Roots of Evil(88)

Sallis said slowly, ‘Yes, I believe we might like them very much. Are you offering to give them, or can we negotiate a figure?’

‘Oh,’ said Edmund offhandedly, ‘I don’t want anything for them. I’m happy to let you have them if they can be of some use.’

‘Thank you very much.’

‘Is there a day you could come up here and see which of the things you’d like?’ said Edmund. ‘It would need to be some time in the next week, because the auction people are coming next Friday. I need to know what to let them take, and what to tell them to leave in place.’

‘I could probably make it on Tuesday,’ said Sallis. ‘Would that be all right?’

Edmund pretended to consult a diary, and then said that Tuesday would be convenient. He had no appointments that day. ‘Shall you be staying overnight? It’s a hellishly long drive to do in one day. I could book you into the White Hart – you stayed there last time, didn’t you? Or you could camp out at the house itself – the electricity’s still on.’

He felt the other man’s hesitation. Then, ‘I’d rather not stay overnight,’ said Michael. ‘If I set off early enough I can get to you around mid-morning. That would give me a good three or four hours at the house.’

Not ideal, of course; Edmund wanted Sallis there all night. But the essence of a good plan was to adapt as you went along, so he said, ‘All right. I’ve still got a bit of clearing out to do, so I’ll be there from ten o’clock onwards.’

‘If there’s any heavy lifting or anything massive to shift, maybe I can give you a hand.’

‘That would be kind. I’m afraid it’s a dismal business sorting out the possessions of someone who’s just died,’ said Edmund.





CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX




It’s a dismal business sorting out the possessions of someone who has just died, and when that someone has been brutally murdered, the task is a hundred times worse. But when DI Fletcher’s men had finished their search of the house, Francesca discovered that there was no one else to take it on.

She rather diffidently suggested to the Deputy Head that perhaps the school should assume responsibility for packing away Trixie’s things, but the Deputy Head instantly said, ‘Oh, I don’t think we could interfere in anything like that.’

‘But she hasn’t got any real family, you know,’ said Fran.

‘I know. It’s very difficult. Of course, you having lived in the same house for the last few weeks—’

So much for paternalism. Fran supposed she had better get on with it. The police seemed to have been looking particularly for a will, but there had not appeared to be one – or if there was it was as well hidden as if this was a Victorian melodrama with a final chapter involving secret marriages and unknown heirs, which were all unthinkable in connection with Trixie.

Bank statements and bills had all been in order, and the only money owing was a couple of hundred pounds on a credit card, from Trixie’s purchase of new dog kennels last month. It also turned out that Trixie had owned the house outright, which rather surprised Fran, who had assumed there would be a mortgage. But perhaps Trixie had inherited money or even the house itself from her parents: Fran did know they had died when Trixie was quite young. As well as the house there was a modest building society savings account and a couple of insurance policies, both timed to mature in just over fifteen years’ time.

‘I suppose she was planning on retiring early,’ said DI Fletcher, preparing to leave Fran to her dismal task. ‘She was almost forty, wasn’t she?’

Fran said she had not actually known Trixie’s age; it was not something that had ever come up. She asked if the police really thought anyone would commit that nightmare murder for a house in North London and a few thousand pounds?

‘At the moment, Mrs Holland, we’re prepared to believe anything of anyone. But I’d have to say I don’t see this as being linked to sordid coinage. We haven’t been able to trace any family, by the way. Except for the elderly aunt – great-aunt, I should say – and even the wildest stretch of imagination couldn’t cast her as first murderer.’

‘I do know Trixie used to visit that aunt in the holidays,’ said Francesca thoughtfully. ‘But I believe she’s at least ninety. I shouldn’t think she could even manage the journey to Ashwood, let alone anything else.’


‘I shouldn’t think so, either.’

And so, taking it all in all, it looked as if there was no one prepared to shoulder the responsibility for Trixie’s things. Fran thought she would make a start on Friday afternoon, go along to Quondam Films on Saturday as requested, and finish the sorting out on Sunday. It would be a bit of a nuisance to have to break off midway through the weekend, although she was intrigued by the prospect of seeing Alraune.

She had consigned the dogs to the care of the RSPCA with stern instructions that they must be found a good home, and the home must be for all three of them together. Trixie would never forgive Fran if her beloved dogs were split up, and Fran thought there was enough to contend with as it was, without risking being haunted by a peevish and accusatory ghost, purely because the ghost’s dogs had not been found sufficiently luxurious homes.



The actual sorting out was not as time-consuming as she had feared, and by Sunday lunchtime she was more than halfway through. As she worked, she thought about yesterday’s viewing of Alraune. She had found it disturbing but rather moving.