Roots of Evil(36)

After this she returned, with slightly diminished enthusiasm, to The Devil’s Sonata, which had turned out to have telltale amber discolouration, indicating that the cellulose nitrate had started to decompose – probably from storage at the wrong temperature – meaning it would have to be copied all over again. In addition there was a massive flaw halfway through the second reel, which could have been caused by anything, but which meant that the lustfully intentioned and satanically inclined violinist was precipitated straight from the opera house stage (where he had been wearing formal white tie and tails) to the heroine’s Left Bank atelier, where he was wearing a velvet jacket and the standard villain issue of cloak and wide-brimmed hat.

Lucy was just wondering if there were any stills that would shunt the plot along, and if so, whether Quondam’s technical department could use them to patch over the flaw – this had been done fairly successfully with the famous Frank Capra 1937 Lost Horizon – when an email pinged into her inbox to say she could view two of the three newsreels she had requested. The German one, it appeared, was currently the subject of a copyright wrangle, so to all intents and purposes it was verboten at the moment, but she could see the two Pathé reels. One was nine minutes in length and one was four and a half, and both were flagged as being in need of restoration, which could mean anything from a few slight hiccups that only a purist would notice, to comprehensive damage by flood, fire or tornado. But that said, a projectionist could be available in the smaller of the two viewing-rooms at half past three, and would Lucy please confirm if this would suit her.



The viewing-room was small and almost completely dark and there was a scent of warm machinery and also of blackcurrant throat lozenges from the projectionist, who had a sore throat and was inclined to be lugubrious as a result.

Lucy waved to him to start the first reel, and sat down. She had no idea what she was about to see, or whether it would tell her anything about Lucretia – and about Alraune – that she did not already know. Almost certainly it would not. Be logical, Lucy. But her heart was thudding, and as the projector began to whirr she clenched her fists so hard that her nails dug little dents into her palms.

The familiar oblong of light appeared on the small screen, and the soundtrack kicked in with the distinctive Pathé music. The commentary began, the commentator speaking in the stilted, pseudo-jolly accents that had been obligatory in the forties and fifties. BBC pronunciation, people used to call it, sometimes meaning it sarcastically, sometimes not.

This one was the longer film of the two, and it seemed to be mostly about Lucretia’s arrival at Ashwood Studios, and the plans for shooting the murder mystery – the film that had never been finished because of the real murders. Lucy thought Ashwood had been hoping to rival Alfred Hitchcock and David Lean – hadn’t Rebecca come out around then? Certainly it had been the heyday of film noir: black rainy streets, criminal treachery, victimized anti-heroes and femmes fatales. Films like A Woman’s Face and Desire Me, or Citizen Kane and the all-time classic, The Third Man. Each had had its own sultry intelligent temptress, of course: Joan Crawford, Bette Davis, the luminous Greer Garson. And Lucretia von Wolff.

There was not very much about Lucretia in this newsreel, though, other than some fleeting footage of a sinuous figure emerging from a car. There were one or two blurry shots of the studios; compared to Ealing or Pinewood, Ashwood was quite a small set-up, although it looked busy and people moved around with energy and enthusiasm.

Lucy’s interest was briefly caught by a long-distance shot of Leo Dreyer arriving at the studios for some reception or other. She leaned forward, trying to make out his features, but there was little more than an impression of a rather tall man wearing one of the long dark overcoats of the day and a Homburg hat.

The clip came to an end and the projectionist began to wind the second film. There would probably not be anything of use on this one, either. Still, you never knew.

The quality of this reel was poor; the soundtrack was tinny and there were a number of white zigzags on the surface, indicating scratches or imperfect storage. The commentator was either the same man as on the first reel, or had attended the same elocution classes.

‘And now a sight of one of the technological wonders of the age – one of the world’s first fully pressurized four-engined airliners – the Boeing Stratoliner 307. And this one is the most famous of them all – it’s the “Flying Penthouse”, bought by multi-millionaire Howard Hughes to convey him around the world in the style to which we would all like to become accustomed.’

There was a happy pause, presumably for audiences to enjoy the joke, and then the commentator went merrily on. ‘The Stratoliner can fly at an astonishing 220 miles an hour, and the pressurized cabin makes it possible to fly at altitudes of 14,000 feet or even higher. That’s what they call being above the weather – now there’s a good way to escape the English winter!’

The bouncing, isn’t-this-a-happy-world, music cut in, and there were shots of what was presumably the Stratoliner taking off and landing, and one of it flying over some unidentifiable country. There were patches of fogginess that might have been the monochrome film, or that might have been the flaws, or that might simply have been the weather that day.

There was nothing about Lucretia, and Lucy was beginning to wonder if the can of film had been wrongly labelled, or if someone had made a mistake in the listings, when the commentator said, ‘But here’s something that doesn’t come as standard with the Stratoliner 307. On this trip, Mr Hughes loaned his plane and a pilot for the transporting of a very decorative piece of cargo – none other than the famous star of the silent screen, Baroness Lucretia von Wolff.’