?’

‘Yes,’ said Michael. ‘He’s in the last stages of cancer. He was gaoled for killing my mother all those years ago, but they released him last year on what they called compassionate grounds. So it was arranged that he came here for the final months of his life. Elsa is marvellous, and there’s a local doctor who comes.’

‘Do they know who he is?’

‘Elsa knows, of course. But local people don’t. He’s known as Alan Salisbury.’ He hesitated, and then said, ‘Since we’re cousins, Lucy, and since there’s already been far too much mystery about all this, in the privacy of this room, I’ll tell you that Alraune von Wolff was a violent man and he had been a vicious child.’

‘You said he killed your mother?’

‘Yes. My mother,’ said Michael, ‘is one of the good memories I have of my early childhood, though.’ He glanced back at the figure in the bed. ‘But my grandmother – your grandmother – once told me that I should try to forgive Alraune, because he was not entirely to blame for what he had done.’

Lucy turned to look at him. ‘You knew my grandmother?’ she said in disbelief, and saw a very sweet smile widen his face.

‘Oh yes,’ said Michael softly.



Edmund was quite happy to go along with the two men who had turned up at the house, and who seemed so interested in Crispin.

He did not in the least mind talking about Crispin. He was unusually tired after the tension of the day and the long drive, and because of that his mind did not feel as sharp as usual, but it sounded as if there was some research being done into the particular form of melancholia that had afflicted Crispin, and so it would be as well to appear co-operative. Edmund knew a moment’s apprehension in case this was a ploy to get at the truth about Crispin – you had to be so watchful for that kind of thing, you could not relax your guard for even a moment. But he had not spent the last twenty-odd years keeping Crispin’s secret to fall into a trap now. If they thought they were going to catch him out, if they were planning on sneaking under his defences, they would soon find out they were wrong. Edmund was a foe worthy of any man’s steel.

All he needed to do was to get Crispin back in place, and regain control. If he could just do that, everything would be all right and he could handle the situation with his customary efficiency and courtesy.

But Crispin would not go back to his place. Every few minutes, Crispin’s words kept bubbling and dribbling out of Edmund’s mouth, and Edmund could hear with horror that Crispin was telling these men everything, everything…Lucretia and the shameful untidy affair – the satin sofa in the dressing-room that had been stained because Crispin had not been able to contain himself that first time—The amused tolerance of Conrad Kline. He laughed at me, cried Crispin to the listening men. I couldn’t bear to see him laughing at me.

And then the knife – lying there, ready to hand, part of the film set, sharper than anyone had realized. And Crispin’s sudden realization that this was the only way to silence Conrad, the only way to stop him laughing. And it had stopped him. The blood had spurted out and Conrad had fallen back, a look of surprise in his eyes, clawing at the air, emitting dreadful wet cries through the blood that was filling up his mouth…

Dreadful admissions, all of them. Shameful and embarrassing, and Edmund could not bear hearing any of them. He could not bear to think of how Crispin had run in fear and panic from the studios, leaving Conrad dying there on the floor.

He began to tell Crispin to keep quiet. Because after all the years of silence, after all the risks and the planning, to hear it all come spilling out like this…His voice came out louder than he had intended, but that was all right, because it would drown Crispin’s voice. After all I did for you, screamed Edmund at Crispin. All those deaths…Trixie Smith, stabbed in Ashwood Studios. Mariana and Bruce Trent, died in that fire that had only been meant to punish…And Aunt Deborah…The sheer unfairness rose up like bile in his throat, choking him. You shouldn’t have made me kill Aunt Deborah, cried Edmund, and to his complete astonishment, he began to sob.

There was the faint whiff of something antiseptic, and then the hurting jab of a needle in his arm, and then of someone counting, and saying, ‘He’s going.’

And then the counting faded away and Edmund sank thankfully into a deep, soft darkness where he could no longer hear Crispin’s voice.



The sun was starting to set in huge swathes of colour as Francesca drove away from the house, with Michael in the passenger seat, and Lucy in the back.

‘It’s not far,’ said Michael, and Lucy heard that his voice held the deep contentment of someone turning homewards after a deeply disturbing journey.

They went past the road signs that many years ago a fearful eight-year-old boy had believed to have been placed by friendly will o’ the wisps and darting marsh creatures, mischievously beckoning the traveller into a whole new world.

‘Mowbray Fen,’ said Fran, picking out a sign.

‘Yes. We’re almost there.’