Roots of Evil(22)

The sound came again, a little more definitely this time, and Trixie’s heart skipped several beats, because what if there was someone out there – someone who had been watching her as she paced out the murder trail and scribbled her notes, occasionally muttering to herself as you did when you believed you were on your own? Someone who had stolen in after Edmund Fane left, or even someone who had been in here all along. She turned to look towards the door leading to the lobby. Was it moving? As if someone was inching it cautiously open, trying not to be heard?

Trixie set down her pad and pen, got stealthily to her feet, and began to step back because like this, standing directly in the fly-blown circle of light, she was as vulnerable and as exposed as if she had been on a spotlit stage. And the door was definitely being pushed open, she could see that it was.

Before she had taken more than a couple of steps away from the light, the door opened more fully, and for a split-second a dark shape was framed there. And then whoever it was closed the door softly and moved into one of the patches of darkness. Damn! Had he seen her? Yes, almost certainly he had.

She dodged deeper into the shadows, but before she could decide what to do next, there was a sudden darting movement near the door and then a soft click. The friendly illumination from above shut off and the entire studio was plunged into darkness.

This was certainly no spook; ghosts did not switch off lights for goodness’ sake, and she could hear the brush of human clothes against a wall as he – it would certainly be a ‘he’! – began to make his way towards her. She could hear the creak of the sagging old timbers as he trod on them as well: like a hoarse voice saying, I’m creeping across the floor to get to you, my dear…

With her heart pounding and sweat forming between her shoulder blades, Trixie started to back away from the sounds, keeping near to the wall because if she could circle around the edges of the studio, she could get to the door—And if she could do that before his eyes adjusted to the darkness…

On this last thought she dropped down on to all fours so that she would not be in his sightline – ha! he would be searching for her on his own eye-level, and that would fool him! She was shaking with fear, but if she kept her nerve she could reach the door and be out into the night before he realized it. And then across the waste ground – never mind how muddily squelchy it was – and into her car, still parked near the old gates. She began to crawl stealthily towards the door, the wall comfortingly on her left, but she had not got more than a couple of feet when a blurred face suddenly swam up in front of her, the eyes huge dark pits, the hair a grey cobwebby veil.

Trixie gasped and recoiled, her stomach clenching in panic, but she had already realized that it was only her own reflection in an old looking-glass propped against a pile of discarded furniture, her features distorted by the green depths of the mirror’s surface. And now he will know where you are, you wimp! Of all the stupid, uncontrolled things to have done—But it was too late for regrets; Trixie had already felt the sudden burst of triumph from him.

OK, no need to *foot around any longer. She stood up and in a voice sharp with fear called out, ‘Who’s there? What do you want?’ There was just the faint possibility that it was simply someone setting her up: someone laughing quietly to himself, and saying, I’ll take the piss out of that daft old Trixie Smith…One of her own students? One of the middle years who had found out about the thesis and followed her down here? Yes, she could think of a couple of possible contenders very easily! She was gratefully aware of a little curl of anger, and when she caught another of the furtive movements over to her right she took a deep breath and lunged forward. If this really was some malicious joker, he had picked the wrong person to play jokes on!

She was halfway across the floor when a figure with smoky darkness where the face should be stepped out of the shadows, and there was another of those moments of frozen terror – ghosts after all? Before she could recover, he had moved behind her, grabbing her arms and twisting them halfway up her back. Pain shot through her so that she cried out, but she struggled against him because she was damned if she was letting some weirdo overpower her! But he had imprisoned her wrists now, and he was jerking her arms even higher; his hands felt like iron bands and pain was shooting through her shoulders, but Trixie was still clutching on to that burst of anger, and she managed to kick out backwards. She encountered solid bone and flesh – his shin, had it been? Good! But wherever the blow had landed, it had drawn an angry grunt of surprised pain from him as if he had not expected her to resist. Serve you right, you bastard!

But then he pulled her back against him – she felt the hot hard excitement of him pressing against her body. God, this was obscene! One of his arms hooked around her throat, slamming into her windpipe and driving the breath from her body. She gasped, and struggled again but he still had that half-stranglehold on her, and before she could kick out again, he released his hold slightly, and a split-second later something hard and hurting smashed down on her skull. The world exploded in starbursts of light before she tumbled down into a spinning blackness.



Edmund had been careful to open and close the outer door loudly enough for Trixie Smith to think he had gone. In fact he had remained just inside, standing quietly in the shadows of the lobby, his heart racing with anticipation, his muscles taut with nervous tension.

But he was already imagining that Crispin was with him – if he could surround himself with Crispin’s personality, he always felt so much stronger. Like chanting a spell to make you brave. (How flattering, Crispin had said, amused, when Edmund had once tried to explain this. I’ve never been compared to a magic spell before.)