(The eyes, Edmund, the ghost-child Alraune had said in Ashwood that day. There is no other way…Remember the eyes, Edmund, remember mord…)
It made several people jump when Inspector Fletcher said, in her cool detached voice, ‘Can we have a replay of that scene again, please?’ but Edmund had no real interest in Fletcher now, and he no longer had any energy to spare for Alraune. His entire attention was focused on Michael Sallis. He knew, with an unshakeable conviction, who Sallis was.
What he did not yet know was what he was going to do about it.
‘Did you get what you wanted out of that?’ asked Lucy of Inspector Fletcher, as they all dispersed. ‘Or shouldn’t I ask?’
‘You shouldn’t ask,’ said Liam Devlin, overhearing this.
Fletcher regarded Lucy for a moment, and then said, ‘I did get something, Miss Trent. Not quite what I was expecting, but something very interesting indeed. I can’t tell you any more than that.’
‘I didn’t expect you could,’ said Lucy. ‘I’m glad it wasn’t a waste of time though.’
‘It wasn’t a waste of time as far as I was concerned, Miss Trent,’ said Liam, and Lucy glanced at him in surprise because this was the first time she had heard him speak seriously. ‘Thank you very much for arranging it.’ He sent Lucy another of the quizzical smiles, and went out.
The inspector said, ‘It wasn’t a waste of time for me, either.’
It was dark by the time Edmund reached home, and he went all round his house, closing curtains and switching on lights. Then he poured himself a drink and sat down at the little desk in the sitting-room, reaching for the phone.
But he hesitated for a moment before dialling. The spider-strands of the plan that had formed throughout the homeward journey were still strong and good; Edmund had tested each one as the train sped away from London and he knew they formed a sound plan. But dare he carry that plan out?
Of course you dare, said Crispin’s voice in his mind. Trust your instinct…And if you can’t do that, then trust mine…When did I ever let you down…?
There had been times lately when the two voices – the silky assured voice that was Crispin, and the sly childlike voice that was Alraune – had fused in Edmund’s mind so that it was not always easy to tell which of them was speaking. Like a radio when it was slightly off the station, so that you got two sets of voices warring with one another. Once or twice Edmund had been a little confused by these blurred-together voices, although he always sorted them out after a moment or two.
But now, as he dialled Michael Sallis’s number, there was no doubt about who had the upper hand. This was unmistakably Crispin, and when Michael answered, it was Crispin at his most charming who said, ‘Sallis? Oh good. I hoped I had the right number. It’s Edmund Fane.’
‘What can I do for you?’ Sallis sounded polite but not especially friendly.
‘It’s about my aunt’s house,’ said Edmund. ‘As you know, although your company gets the actual building and gardens, the contents come to me.’
‘Yes, I do know.’
‘The auction firm’s coming out next week to pack everything and take it to the sale-rooms,’ said Edmund. ‘I’m keeping one or two bits for my own house—’ No need to mention that the one or two bits included an eighteenth-century writing table and a set of Sheraton dining chairs. ‘I thought,’ he said, ‘that if you will be using the house for these homeless youngsters, you might like some of the more basic furniture. Wardrobes or tables. The fridge is only a couple of years old, as well. And there’s quite a good set of gardening tools in the potting shed.’
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.’