Roots of Evil(24)

Ashwood’s legend. With the words came a sudden thump of such searing excitement that for a moment Edmund thought he was going to lose consciousness under its impact.

But of course he could not use Ashwood’s legend. It was far too dangerous. It would make people remember.

Scaredy cat…said the voice mockingly. (Yes, it was a child’s voice.) Couldn’t you cope, Edmund, if people did remember?

The excitement was pulsating through Edmund’s entire body, and the darkness was throbbing and becoming laced with the fear that still lay on the air from when he had stalked Trixie Smith a short while ago. Fear was the colour of crimson, like old blood; Edmund could feel the lingering fear and he could almost see it.

Ashwood’s legend. Dare he use it? But the possibility was already zinging around his brain like arcing electricity, setting up little sparks of shivering anticipation. Ashwood’s legend…But could he cope with the memories being resurrected?

Oh, of course you could…said the whisper. Do you really think that anyone has ever forgotten what happened here, once upon a time…? The story will be dug up again anyway when Trixie Smith’s body is found…And this always was the Murder Studio, Edmund, let’s not forget that…

The words hissed lightly to and fro, like silk being spun in the dark. I’m imagining it, thought Edmund. I’m not really hearing anything at all. It’s just the rain outside. Yes, but ‘A child, listed simply as “Allie”, was at Ashwood that day…’ Could that child have been Alraune? Was Alraune here now? But Alraune had never really existed…

Didn’t I, Edmund? Are you sure about that? The whisper was so light and insubstantial – it was like the dry husks of flies in a spider’s web. Was this really Alraune’s ghost, Alraune’s voice?

I don’t believe in you, said Edmund, half-angrily, half-pleadingly. I don’t dare believe in you.

You don’t need to believe in me…All you need to believe in is the practice of morthor…Remember that, Edmund…And remember, as well, that it’s akin to the ancient High German word of mord…

Mord. Edmund still did not believe in Alraune, but he could not stop thinking that something that might be Alraune was very close to him. He found that he had already crossed the floor to the light switches, and that he had reached up to switch the single light back on. Trixie Smith lay in an ungainly huddle where she had fallen. Still unconscious? Yes. But breathing. He walked towards the suite of dressing-rooms and the wardrobe-room.

You’re going to do it, aren’t you, Edmund? There was a sudden burst of glee.

Am I? thought Edmund.

The wardrobe-room, when he pushed the door open, was dark and evil-smelling – Liam Devlin had been right about that – and it was smaller than Edmund had been expecting. Clothes rails were still fixed to the walls, and although some of them had fallen away from their moorings it was not difficult to imagine the rows and rows of costumes and hats and shoes that would have been stored here. Lucretia would have known this place very well, of course; she had probably sailed imperiously through here, demanding expensive outfits for her scenes, refusing to wear anything that did not meet her exacting standards. Self-centred bitch, thought Edmund.

But there would be something in here that would chime with the legend, and he was starting to see that Alraune was right about using it; he could not think why he had been so chary of the idea. He would meet it head-on, that legend; he would take the history of this place by the scruff of its neck, and make use of it when he killed that snooping Trixie Smith. He would teach her not to disturb his calm, well-ordered life, and it would be a warning to anyone else who might try the same thing.

He was still alert for any sign that Trixie might have regained consciousness, but almost his entire mind was focusing on what he might find in here. Trying not to breathe in too deeply because of the disgusting stench, he wedged the door open so that there was a spill of light from the main studio, and began opening sagging old cupboards and worm-eaten drawers, deeply thankful for his leather gloves as he did so. Nothing. I’m not going to find what I want, thought Edmund.

Yes, you are…Again the sly amusement came.

And quite suddenly, there it was, exactly as he had hoped, and exactly as Alraune had known. It was lying at the back of a small drawer, probably pushed in there by some long-forgotten wardrobe mistress or make-up girl, and it was black with tarnish, but the thin spiked point was still cruelly sharp.

A spike, a skewer, a gimlet. A stiletto…The one used all those years ago? Probably not, but close enough to the original.

He came slowly out of the wardrobe-room, the thin sharp instrument in his hand. Stay with me, Alraune.

Oh yes, Edmund, I’ll stay with you…And Edmund—

Yes?

Remember the eyes, said Alraune’s voice. Remember the EYES, Edmund…



Trixie came swimming and struggling up out of the sick-feeling darkness, and for a moment had no idea where she was. And then memory rushed painfully in – yes, of course, she was in the old Ashwood studios, and some maniac had hit her on the head, and it must have knocked her out.

She was aware of a banging headache, but she was also aware of bitter fury because she had been so easily attacked – she, who had so often boasted that it ought to be child’s play to foil an assailant or a mugger! A swift kick in the balls and most men were disabled, that was what she had always said.