Roots of Evil(50)

A family secret. The words set the alarm notes jingling in his head all over again. Family secrets…And some things must be kept secret, at all costs.

Lucy was saying, a bit hesitantly, ‘Edmund, while you were there, did you actually go inside Studio Twelve?’

‘What? Oh, yes, I did. Just for a short time.’

She had stopped eating, and she was fixing him with a wide-eyed stare. ‘What was it like?’

It was peopled with ghosts who watch while you commit murder, only the ghosts at Ashwood don’t call it murder, they call it mord…And what would you say, Lucy, my dear, if I told you that I think one of those ghosts was Alraune…

Edmund said, ‘It was dark and dismal and the whole place was in a disgraceful state, in fact it was little more than a few muddy fields with most of the buildings falling down where they stood.’

‘How sad,’ said Lucy softly. ‘I rather wish I hadn’t asked you, now. All those years of films and people, and all the friendships and romances and quarrels and feuds there must have been inside the studios. All those years of spinning dreams and now it’s just a clump of ruined bricks and mud.’

Go on, said Crispin’s voice in Edmund’s mind. There’s your cue. And she’s always attracted you, hasn’t she, hasn’t she…?

‘Oh, Lucy,’ said Edmund softly, ‘you’re such a romantic under that tough fa?ade.’

Lucy, disconcerted, looked sharply up and met Edmund’s eyes. ‘Am I?’

‘I’ve always thought so,’ said Edmund very deliberately. ‘Didn’t you know?’

‘No,’ said Lucy, still staring at him. Silence hung over the table for a moment, and then, with what was clearly an effort to return the conversation to a more ordinary level, she said, ‘But Edmund, you have to admit Ashwood is romantic. All the ghosts of the past—’

‘Oh, I’m not very keen on ghosts,’ said Edmund.

‘I know you’re not.’

‘I’d rather have the living than the dead.’ He put his hand out to take hers. Good! said Crispin in his mind. Go for it, dear boy! But as Edmund’s fingers closed around Lucy’s, she gave a start, and then pulled her hand free.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘I could be wrong, but for a moment I thought you were trying to hold hands with me.’

‘I dare say there are worse ideas,’ said Edmund, offhandedly. He finished the last spoonful of the Greek pudding, and looked at his watch. ‘It’s nearly nine o’clock. Did you say we’d have coffee? I usually have a cup after my evening meal, but I don’t want to be too late getting home.’

He followed her out to the kitchen, putting the dishes in the sink, and then standing behind her as she spooned coffee into the percolator. When she turned round, he put his arms round her and pulled her hard against him. Her body felt slender and supple, and there was a scent of clean hair and clean skin.

This time there was no doubt about her reaction; she flinched from him as if his touch had burned her, and put up a hand as if to defend herself.

‘Edmund, what on earth are you doing?’

‘I’ve had an extremely upsetting day,’ said Edmund. ‘Police statements and that wretched Trixie Smith’s murder. Poor woman,’ he added conscientiously. ‘And so I just thought a little human warmth might—And you said you were footloose and fancy-free.’ This came out in a slightly injured-sounding voice.

‘Yes, but we’re cousins!’ said Lucy, backing away from him. ‘I can’t—I mean, not with you I can’t! It’s – it’s very nearly creepy!’

Creepy. She would pay for that one day, the bitch. Edmund turned away as if he had lost interest, but he was having to beat down a strong desire to grab her and force her against him. And then? Back into the sitting-room, to that deep comfortable sofa before the fire? Or into her bedroom, which he had never seen…? An image of Lucy, her hair rippling against white sheets, rose up tauntingly, but he only said, in an offhand voice, ‘We’re quite distant cousins as a matter of fact. William Fane was my real uncle – he was my father’s brother – and Deborah only became my aunt when she and William were married. So you and I aren’t actually related at all, Lucy. But we’ll forget it. It was only an idea I had for a moment.’ Your loss, my dear, said his tone. ‘I hope there’s semi-skimmed milk to go with that coffee,’ said Edmund. ‘I only ever drink semi-skimmed milk these days.’



After Edmund had gone, Lucy washed up the dishes, her mind churning.

That had been a very odd encounter. But she must surely have jumped to a wrong conclusion. ‘Oh, Lucy, you’re such a romantic under that tough fa?ade,’ Edmund had said, and his tone had been that of someone deliberately injecting a caress into his voice. A seductive caress. And then, in the kitchen, he had forced that embrace, and that had been the most un-Edmund thing of all, in fact Lucy had found it slightly sinister.

But there was nothing sinister about Edmund, just as there was nothing come-hitherish about him. She must have misread the whole thing. And he had spent most of his afternoon tussling with the police about being at Ashwood with Trixie Smith – yes, he had said something about wanting some human warmth after an upsetting day. He had probably been agonizing about Lucretia being splashed all over the Sunday newspapers because of this murder, as well; Edmund, of all the family, had always hated anything to do with Lucretia. Poor old Edmund, thought Lucy determinedly.