Roots of Evil(19)

‘I thought,’ said Edmund severely, ‘that your firm acted as site agents.’

‘So we do. But if,’ said Mr Devlin, ‘you can find a reliable contractor who doesn’t mind the ghosts, and who’s prepared to tidy this place up and keep it tidied, you’ll have done more than I ever could.’

‘Ghosts?’ said Edmund sharply.

‘Lucretia von Wolff. Who else did you think I meant?’

‘Oh, I see. You know Ashwood’s history, then?’

‘Everyone in the western world knows Ashwood’s history, Mr Fane. This is the place where the baroness killed two people and then committed suicide.’

‘She wasn’t a baroness,’ said Edmund, who was tired of telling people this.

‘You believe the official version, do you?’ demanded Trixie of Liam Devlin.

‘Isn’t it what most people believe?’

‘I don’t. I’ve been doing some delving,’ said Trixie. ‘And I’m becoming less and less convinced of Lucretia’s guilt.’

‘Is that theory or fantasy, Ms Smith?’ Devlin appeared perfectly happy to enter into a discussion in a field in the middle of a rainstorm.

‘Neither. The facts are there, and the reports about Alraune fall into a coherent chronological pattern. The birth at the beginning of World War II – the disappearance before the war ended. And,’ said Trixie, ‘I’m perfectly used to people scoffing at my theories, Mr Devlin, so you needn’t raise your eyebrows like that. I’m particularly used to men scoffing. And usually,’ added Ms Smith pointedly, ‘they’re men with inadequacies.’

‘Ah. In that case I stand chastened and rebuked.’

‘Well, don’t stand too long, because if we stay out in this rain any longer we’ll all catch pneumonia,’ said Edmund crossly. ‘How far is Studio Twelve from here? That’s the one Ms Smith wants to see.’

Liam glanced at Edmund’s shoes, which were leather, and with what Edmund could only feel was a slightly malicious air, said, ‘Well, now there’s the unfortunate thing. Studio Twelve’s on the very far side from here, wouldn’t you know it would be.’

‘Can’t we drive across to it?’

‘You can try,’ said Liam cordially. ‘But in this quagmire you’ll probably get bogged down within about ten seconds.’ Again there was the faintly mischievous look to where Edmund had parked, as if he found the meticulously polished car rather amusing. ‘Come on through the gates and we’ll view the terrain, though. They’re not locked nowadays, not that there’d be any point because as you can see the hinges have long since rusted away. And they say the gates are always open to those who ask.’ He surveyed the rain, and then turned up his coat collar. ‘Have we enough umbrellas? Good. Do you believe in ghosts by the way, Mr Fane?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Do you?’ demanded Trixie.

‘Not at all,’ said Liam cheerfully.



Studio Twelve was a long low building, exactly like all the others, windowless and weather-beaten, with narrow windows that had probably once had screens or shutters, but that had all been firmly boarded up, giving the place a blank, blind appearance.

Edmund was not in the least surprised when they had trouble getting the door to open; he had never seen such a collection of worm-eaten shanties in his life.

‘It’s only warped by the damp,’ said Liam. ‘It’s a new lock – all the buildings had new locks on after some teenagers got in last year and held a seance on the anniversary of the murder. Wait now, while I try a bit more force—’

This time the door swung protestingly inwards, and old, dank air gusted into their faces. They stepped warily into what appeared to be a dim lobby area with the floor covered in dead leaves and bird droppings, and then through a second door.

‘It’s very dark,’ began Trixie. ‘We shan’t be able to see much.’

‘I don’t suppose there’s any electricity on anyway,’ said Edmund.

But Liam had found a battery of switches just inside the door, and was pressing them all in turn. The first ones brought forth a sputtering crackle from the defunct light bulbs, but one lone bulb near the wall, apparently made of sterner stuff than the others, gave out an uncertain illumination.

‘Good God Almighty,’ said Edmund.

‘Dismal, isn’t it? But this,’ said Liam, ‘is what you wanted to see. This is where a legend died and a fable began. The stuff that good theses are made on, Ms Smith, isn’t that so?’

‘I did say I wanted background atmosphere,’ said Trixie, sounding slightly doubtful. ‘But I’d have to say that after the build-up this is a bit of a disappointment.’

‘Isn’t that always the way with life.’

Studio Twelve appeared to be little more than a massive warehouse-like structure, perhaps seventy or eighty feet in overall length, its walls mottled with damp and grey fingers of cobwebs stirring in the draught from the opened doors. Edmund tutted and brushed the cobwebs aside before advancing deeper in. The floor creaked badly under their footsteps, but it seemed fairly sound which was one mercy. The amount of dust was deplorable though, and it was probably as well not to look too closely into the corners, or into the dark void beyond the roof girders overhead. There were huge shrouded shapes looming out of the dimness as well, and it took a moment to realize that they were only the discarded junk of years: pieces of scenery and furniture and odd stage props, and cumbersome-looking filming equipment. But most of them were covered in dust-sheets or lightweight tarpaulins, which gave an oddly macabre appearance to the place. As if someone had deliberately blinded the eyes of this place…