Roots of Evil(18)

‘I don’t know if this will be of any help,’ said Edmund on the phone. ‘But I rather think I’ve got permission for you to actually go inside Ashwood Studios.’

Trixie Smith sounded as brisk and down-to-earth on the phone as she had face to face. ‘Very good of you,’ she said. ‘Lot of trouble for you as well, especially after your aunt’s death. Always a lot to do after a death, I know that. How did you manage it? I was going to see if I could trace the owners, but I didn’t know how to go about it.’

‘I haven’t actually traced the owners, but I have contacted a solicitor who holds the keys,’ said Edmund who had, in fact, done this by the simple process of consulting an Ordnance Survey map and then ringing Ashwood’s appropriate local council. ‘He acts as a kind of agent for the site, and he’s just phoned me to say you can have access to the place for a couple of hours.’

‘When?’

‘Well, that’s the thing,’ said Edmund slowly. ‘The solicitor wants me to be there with you. As a kind of surety for you, I suppose.’

‘In case I’m a sensation-seeker, likely to hold a seance on a wet afternoon, or a potential arsonist with a grudge against film studios in general?’

‘Your words, not mine, Ms Smith.’ Edmund pretended to consult a diary. ‘I think I might manage Monday afternoon,’ he said, with a take-it-or-leave-it air. ‘I could probably get there around four – it’s a couple of hours’ drive from here, I should think. But nearly all motorway, so it would be straightforward. You said you lived in North London, so you’re fairly near the place anyway. Would Monday suit you?’

Trixie said gruffly that Monday afternoon would suit her very well. ‘Have to admit I hadn’t expected to hear from you, Mr Fane,’ she said. ‘In fact I thought you were giving me the brush-off that day at your aunt’s house.’

‘Surely not,’ said Edmund politely.

‘And I’ll reimburse you for your time, of course. Never be beholden, that’s my maxim.’

‘Oh, that’s all right,’ said Edmund. ‘It’ll be quite interesting to see the place, although I gather it’s been derelict for years, so I don’t know what value it’ll be to you.’

‘Atmosphere,’ said Trixie at once. ‘Background details. And you never know, I might even pick up something the police missed.’

‘After more than fifty years? Oh really—’

‘Why not? History teaches us perspective, Mr Fane, and hindsight gives us twenty-twenty vision. And wouldn’t it be satisfying to discover that the baroness wasn’t a murderess after all?’

‘She wasn’t a baroness. The title was just another of the publicity stunts.’

‘Even so.’

‘Yes,’ said Edmund politely. ‘Yes, it would be marvellous.’



On the following Monday Edmund gave himself a half day’s leave of absence, issued his staff with instructions as to how various clients should be dealt with were they to turn up or phone, and set off. It was barely two o’clock, but it was such a grey rain-sodden afternoon that it was necessary to drive with full headlights on. This meant he almost missed the Ashwood sign, which was obscured by overgrown hedges. But he saw it just in time and turned off on to a badly maintained B-road, so narrow it was very nearly un-navigable. Edmund winced as the car’s suspension protested, and frowned as bushes scratched against the doors and painted sappy green smears on the windscreen.

A couple of miles further on he came to some tall rusting gates, sagging on their hinges but with the legend ‘Ashwood Studios’ still discernible. Edmund, peering through the car’s misted windows, thought he had never seen such a dismal place. Astonishing to think that London was only about twenty minutes’ drive from here.

There was a small security guard’s booth on the right of the gates, and on the other side were what appeared to be a series of neglected airfields strewn with single-storey, corrugated-roofed buildings. Edmund sat for a moment, the car’s engine still ticking over, and stared at the straggling dereliction. So this was Ashwood. This was the place that once upon a time had spun silvered illusions and created celluloid legends.

Trixie Smith was waiting for him, in a weather-beaten estate car. Edmund reached for his umbrella, switched his car’s engine off, and shrugged on a quilted rainproof jacket before getting out to walk across to her. She was wearing a long mackintosh that in the damp atmosphere smelt slightly of dogs.

‘I hadn’t realized it would be quite so tumbledown,’ said Edmund, peering through the grey curtain of rain.

‘It looks to me,’ observed Ms Smith as they plodded across the squelching mud, ‘as if the whole lot’s about to sink into the mud anyway.’

‘It’s a mournful place,’ agreed the person propped against the inside of the security booth, clearly waiting for them. ‘Practically the end of the world, and myself I wouldn’t waste petrol on coming here. Still, that’s your privilege, and I’ve brought the keys to let you in as you wanted.’ He came out of the sketchy shelter of the booth and introduced himself as Liam Devlin. He was dark and careless-looking, and he looked as if he took the world and its woes very lightly indeed. He also looked as if he might be wearing yesterday’s clothes and had not bothered to take them off to go to bed last night.