Roots of Evil(87)

But as he turned back to the screen, the throbbing unease was increasing. His mind darted back and forth, trying to pin down the resemblance. There’s something to be wary of here. Something I need to identify. Someone I need to identify. A nervous sweat had formed on his forehead; he blotted it with his handkerchief, doing so discreetly, pretending to dab his nose as if he had a slight cold, and keeping his eyes fixed on the screen. In a moment he would look back at Sallis, doing so quickly, as people did when they could not read someone’s handwriting and tried the trick of taking it by surprise. He would take Michael Sallis by surprise, and hope his mind would make the identification ahead of his eyes.

He watched the screen for a few moments – something about Lucretia and the scientist outside a burning house. It was all very flimsy and childlike: anyone could see the actual house had been constructed out of cardboard and plywood.

And now Lucretia was in the centre of the action, flinging herself about with over-emphatic melodrama, covering her mouth with the back of her hand in the classic gesture of shock and fear, and then suddenly facing the camera in close-up, her eyes narrowed and glittering, her lips curving in a smile of evil calculation. She was plastered with make-up; Edmund thought it very unbecoming. All that eye-black, and some sort of dark shiny lipstick. He dared say it had been all very fashionable and daring in Lucretia’s heyday, but it was not his idea of what was attractive.

On the outer rim of his vision he saw Michael Sallis turn his head again, and this time he looked directly across at Sallis. And with a shock so deep that he felt as if a fist had slammed into his stomach, he knew exactly who Sallis reminded him of.

The film wound to the final reel, and the doomed scientist was lured to his fate against a background of claustrophobic skies and what Edmund considered some rather showy music. But he was only dimly aware of it, although he did look with attention at the climax, when Lucretia von Wolff, as Alraune, brought her creator to his grisly end.

(The eyes, Edmund, the ghost-child Alraune had said in Ashwood that day. There is no other way…Remember the eyes, Edmund, remember mord…)

It made several people jump when Inspector Fletcher said, in her cool detached voice, ‘Can we have a replay of that scene again, please?’ but Edmund had no real interest in Fletcher now, and he no longer had any energy to spare for Alraune. His entire attention was focused on Michael Sallis. He knew, with an unshakeable conviction, who Sallis was.

What he did not yet know was what he was going to do about it.



‘Did you get what you wanted out of that?’ asked Lucy of Inspector Fletcher, as they all dispersed. ‘Or shouldn’t I ask?’

‘You shouldn’t ask,’ said Liam Devlin, overhearing this.

Fletcher regarded Lucy for a moment, and then said, ‘I did get something, Miss Trent. Not quite what I was expecting, but something very interesting indeed. I can’t tell you any more than that.’

‘I didn’t expect you could,’ said Lucy. ‘I’m glad it wasn’t a waste of time though.’

‘It wasn’t a waste of time as far as I was concerned, Miss Trent,’ said Liam, and Lucy glanced at him in surprise because this was the first time she had heard him speak seriously. ‘Thank you very much for arranging it.’ He sent Lucy another of the quizzical smiles, and went out.

The inspector said, ‘It wasn’t a waste of time for me, either.’



It was dark by the time Edmund reached home, and he went all round his house, closing curtains and switching on lights. Then he poured himself a drink and sat down at the little desk in the sitting-room, reaching for the phone.

But he hesitated for a moment before dialling. The spider-strands of the plan that had formed throughout the homeward journey were still strong and good; Edmund had tested each one as the train sped away from London and he knew they formed a sound plan. But dare he carry that plan out?

Of course you dare, said Crispin’s voice in his mind. Trust your instinct…And if you can’t do that, then trust mine…When did I ever let you down…?

There had been times lately when the two voices – the silky assured voice that was Crispin, and the sly childlike voice that was Alraune – had fused in Edmund’s mind so that it was not always easy to tell which of them was speaking. Like a radio when it was slightly off the station, so that you got two sets of voices warring with one another. Once or twice Edmund had been a little confused by these blurred-together voices, although he always sorted them out after a moment or two.

But now, as he dialled Michael Sallis’s number, there was no doubt about who had the upper hand. This was unmistakably Crispin, and when Michael answered, it was Crispin at his most charming who said, ‘Sallis? Oh good. I hoped I had the right number. It’s Edmund Fane.’

‘What can I do for you?’ Sallis sounded polite but not especially friendly.

‘It’s about my aunt’s house,’ said Edmund. ‘As you know, although your company gets the actual building and gardens, the contents come to me.’

‘Yes, I do know.’

‘The auction firm’s coming out next week to pack everything and take it to the sale-rooms,’ said Edmund. ‘I’m keeping one or two bits for my own house—’ No need to mention that the one or two bits included an eighteenth-century writing table and a set of Sheraton dining chairs. ‘I thought,’ he said, ‘that if you will be using the house for these homeless youngsters, you might like some of the more basic furniture. Wardrobes or tables. The fridge is only a couple of years old, as well. And there’s quite a good set of gardening tools in the potting shed.’