Roots of Evil(46)

It was so faded that it was almost indistinguishable from its background, and it was not really surprising that Edmund had not noticed it earlier. It was probably nothing of much importance, but…

But as he lifted the envelope out, he was aware of his skin starting to prickle with nervous tension. It’ll be nothing, he thought. It’s an old envelope, but it’ll contain an ancient seed catalogue or a forgotten bank statement or something of the kind. But his hands were shaking and he suddenly knew that whatever was inside the envelope was very important indeed. He took several deep breaths and then, moving with extreme care, he slid the contents out.

The quiet bedroom began to disintegrate into splinters of whirling, too-bright sunlight like a fragmented looking-glass, and Edmund reached out blindly to the dressing-table’s edge to stop himself from falling headlong into the tumbling maelstrom of light and dancing dust-motes. He had no idea how long he sat like that, clutching on to the solid wood, waiting for the room to stop spinning – it was as if time had slipped its moorings or as if Edmund himself had stepped completely outside of time – but when finally he was able to release his grip he was trembling and out of breath as if he had been running too fast, and he had to wipe sweat from his forehead with his handkerchief.

He stared down at the single sheet of paper in his hand and felt cold and sick at how he had so nearly missed this.

The surface of the paper was faintly yellow and the edges were splitting, and it was sad, it was so infinitely sad to be looking at this tiny, fragile shred of the past…Edmund ran his fingers lightly over the brittle surface of the paper, which was brown-spotted with age, the ink so faded that the writing was almost indecipherable.

But it was not so faded that he could not read almost all of it. The headings were in German, but it was easy enough to translate.

Certificate of Birth, said the heading in black ornate lettering. And underneath: Date of birth: 10th December, 1940. Place of Birth, Poland. Mother, Lucretia von Wolff. Father, unknown.

Beneath that again were the words: Child’s name: Alraune.

Alraune.

So you really did exist, said Edmund to the thin sheet of paper. The legends were all true, and you really did exist, and after all Lucretia really was your mother. But he had known ever since the day inside Studio Twelve that Alraune existed. Even if Trixie Smith had not said, ‘A child listed as “Allie” was there that day,’ Edmund would have known, because he had felt Alraune’s presence in the deserted studio, and he had been aware of Alraune’s hand taking his, and he had heard Alraune’s childish voice whispering to him.

You don’t need to believe in me, Alraune had said that day. All you need to believe in, Edmund, is the practice of morthor – mord…



Returning to the office was unthinkable; Edmund could not have concentrated on ordinary routine work if his life had depended on it.

He locked the damning sheet of paper in his briefcase, and drove back to his own house. Once inside he carried the briefcase and its explosive contents through to the sitting-room, where a small fire was laid ready for lighting. He liked to have a fire in the evenings at this time of year – people said it made a lot of work and what about polluting the environment, but Edmund did not consider the environment to be his responsibility, and most of the work fell on his cleaning lady who came in three times a week from the nearby village and had instructions to rake out the ashes and re-lay the fire ready for the next day. The room was at the back of the house and no one could possibly see in, but Edmund drew the curtains before opening the briefcase.

He carried the certificate to the fireplace, holding it flat on his upturned palms (Like a sacrifice? Don’t be ridiculous!), and placed it in the exact centre of the hearth. Then he lit a match and set it to a twist of newspaper. It caught at once, and the flames licked across the brittle sheet with its spider-faded writing. Edmund watched the sad dryness curl in on itself, and the tiny charred flakes shrivel into powdery ash.

And now you’re really gone, Alraune. Even if you ever existed, there’s no longer anything left to prove it. I’ve put an end to you once and for all.

Are you so sure about that? said the sly scratchy voice deep within his mind.

Yes, I am. In fact I still question whether you did exist. That certificate could have been a fake. Part of the legend they created about you.

Oh Edmund, said Alraune’s voice reproachfully. We shared a killing…We shared mord, Edmund…

We shared a killing…But I’m perfectly safe on that score, thought Edmund. They’ll never trace it to me. And I’ve burned the birth certificate, and I’ve severed all the links to the past.

But, said Alraune’s voice inside Edmund’s mind, can the past – particularly that past – particularly MY past – ever really die, Edmund…?



Some pasts might never die, and most pasts could not really be rewritten, but it was gratifying to find that when it came to the present, Edmund had got it right.

Early on Saturday morning, just as he was eating his leisurely weekend breakfast and scanning the papers, a young but perfectly polite voice telephoned from Ashwood police station, apologized for disturbing Mr Fane and explained that the body of a Miss Trixie Smith had been found at the derelict Ashwood Studios site.

‘Dead?’ said Edmund in a shocked voice. ‘Trixie Smith? You did say dead?’ He paused, and the polite voice said, yes, certainly dead, and the body had been found early on Friday evening.