by Sarah Rayne
On the strictly emotional side, the score was not quite so healthy, in fact Edmund admitted that if you were going to pick nits, you might say that the one shortfall in his life was the lack of a wife. But he had fostered a small legend about having carried a torch for some unspecified lady all these years, and it had worked very well indeed. (Poor Mr Fane, so romantically good-looking, and is it true that he never recovered from losing the love of his life…?)
Aunt Deborah had once or twice wondered if Lucy and Edmund might one day get together – such good friends they had been in their childhood, and only cousins by marriage, and wouldn’t it be nice? – but Edmund knew it would not be nice at all; Lucy would drive him mad inside of a fortnight.
At around the time Lucy was drinking her wine and thinking about Alraune, and Edmund was reviewing his life with such satisfaction, a sharp and incisive mind was remembering a very particular childhood fear.
It was a fear that still sometimes clawed its way to the surface, even after so many years and even when a degree of prosperity had been doggedly achieved. Even today, the fear that had ruled the life of a lonely child and that night after night had filled up a house had not completely faded.
The house had been in Pedlar’s Yard, once the site of an East London street market, once a busy little world of its own. The original cobbles were still discernible in places, but the market had been abandoned a century and a half earlier, and the houses and the surrounding areas were sinking into decay. No. 16 was squeezed between two larger buildings whose frontages both jutted out in front of it, so that it was always dark inside and there was a squashed-up feeling.
On some nights in that house it was necessary to hide, without always understanding why. But as the years went by, understanding gradually unfurled, and then it was necessary to be sly about the hiding places, changing them, sometimes doubling back to earlier hiding places, because if you were found on the nights when fear filled up the rooms – the nights when he stormed through the house – terrible things could happen.
None of it must ever be talked of. That had been one of the earliest lessons to be learned. ‘Tell a living soul what I do in here and I’ll break your fingers, one by one.’ And then the thin angry face with its cold eyes suddenly coming closer, and the soft voice whispering its threats. ‘And if you do tell, I’ll know. Remember that. If you tell, I’ll find out.’
On those nights not my pleas, not mother’s frightened crying – nothing – ever stopped him. She covered up the bruises and the marks and she never talked about the other wounds he inflicted on her in their bed, and I never talked about it either. She sought refuge in the tales she had stored away about the past; they were her armour, those tales, and they became my armour as well because she pulled me into the tales with her, and once inside we were both safe.
Safe.
But have I ever really been safe since those years? Am I really safe now?
CHAPTER TWO
Lucy supposed that she would get to hear the result of Trixie Smith’s researches eventually. Probably Aunt Deb would phone, which would be nice, because she could tell a good tale, dear old Deb, and Lucy would enjoy hearing all about the delvings into the squirrelled-away memorabilia. (Would the delvings turn up anything about Alraune…?)
But at the moment she was not thinking about Alraune and she was not thinking about her disreputable grandmamma; she was concentrating on Quondam’s presentation for the silent horror films.
There were going to be three films in the package. As well as The Devil’s Sonata there was a version of Du Maurier’s Trilby which Quondam had recently picked up somewhere, and also a very early edition of The Bells from 1913.
Lucy had finished the precis of The Devil’s Sonata, and was now immersed in writing one for The Bells. It was not the famous Henry Irving version but it was still a wonderful story of the murderer haunted by visions of his victim; in fact all three of the films were terrific stories. You could see why they were classics, each in their own way. Lucy rather liked horror stories, especially the dark-house, killer-prowling-up-the-stairs kind; she liked the way they reinforced your own sense of safety.
She re-read what she had done so far and thought it was reasonably all right but that it needed a lift, a sparkle, a bit of pizzazz to make it stand out. Such as what? Well, maybe such as setting the whole presentation against some sort of spooky Gothic background. Would that work? They would not want to use any of the actual film footage they were hoping to sell, of course, on the principle of the Victorian tart’s cry: If you don’t want the goods, don’t ogle them, dearie. But they might achieve some good effects with lightweight screens and graphics, or even with slides.
Lucy considered this. The mechanics would have to be kept extremely simple; a roomful of TV programme-makers would become impatient if there was too much scurrying about with extension leads, or propping up of wobbling display screens, and slides coming out upside-down, so that would have to be carefully planned. She was inclined to think they should pitch everything just very slightly over the top: maybe have a cobweb-draped mansion as back projection, and appropriate sound effects. One or two creaking doors, a few hollow echoing footsteps. All tongue-in-cheek stuff. If you wanted to grab people’s attention, it was a good ploy to make them smile at the beginning.
She typed and sent an email across to the technical department to see if there was anything in the archives in the way of creaking doors and sinister footfalls, and then passed on to the idea of music. Music as an intro for The Devil’s Sonata would be a terrific scene-setter – wasn’t there a piece that was supposed to have been actually devil-inspired? She scooted across to the small library section and rummaged through a couple of musical dictionaries to find out. Yes, there it was: The Devil’s Trill by Giuseppe Tartini. A violin sonata, supposedly inspired by a dream in which the composer sold his soul to the devil for the music. Tartini had woken from the dream with the music firmly in his mind, and had written it down, or so the story went. Story or rumour, the music ought to be beautifully eerie; Lucy would try to get hold of a CD.
She had just got back to her desk when the phone rang, and Edmund’s voice said, ‘Lucy? Thank goodness you’re there.’
Edmund would not ring her at the office unless there was something serious. Lucy said, ‘What’s the matter?’
‘There’s some very bad news,’ said Edmund in his solemnest voice. ‘I’m afraid it’s Deborah.’
‘Oh no—’
‘I went out there last evening, and I found her sitting in her chair—’ A pause. She’s dead, thought Lucy in sudden panic. That’s what he’s going to say. And then – no, of course she isn’t. People don’t die just like that, out of the blue. In her mind, she could already hear Edmund saying that no, of course Deborah was not dead.
But what Edmund said was, ‘Yes, I’m afraid she’s gone. A great sadness, isn’t it? A heart attack, they think. But apparently it would have been almost instantaneous.’
So dear, slightly scatty Aunt Deb really was dead and Lucy would have to find a way to bear it. And at some point Edmund would say wasn’t it a mercy she had had a quick death, and Lucy would hate him for saying it because Deb ought not to be dead at all. She had been so full of life, so warm and kind, always so pleased when Lucy came to spend part of the school holidays in the big rambling old house…She had always wanted to hear about Lucy’s life; encouraging her if work became difficult, staunchly partisan if a romance went wrong…
A hard desperate loneliness closed down on Lucy so that she had to fight not to burst into floods of tears at the rush of memories. But Edmund would get huffy and embarrassed if she did that, and after a moment she managed to say, a bit shakily, ‘Oh Edmund, how awful.’
‘It’s a great shock,’ said Edmund conventionally. ‘I shall miss her very much. I’m going out to the house later on – there’s a lot of sorting out to do, of course.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Lucy tried to match Edmund’s tone. ‘Could I help with that
? Shall I drive up?’
‘Oh no,’ said Edmund at once. ‘I can manage perfectly well. And I’d quite like to be on my own in the house for a day or two. To say goodbye, you know.’ This came out a bit embarrassedly.
‘Edmund, are you sure you’re all right? I mean…finding her dead…’ Edmund had not exactly lived with Aunt Deb, but he had shared all the holidays, and he had lived near to Deb for a long time. Lucy said, ‘You must be absolutely distraught.’
‘I’m extremely upset,’ said Edmund politely.
Edmund was certainly upset, but he was not what Lucy had called distraught because he would never have permitted himself such an untidily excessive emotion. What he was, was deeply saddened at Deborah Fane’s death, although not so much that he could not focus on the practicalities.
He was, of course, the person to take charge of things – Deborah Fane’s dearly-loved nephew, living in the neighbouring market town, barely five miles distant – and his staff at the office said that of course they could manage for the afternoon; it was Friday in any case, and bound to be quiet. His secretary would take the opportunity to catch up on some filing while he was gone. Yes, they would make sure that everywhere was securely locked up and the answerphone switched on.
Edmund drove to the house, and parked his car at the side. It was ridiculous to find the sight of the blank unlit windows disturbing, but then he was not used to the place being empty. Still, everywhere looked in quite good condition, particularly considering that Aunt Deborah had lived here alone for so many years. Edmund tried to remember how long it was since William Fane had died. Twenty years? Yes, at least that. Still, he had left Deborah well provided for. Comfortable if not exactly rich.
The house was comfortable if not exactly rich as well, although it might not look as good when subjected to a proper professional survey – Edmund would commission that right away. But in the half-light of the November afternoon everything looked reasonably sound. The paint was peeling here and there, and the kitchen and bathroom were a bit old-fashioned for today’s tastes, but all-in-all it was a spacious family house and in this part of the country it would fetch a very satisfactory price indeed.
Edmund allowed himself a small, secret smile at this last thought, because although Aunt Deborah had refused to let him draw up a proper businesslike will for her – eccentric old dear – she had been no fool and a will of some kind there would surely be, just as surely as Edmund himself would be the main beneficiary, although there might be a legacy for Lucy, of course. It was just a matter of finding the will. People had always said indulgently that since William’s death, Deborah had lived permanently in a muddle, but it was such a happy muddle, wasn’t it? This point of view was all very well for people who would not have to clear up the muddle now that she was dead.
Edmund unlocked the heavy old door at the house’s centre. It swung inwards with a little whisper of sound – the whisper that was so very familiar, and that in the past he had sometimes fancied said, welcome…Did it still say that? Mightn’t the whisper have changed to beware…Beware…Yes, he would have to beware from now on. Still, surely to goodness anyone was entitled to feel a bit nervous on entering a dark empty house where someone had died.
He pushed the door wide and stepped inside.
The past surged up to meet him at once, and the memories folded around his mind.
Memories…
Himself and Lucy spending holidays here…Lucy very much the smaller cousin, but determinedly keeping up with everything Edmund did. Long summers, and log-scented Christmases and glossily bronze autumns…Picnics and cycle rides…Berries on trees, and buttercup-splashed meadows, and misty bluebells in the copse…The time they had set the stove on fire making toffee when Aunt Deborah was away for the weekend and they had had to call the fire brigade and repaint the kitchen after the fire was doused. Lucy had been helpless with laughter, but Edmund had been panic-stricken.
He set down the small suitcase he had brought, and went back out to the car for the box of provisions he had picked up on the way. He would have to spend most of the weekend here because he would have to sort through the magpie gatherings of an elderly lady’s long and full life, but there was no point in going out to a pub for his meals (the White Hart charged shocking prices even for bar meals) when he could quite well eat in the house while he worked.
He carried the groceries through to the big old-fashioned kitchen, dumped them on the scrubbed-top table, and reached for the light switch. Nothing. Damn. He had not bargained for the power having been switched off. He rummaged for candles and matches, eventually finding both in a kitchen drawer, and set several candles to burn in saucers around the kitchen, with a couple more to light the hall. Huge shadows leapt up at once, which Edmund found slightly unsettling. He found the house’s silence unsettling as well. Once upon a time, he had lain in bed in the room at the top of the stairs and been able to think, That’s the old lime tree tapping its branches against the window of Aunt Deborah’s bedroom. Or, That fluttering is the house-martins nesting in the eaves: they always go there at this time of year. But the house’s sounds were no longer familiar or reassuring. He would make himself a cup of tea to chase away the ghosts; he usually had one at this time anyway, and there was no reason to change his habits.
The kitchen range was cold, of course, but the gas was still on for the cooker. Edmund set a kettle to boil, and then wondered if the lack of power was simply due to a mains switch being off. He picked up one of the candles, thinking he would check the fusebox, and he was just crossing the hall, the prowling candle-flame shadows walking with him, when he heard, quite unmistakably, the crunch of footsteps on the gravel path outside. He stopped, his heart skipping several beats, because the footsteps had been rather slow, rather careful footsteps – they had walked around the front of the house and then paused. Exactly in the way an ageing, but still-agile lady would walk across the front of the house, dead-heading plants as she went and pausing to prune the wisteria growing near to the front door. (Aunt Deborah, returning to the house where she had lived for so many years? Of course not! Snap out of it, Edmund!)
But as Edmund glanced uneasily at the narrow windows on each side of the front door, a shadow appeared at one of them and a face swam up against the glass, peering in. Edmund prided himself on his unemotional temperament but fear clutched instantly at his throat. There is someone out there!
And then the shadow stepped back from the window, and there was the crunch of footsteps again, and then a sharp, perfectly normal rat-a-tat on the front door. And after all, it was barely five o’clock in the evening, and ghosts would not knock politely on doors, and there was no reason in the world why someone should not have come out here on a perfectly legitimate, entirely innocent, errand.
But Edmund was badly shaken and it took a moment for him to recover and open the door. When he did so, on the threshold stood a completely strange female, foursquare as to build, sensible as to garb.
‘Mr Fane?’ said the female. Her voice matched her appearance. ‘Mr Edmund Fane?’ She held out her hand. ‘I’m Trixie Smith. I spoke to your aunt on the phone a few days ago. I’m very sorry to hear she’s dead – please accept my condolences.’
‘Thank you,’ said Edmund. ‘But—’
‘And I hope you won’t mind me turning up like this, but Mrs Fane promised me some notes about her mother and they’re very important to my research. So I thought, Better drive out to collect them before they’re destroyed in the clearing-out process.’
Edmund could hardly believe this was happening. He could scarcely credit the pushy impudence of this bossy female, or the fact that she had driven all the way here without even the courtesy of a phone call first.
‘I went to your office first,’ said Ms Smith. ‘Best to be businesslike, I thought. They said you were here, so as it was only a few extra miles to drive I thought I’d come along and see if it could all be dealt with on the one trip. But please say if this is a bad time – I shan’t be
offended, I prefer people to be straight. And I can easily come back, or you can post the stuff to me.’
Clearly she was not going away, and equally clearly she would have to be asked in. Edmund did so, forcing a degree of politeness into his voice. No, he said, it was not especially inconvenient – he laid some emphasis on the especially – although not having any electricity at the moment was making things a touch difficult. But he was afraid he could not really help; his aunt had certainly told him about Miss Smith’s approach, although he did not know anything about any notes on Lucretia’s life. In fact, said Edmund, he doubted there had been time for her to make any notes, since she had died so very suddenly.
‘I really am sorry about that,’ said Trixie Smith again. ‘I’d have liked to meet her. We got quite friendly on the phone – she was very interested in my thesis.’
‘“Crime in the Nineteen-fifties”?’
‘Oh, she told you that, did she? Yes, I’m hoping to use Lucretia von Wolff as the central case study. Remarkable woman, wasn’t she?’
‘I never thought so,’ said Edmund shortly. ‘Greedy and manipulative, I always thought.’
‘Yes?’ She sipped the cup of tea he had felt bound to offer. ‘Well, whatever she was, I’d like to find out what drove her that day at Ashwood Studios. Psychologically, it’s a very interesting case. See now, that one man who was murdered, Conrad Kline, he was your grandmother’s lover, wasn’t he?’
‘She wasn’t my grandmother,’ said Edmund shortly. ‘I’m from another side of the family. Deborah Fane married my father’s brother – William Fane. So Deborah was only my aunt by marriage.’
‘Oh, I see. But you know the stories?’
Edmund admitted that he knew some of the stories. His tone implied that he disapproved of what he did know.
‘How about Alraune? Do you know anything about Alraune?’
Alraune…The name seemed to shiver on the air for a moment, and Edmund frowned, but said, ‘The film?’