Roots of Evil(49)

Edmund gave another of the rueful smiles. ‘Yes. I told you – I was curious. I thought I’d take the opportunity to see where Lucretia’s legend had ended.’

‘And so having taking the opportunity, and having communed with the ghosts and the legends, you left?’

‘Yes. Miss Smith stayed on, though; she wanted to sketch some layout plans, and also to soak up the atmosphere – her expression, not mine. She was going to slam the door shut when she left. It’s a Yale lock, and she was the kind of person who could be trusted to slam it properly. I drove home; I got back about half-past seven as far as I recall.’

‘So,’ said Inspector Fletcher, eyeing him thoughtfully, ‘You didn’t actually see Miss Smith leave Studio Twelve?’

‘No,’ said Edmund. ‘No, I didn’t see that.’



It was well after five when Edmund finally left the little police station, and he drove back through Ashwood’s main street, curious about the place, slowing down to take a look at Liam Devlin’s offices when he spotted them. They seemed to take up most of a large old house near to Ashwood’s centre, and Edmund grudgingly acknowledged that the building itself was attractive with its bow windows and wavy glass, although everywhere could have done with a lick of paint. He remembered with satisfied pleasure his own immaculately restored house at home, and the neat offices where he worked.

It was annoying to see Devlin himself coming out of the building – Edmund certainly would not have been in his office on a Saturday afternoon – and it was even more annoying that Devlin should see Edmund and put up a hand in greeting. Clearly, it would be the height of rudeness to simply drive off, so Edmund wound the car window down, and prepared to be politely friendly.

Liam asked had the police hauled Edmund in for questioning about the murder.

‘Just a few questions to establish times and background and so on,’ said Edmund repressively.

‘Ah, isn’t that always the way of it with the law. And they’ll go for the alibi every time, of course. Not that any of us will have one. I certainly didn’t.’

‘They questioned you, I suppose?’

‘Grilled me for hours,’ agreed Liam cheerfully. ‘I daresay they did you, as well. But you’ll be used to police stations.’

Edmund took this as an assumption that he handled criminal work, and said his practice was mostly conveyancing and probate with a few boundary disputes.

‘I do a fair bit of criminal work,’ said Liam. ‘I enjoy it. They’re good company, the villains. Many a burglar I’ve restored to his friends and relations. Are you driving straight home, or will we have a drink together along at the wine bar?’

But Edmund had no intention of drinking in some sleazy bar with Liam Devlin, and certainly not at this time of day, for goodness’ sake, so he said thank you, but he had an appointment in London, and drove on.



Lucy’s flat, when he reached it, was warm and welcoming, and although Edmund would have preferred a more conventional set-up himself, he acknowledged that the disreputable charm of the place suited her.

They ate at the table by the window – Lucy did not draw the curtains, which Edmund thought peculiar, but Lucy said she liked looking down on the lit streets. She liked it best when they were shiny with rain, and you could see the reflections of street lights and cars.

She had prepared a fluffy fish pie for him, which Edmund found very acceptable, and there was a bowl of crisp salad.

‘And Edmund, if you don’t tell me exactly what this is all about – Trixie Smith and you being at Ashwood and everything – I’ll explode from sheer curiosity. What on earth were you doing at Ashwood in the first place?’

Edmund explained about meeting Trixie, and about leaving her in the studio to make her notes and sketch plans.

‘And it seems that when she didn’t turn up after three or four days, some colleague worked back to her visit to Ashwood and went along there to check. That’s when they found the body. The police contacted me because I was the one who arranged for the access to the studios.’ He looked up. ‘That surprises you?’


‘Yes, it does. I’d have thought,’ said Lucy, speaking as if she was choosing her words very carefully, ‘that Ashwood and Studio Twelve would be the very last place you’d want to visit.’

‘Why?’

She looked back at him, and this time Edmund was aware of a flicker of apprehension. What’s she going to say? What might she know that I wasn’t expecting?

Lucy said, ‘Well, because of Crispin.’

Crispin. Silence came down between them. In a moment I’ll be able to say something, thought Edmund. Something quite ordinary, so that she won’t think I’m at all thrown by this. But alarm bells were sounding in his mind, because Lucy had used Crispin’s name so lightly and so familiarly. As if she knew all about Crispin. Did she? But how much could she know – really, actually know…?

He resumed eating, and said offhandedly, ‘Oh. Yes, I see what you mean. Crispin. Did you say there was pudding, Lucy?’

‘What? Oh yes, sorry.’

The pudding was some kind of pastry concoction with honey and nuts in it.

‘It’s Greek baklava,’ said Lucy, when Edmund expressed his appreciation. ‘And before you ask, no, I didn’t make it myself, I bought it from the delicatessen on the corner. I’ve tried to get the recipe out of them, but they won’t tell anyone; it’s a family secret, or something.’