Dear God, had the woman been working her way through the entire family! But Edmund said, ‘And what did my cousin Lucy have to say?’
‘She said Alraune had been created by journalists, purely for publicity. Only I had the feeling that she didn’t entirely believe that. I’m good at picking things up like that,’ said Ms Smith. ‘In fact somebody once told me I was a bit psychic. Load of rot, of course, but still. I went to your cousin’s office – Quondam Films, interesting set-up, that. In fact—’
For the second time Edmund cut her off. ‘Ms Smith – I wonder if you’ll forgive me if I close this discussion. I’ve got an awful lot to do, and I’m only here for two days.’
‘You’d like me to go. Quite understand.’ She drained the tea and stood up. ‘But if you should come across anything that I might make use of…And if you could post it to me I’d be grateful. I’ll give you my address and phone number.’ She scribbled this on the back of an envelope. ‘You won’t forget? I mean – if there’s anything about Lucretia…Anything at all…’
‘I won’t forget,’ said Edmund politely.
After he had seen Trixie Smith to her car, Edmund went back into the kitchen and rather abstractedly began to prepare a meal from the groceries he had brought.
His mind was replaying the conversation with Trixie, but he was already thinking: faced with this situation, faced with Trixie Smith, what would Crispin do?
Crispin.
Even the thought of Crispin made Edmund feel better, and he knew at once that Crispin would say there was only one way to deal with this meddlesome female. You’ve shouldered this kind of responsibility before, dear boy, Crispin would say. Do so again. You know what needs to be done.
Crispin was an irreclaimable gambler, of course; Edmund knew that and he more or less accepted it, even though he privately deplored it. Still, there were times in life when a gamble had to be taken, and this looked like one of them. There was also the fact – and Edmund would not admit this to anyone, not even to Crispin – that the taking of a gamble was deeply and excitingly satisfying.
He went on preparing his food, his mind working.
In Pedlar’s Yard, Mother’s tales had almost always been spun at bedtime, because that was when he was out of the house. The warp of the stories had been threadbare and the weft was frayed and thin, but the tatterdemalion tales had still been the stuff that dreams could be made on, and they had been the cloth of gold that had tapes-tried a child’s unhappy life.
Once upon a time…
The glowing promise of the phrase had never failed to work its enchantment. Once upon a time there had been a family in an old city, full of romance and music, and they had lived in a fairytale house among the trees, where princes had visited and ladies had danced, and where life had been wonderful.
‘The city was called Vienna. It’s in Austria, and it’s the most romantic city in the world, Vienna. And your grandmother lived in that house – she was maid to a lady called Miss Nina. It was a very important position, and it meant she saw all the grand people who came to the house for dinners and balls and concerts.’
‘Because they were very rich, that family.’
‘Yes. You like rich things, don’t you?’
‘Yes. So do you.’
‘Oh yes. Once I thought I would be rich. Perhaps I still will be one day. And then you’ll be rich as well.’
‘That would be pretty good. But tell what happened to the family in Vienna.’
‘Well, when your grandmother was seventeen, a handsome young man came to the house, and he saw her and fell in love with her. But they wouldn’t let him marry her, because she was a servant and he was important – perhaps he was a lord, or a duke…he might even have been royalty—’
‘And so they had to part? And it was very sad and very romantic.’