Roots of Evil(148)

He was not absolutely clear about that journey: he hoped he had not fallen asleep during it, because he had always thought it the height of discourtesy to fall asleep in a car. Nor was he entirely clear who the men were, because he was so extremely tired. An odd kind of tiredness it was as well: almost as if he was enclosed behind a glass panel, and as if he was hearing and seeing everything from a distance. Occasionally he had to give his attention to Crispin, who kept forcing his way to the surface and trying to speak through Edmund. It was very tiring to have to keep forcing Crispin down, and it was also rather sad; once upon a time Edmund would have been very glad to let Crispin take over – to sit back and smile to see Crispin handle these men with his customary panache and charm. But in view of what had happened earlier on, it was clear that Crispin could no longer be trusted. Edmund was afraid that Crispin might start to shout those shameful embarrassing details again – how he had made love to that bitch, Lucretia von Wolff, how he had killed Conrad Kline, butchering him like some maniac.

Still, he would try to find out where he was, and just who these two men were who were sitting with him so pleasantly. He realized that he did not even know their names. Had they told him who they were, and had he been too taken up with Crispin to hear? If so, he would have to find out their names in a roundabout way. The trouble was that every time he started to frame a suitably polite question, they seemed to jump in with a question of their own. Not pushy, not discourteous, just interested in Edmund and in Crispin.

Having listened to them for a while, Edmund had discarded his first idea that they were researching into melancholia and began to think they might be planning to write a book. There was no denying that the years of Crispin’s youth would make a very good story; Edmund had sometimes thought of writing it all down himself.

He said so to the man who seemed more senior, and the man was at once interested. An extremely good idea, he said. They would very much like to read that. Would Edmund really undertake it? It might be quite a long project, but they could probably fund it – perhaps set him up with a laptop and some research facilities. He might as well stay here to write it, as well – that would not be a problem, would it?

Edmund saw at once that this was one of their sly tricks. They thought they were going to find out about Crispin – about the real Crispin – from him. But he knew a trick worth two of that! He would agree to write the story though – he had always thought he had a book in him. Not one of your bonk-busters, not what they called a sex-and-shopping story – just a plain straightforward tale of a young man who had loved a black-haired seductive adventuress, and who had been deceived by her. Crispin’s life story. The more he thought about it, the more he thought it would be the best service he could render Crispin. The story as it ought to have been. Crispin’s life story as it would have been if that bitch had not lured him into her bed.

He said, in a rather disinterested voice, that he supposed he could take a swing at the thing. He might be able to leave the office in the hands of his staff for a week or two – although he would have to be in constant touch with them by phone, that would have to be understood at the outset. Legal practices were not things you picked up and put down as the mood took you. There were responsibilities – clients who relied on Edmund.

This foxed them for a moment – aha, they were seeing he was not so easily fooled! – but then they said, how would it be if they found another solicitor to caretake the office until Edmund went back. They could arrange for notes to be made and files to be handed over. Because they were really extremely keen for him to write Crispin’s story for them, they said. Could something not be arranged?

Edmund pretended to think for a moment, and then said he did not see why not. He could give notes on all the current cases – some conveyancing work, and some land acquisitions and rights-of-way. He added grudgingly that he supposed his secretary might come in useful; she knew what was going on, and she knew most of the clients. Very well, since they were so insistent, he would do it. But – mark you – he would expect to be given proper facilities. He supposed this room might do; it was fairly comfortable, and they could presumably put a desk beneath that window for him, could they? Oh, and he was used to good meals, served punctually, he said firmly, because he was not going to be fobbed off with cheap, pre-packaged, pre-cooked rubbish.

‘I’m sure we can work out something that you’ll find agreeable,’ they said.



‘He’ll never be pronounced fit to stand trial,’ said the man whom Edmund had identified as the senior of the two. He regarded DI Jennie Fletcher with his head on one side, as if saying, Well? What do the police think about that?

‘There was always a whiff of real madness about Trixie Smith’s murder,’ said Jennie. ‘What would your initial assessment of Fane’s condition be?’

‘It’s a bit early to start plastering the poor man with labels, but there’s a strong indication of schizophrenia. It was very noticeable that while we talked to him, he kept having to break off the conversation.’

‘To fight with the other persona?’

‘Yes, almost certainly that. He was struggling to keep “Crispin” down. We’re getting him on to writing some of it out – he was keen on that idea, and it’ll help him. It’ll help us to understand him, as well. He’s certainly been through various kinds of hell on his own account.’