Roots of Evil(5)

A hard desperate loneliness closed down on Lucy so that she had to fight not to burst into floods of tears at the rush of memories. But Edmund would get huffy and embarrassed if she did that, and after a moment she managed to say, a bit shakily, ‘Oh Edmund, how awful.’

‘It’s a great shock,’ said Edmund conventionally. ‘I shall miss her very much. I’m going out to the house later on – there’s a lot of sorting out to do, of course.’

‘Yes, of course.’ Lucy tried to match Edmund’s tone. ‘Could I help with that? Shall I drive up?’

‘Oh no,’ said Edmund at once. ‘I can manage perfectly well. And I’d quite like to be on my own in the house for a day or two. To say goodbye, you know.’ This came out a bit embarrassedly.

‘Edmund, are you sure you’re all right? I mean…finding her dead…’ Edmund had not exactly lived with Aunt Deb, but he had shared all the holidays, and he had lived near to Deb for a long time. Lucy said, ‘You must be absolutely distraught.’

‘I’m extremely upset,’ said Edmund politely.



Edmund was certainly upset, but he was not what Lucy had called distraught because he would never have permitted himself such an untidily excessive emotion. What he was, was deeply saddened at Deborah Fane’s death, although not so much that he could not focus on the practicalities.

He was, of course, the person to take charge of things – Deborah Fane’s dearly-loved nephew, living in the neighbouring market town, barely five miles distant – and his staff at the office said that of course they could manage for the afternoon; it was Friday in any case, and bound to be quiet. His secretary would take the opportunity to catch up on some filing while he was gone. Yes, they would make sure that everywhere was securely locked up and the answerphone switched on.

Edmund drove to the house, and parked his car at the side. It was ridiculous to find the sight of the blank unlit windows disturbing, but then he was not used to the place being empty. Still, everywhere looked in quite good condition, particularly considering that Aunt Deborah had lived here alone for so many years. Edmund tried to remember how long it was since William Fane had died. Twenty years? Yes, at least that. Still, he had left Deborah well provided for. Comfortable if not exactly rich.

The house was comfortable if not exactly rich as well, although it might not look as good when subjected to a proper professional survey – Edmund would commission that right away. But in the half-light of the November afternoon everything looked reasonably sound. The paint was peeling here and there, and the kitchen and bathroom were a bit old-fashioned for today’s tastes, but all-in-all it was a spacious family house and in this part of the country it would fetch a very satisfactory price indeed.

Edmund allowed himself a small, secret smile at this last thought, because although Aunt Deborah had refused to let him draw up a proper businesslike will for her – eccentric old dear – she had been no fool and a will of some kind there would surely be, just as surely as Edmund himself would be the main beneficiary, although there might be a legacy for Lucy, of course. It was just a matter of finding the will. People had always said indulgently that since William’s death, Deborah had lived permanently in a muddle, but it was such a happy muddle, wasn’t it? This point of view was all very well for people who would not have to clear up the muddle now that she was dead.

Edmund unlocked the heavy old door at the house’s centre. It swung inwards with a little whisper of sound – the whisper that was so very familiar, and that in the past he had sometimes fancied said, welcome…Did it still say that? Mightn’t the whisper have changed to beware…Beware…Yes, he would have to beware from now on. Still, surely to goodness anyone was entitled to feel a bit nervous on entering a dark empty house where someone had died.

He pushed the door wide and stepped inside.



The past surged up to meet him at once, and the memories folded around his mind.

Memories…

Himself and Lucy spending holidays here…Lucy very much the smaller cousin, but determinedly keeping up with everything Edmund did. Long summers, and log-scented Christmases and glossily bronze autumns…Picnics and cycle rides…Berries on trees, and buttercup-splashed meadows, and misty bluebells in the copse…The time they had set the stove on fire making toffee when Aunt Deborah was away for the weekend and they had had to call the fire brigade and repaint the kitchen after the fire was doused. Lucy had been helpless with laughter, but Edmund had been panic-stricken.

He set down the small suitcase he had brought, and went back out to the car for the box of provisions he had picked up on the way. He would have to spend most of the weekend here because he would have to sort through the magpie gatherings of an elderly lady’s long and full life, but there was no point in going out to a pub for his meals (the White Hart charged shocking prices even for bar meals) when he could quite well eat in the house while he worked.

He carried the groceries through to the big old-fashioned kitchen, dumped them on the scrubbed-top table, and reached for the light switch. Nothing. Damn. He had not bargained for the power having been switched off. He rummaged for candles and matches, eventually finding both in a kitchen drawer, and set several candles to burn in saucers around the kitchen, with a couple more to light the hall. Huge shadows leapt up at once, which Edmund found slightly unsettling. He found the house’s silence unsettling as well. Once upon a time, he had lain in bed in the room at the top of the stairs and been able to think, That’s the old lime tree tapping its branches against the window of Aunt Deborah’s bedroom. Or, That fluttering is the house-martins nesting in the eaves: they always go there at this time of year. But the house’s sounds were no longer familiar or reassuring. He would make himself a cup of tea to chase away the ghosts; he usually had one at this time anyway, and there was no reason to change his habits.