But he listened to the explanation about calling 999, and then said coldly that in view of the fact that his father was undoubtedly dead there did not seem much point in summoning the emergency services who might be better employed elsewhere, to say nothing of waking the entire neighbourhood with sirens and flashing lights. What he needed, he said, was a doctor and an undertaker, and he did not mind in which order. The voice appeared to find this an inappropriate remark, and said primly that an on-call doctor would be there as soon as possible.
Edmund had to wait three hours for a very young, very rumpled-looking duty doctor to arrive. He spent the hours sitting on the landing floor, with the bathroom door propped open, watching his father’s body, trying not to wonder what he would do if that the dreadful head with the two sets of gaping lips – one pallid, the other blood-caked – suddenly turned towards the door.
While he waited the carriage clock downstairs ticked away the minutes and then the hours. Tick-tick…Always-be-with-you-Edmund…Tick-tick…The-murdered-ones-walk-Edmund…
The murdered ones. Conrad Kline. Leo Dreyer. Mariana and Bruce Trent.
Edmund listened to the ticking rhythmic voices for a long time, and very slowly he began to understand that Crispin – the real Crispin who had been young and good-looking and full of confidence – was filling him up, and he knew that Crispin would stay with him no matter what he, Edmund, did. He could hear Crispin’s voice inside the ticking clock, and inside the goblin-chuckling of the rain as it ran down the gutters. We’re both murderers, Edmund…We’ve both killed someone…So I’ll stay with you, Edmund…I’ll make sure you’re safe…
Shortly before dawn Crispin’s body finally began to stiffen, slipping down in the cold water so that it washed against the sides of the bath, adding its slopping voice to that of the ticking clock. The murdered walk, Edmund…I’ll always be with you, Edmund…Always be with you…Whatever you do and wherever you go, I’ll always be there to help you…
After the fire Lucy had not minded living with her father’s family, who were kind and generous, and who made her part of them. There were holidays with Aunt Deborah, who talked to Lucy about Mariana, which Lucy liked. Looking back, she thought she had eventually managed to have a reasonably happy childhood, although she had been glad when she was old enough to leave home and work in London and have her own flat.
But the trouble with memories was that even though you fought them as hard as you could, they were sometimes too strong for you; they could lie quietly in a corner of your mind – sometimes for years and years – and then pounce on you. Lucy knew very well that there were some memories that were dangerous and painful, and that must be kept out at all costs.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Alice had always known that the past was something that might be dangerous, and she had always known, as well, that the ghosts of that past might one day be responsible for destroying the careful, false edifice she had built up. It would only take one wrong move, or one unexpected moment of recognition, and the baroness’s career would be over.
But what Alice had not known was that there were other ghosts in the world who might destroy far more than a fake identity. Ghosts who were eagle-talon cruel and who stalked nations and haunted entire generations, and ghosts who bore as their device an ancient, once-religious image, which they had arrogantly reversed in the service of an implacable regime…