Roots of Evil(91)

‘Where did you get that?’

Fran said carefully, ‘It was among Trixie’s things. I found it this afternoon. I’m not sure what to do with it – I’m not even sure if I ought to do anything with it at all.’ When he did not speak, she said, ‘Trixie talked quite a bit about Lucretia von Wolff and Alraune while she was putting together her research, so I got very familiar with the stories. But I thought a lot of them were journalists’ exaggeration. Until I saw that photo I never really thought Alraune existed.’

Michael said very softly, ‘Alraune did exist.’ His eyes were still on the photograph.

Fran had no idea what to say. But because he was still looking shaken, and because clearly they could not pretend that nothing had happened, she said, ‘I don’t know why it was in Trixie’s things. I don’t think it’s anything to do with her family.’

‘No.’

The frozen look had not gone from his face, and Fran suddenly wanted to reach out to take his hand in hers. To dispel such a ridiculous idea she said, ‘I suppose it’s something of a find, isn’t it? I mean – to anyone interested in Lucretia von Wolff’s life it would probably be worth quite a lot.’

‘Oh yes.’

Fran had no idea what was behind all this, but clearly something was behind it, and so by way of edging nearer to the heart of the matter she said, ‘Uh – Michael, I’m not sure how much you know about Lucretia von Wolff—’

‘Quite a lot,’ he said. ‘I know quite a lot about Lucretia.’ He paused and then, almost as if he was bracing himself to plunge neck-deep into icy water, he said, ‘Lucretia von Wolff was my grandmother. I knew her very well indeed.’

The kaleidoscope received another shake, and this time the coloured patterns fell in entirely different, wholly incredible shapes. His grandmother, thought Fran. That can’t possibly be true. He can’t expect me to believe that.

She said, ‘But – you can’t have known Lucretia. She died fifty-odd years ago. She died at Ashwood – she killed herself to escape being charged with the double murder. That’s the legend – it’s one of the famous murders of its time.’

‘Lucretia didn’t die at Ashwood that day,’ said Michael. ‘And when I was eight years old I ran away to her house and lived with her for the next ten years.’





CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN




Francesca ended up making the omelettes after all, since Michael’s astonishing revelation seemed effectively to put an end to any idea of going out and attempting to eat anything even approaching a normal civilized meal.

But when he said, rather ruefully, ‘Sorry, Francesca, I didn’t mean to explode a bombshell – there’s no reason why we can’t still go out to eat,’ Fran said at once that of course they could not go out; if Michael thought she was going to discuss Lucretia von Wolff and Alraune with waiters and other diners eavesdropping on their conversation, he had better think again.

‘Are we going to discuss Lucretia and Alraune?’

‘Well, not if you’d hate it and not anything that’s private, of course. Can you eat omelettes?’

He made a brief gesture, half defeat, half acceptance, and said, ‘Yes, of course I can eat omelettes.’ And then, as Fran reached into the fridge for eggs and cheese, he said, ‘Where d’you keep the plates and cutlery? I’ll lay the table.’

‘In that drawer. Thanks. D’you mind eating in here? The dining-room’s a bit gloomy.’

‘Not at all,’ said Michael, setting out knives and forks on the table. ‘But telling your life story is the ultimate in ego-trips. Like telling your dreams.’


‘You’re forgetting I’ve lived with Lucretia’s life story – and with Alraune – ever since Trixie started her thesis,’ said Fran. Clearly he could not be asked about the running away part, but it should be acceptable to ask about Lucretia and about the years with her. Do I believe him, I wonder? More to the point, Do I trust him, because after all, I don’t really know anything about him. I suppose I could phone CHARTH tomorrow and verify that he works for them, but that wouldn’t tell me anything about his childhood. Surely he can’t have lived with Lucretia. She died years ago. If this is some kind of hoax, it’s a very elaborate one, though – unless he’s mad, of course, I suppose that’s a possibility. But she glanced at him again, and knew it was not even a remote possibility. He was unmistakably sane. And so when you have eliminated the impossible, my dear Watson, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

She discovered that he was looking at her. ‘You’re finding it difficult to accept,’ he said.

‘Well, yes. Did you really live with her? With Lucretia?’

‘I did. For ten years. In a nice old house on the edge of the Lincolnshire fens, on the outskirts of a little market town, where she lived a perfectly conventional life. Women’s Guild and shopping and library reading groups. She did quite a lot of charity work – that’s how I got involved in CHARTH – and she had a good many friends locally, although I’ll swear that not one of them had the smallest suspicion of who she really was. Which was how she wanted it. Oh, and she loved music.’

‘Conrad’s influence,’ said Fran, remembering the film music yesterday at Quondam, and feeling that she was reaching back to grasp a handful of the past.