Roots of Evil(62)

They were sorry for him. Mariana and Bruce Trent were sorry for him because of his father – that was why he had been invited. ‘He has such a bleak time of it, poor Edmund…’

He heard, as if from a long distance, an amiable response from Bruce, saying something about it being open house here, everyone welcome, but how about getting on with the game. Nearly time for the murders, ha-ha, hope everyone’s enjoying themselves, let’s have some more drinks before the lights go out, shall we…?

The drinks were duly distributed, and the cards were given out, and the lights went off on schedule. There was a good deal of scuffling and giggling and muffled squeaks as people trod on other people’s feet, and anxious questionings about what on earth one was supposed to do for goodness’ sake, and shrill-voiced girls saying, Oh, Henry, wherever are you? and, Do hold my hand.

The darkness seemed to rush at Edmund, and it was a thick smothering darkness, full of hateful whisperings, ‘He has such a bleak time of it, poor Edmund…’ ‘That frightful father…’ ‘Give him a bit of fun for once…’

Edmund shivered, despite the well-heated house, and wondered if he would ever get Mariana’s words out of his mind. He could feel them trickling through his brain like acid.

And he had forgotten how alive the darkness inside a house could be, and how it could fill up with sly whisperings and scalding emotions. His father, retreating more and more into a terrible inner darkness of his own, sometimes talked about it, and although nowadays the old man was as near mad as made no difference, lately Edmund had found himself understanding. Once or twice during these holidays, his father had taken to mumbling about his own past, dredging up memories.

Memories. As Edmund crossed the hall, the photographs and the faces that Mariana Trent had thought interesting enough and fun enough for her display swam out of the shadows. Memories. Lucretia von Wolff and those long-ago glittering glamorous years. Mariana loved them; she adored her mother’s legend, and she was always trying to revive it, exactly as Deborah said.

It would teach Mariana a lesson if all those memories were destroyed tonight. If every snippet and every tag-end – all the cuttings and photographs and scrap-books about Lucretia – were to be irretrievably lost, and it would serve the smug bitch right for pitying Edmund, ‘Prime some of the girls to flirt with him a bit…I said to Bruce, it’s only kind…’

His heart beating furiously, the uncertain light casting his shadow before him, Edmund began to climb the stairs to the attic floor.



Lucy had gone obediently to bed just after eight o’clock and had lain awake listening to the party sounds, which were all mixed up with the sounds of the rain outside.

She liked lying in bed hearing rain pattering down on the windows and the roofs; it made her feel warm and cosy and safe. Mother usually complained if it rained when she was giving a party because she liked people to wander into the garden with their drinks, but tonight she had been pleased about the rain; she said it would add atmosphere to a game they would be playing later on.

The party was being pretty noisy. There was a lot of shrieking and laughing going on. Lucy hoped her father would not sing the extremely rude song he sometimes sang at parties after he had drunk too much and which made everyone helpless with laughter, but which always made Mum say, Oh, Bruce, half embarrassed, half laughing with the rest.

But whether Dad sang the song or not, it did not seem as if Lucy was going to be able to sleep through the noise. It did not much matter, because tomorrow was Saturday and not a school day, but she was starting to be very bored with just lying here doing nothing. She might read a bit of her book and hope to fall asleep over it, or she might get out her drawing-book which she could prop up on her knees, and the coloured pencils, or…

Or she might take this really good chance to explore the attics, which was something she absolutely loved, but that Mum and Dad did not really like on account of there not being any electricity in the attics. Lucy might trip over something in the dark, Mum said, and what about those twisty stairs which she might easily fall down.

But tonight no one would know if she went up there, and so she got out of bed, put on her dressing-gown and slippers, and padded along the landing, careful to be extra-quiet. It might be a bit spooky in the attics at this time of night, but if so she would come back to her bedroom. Lucy went through the little door, remembering to duck her head because of the sagging bit of oak on the other side which smacked you in the forehead if you were not careful, and then she was there.

It was not spooky at all. It was exactly the way it always was: the exciting feeling of stored-away secrets, and the scents of the old timbers and the bits of furniture that long ago had been polished with the kind of polish you did not have nowadays. Lucy loved it. She loved the feeling that there were little pieces of the past scattered around up here, so that if you looked hard enough you might find them – maybe inside the old cupboard that stood in a corner, or locked up in one of the tea-chests, or folded inside the sewing-table with the green silk pouch under the top, or tucked away under the slopy bit of roof at the far end.

Usually she brought her birthday-present torch with her so that she could look at the photographs in the albums, or read bits from the old magazines. Sometimes there were things about her grandmother, which was very intriguing indeed, because there were big mysteries about Lucy’s grandmother. But she had not brought it tonight, so it was very dark and quiet. The rest of the house seemed suddenly to have grown very quiet, as well. It would have been nice to think this was because she had slipped through one of those magic chinks that take you into other worlds, but it would not be that at all; it would be everyone playing Mother’s game, whatever it was.