‘You said he killed your mother?’
‘Yes. My mother,’ said Michael, ‘is one of the good memories I have of my early childhood, though.’ He glanced back at the figure in the bed. ‘But my grandmother – your grandmother – once told me that I should try to forgive Alraune, because he was not entirely to blame for what he had done.’
Lucy turned to look at him. ‘You knew my grandmother?’ she said in disbelief, and saw a very sweet smile widen his face.
‘Oh yes,’ said Michael softly.
Edmund was quite happy to go along with the two men who had turned up at the house, and who seemed so interested in Crispin.
He did not in the least mind talking about Crispin. He was unusually tired after the tension of the day and the long drive, and because of that his mind did not feel as sharp as usual, but it sounded as if there was some research being done into the particular form of melancholia that had afflicted Crispin, and so it would be as well to appear co-operative. Edmund knew a moment’s apprehension in case this was a ploy to get at the truth about Crispin – you had to be so watchful for that kind of thing, you could not relax your guard for even a moment. But he had not spent the last twenty-odd years keeping Crispin’s secret to fall into a trap now. If they thought they were going to catch him out, if they were planning on sneaking under his defences, they would soon find out they were wrong. Edmund was a foe worthy of any man’s steel.
All he needed to do was to get Crispin back in place, and regain control. If he could just do that, everything would be all right and he could handle the situation with his customary efficiency and courtesy.
But Crispin would not go back to his place. Every few minutes, Crispin’s words kept bubbling and dribbling out of Edmund’s mouth, and Edmund could hear with horror that Crispin was telling these men everything, everything…Lucretia and the shameful untidy affair – the satin sofa in the dressing-room that had been stained because Crispin had not been able to contain himself that first time—The amused tolerance of Conrad Kline. He laughed at me, cried Crispin to the listening men. I couldn’t bear to see him laughing at me.
And then the knife – lying there, ready to hand, part of the film set, sharper than anyone had realized. And Crispin’s sudden realization that this was the only way to silence Conrad, the only way to stop him laughing. And it had stopped him. The blood had spurted out and Conrad had fallen back, a look of surprise in his eyes, clawing at the air, emitting dreadful wet cries through the blood that was filling up his mouth…
Dreadful admissions, all of them. Shameful and embarrassing, and Edmund could not bear hearing any of them. He could not bear to think of how Crispin had run in fear and panic from the studios, leaving Conrad dying there on the floor.
He began to tell Crispin to keep quiet. Because after all the years of silence, after all the risks and the planning, to hear it all come spilling out like this…His voice came out louder than he had intended, but that was all right, because it would drown Crispin’s voice. After all I did for you, screamed Edmund at Crispin. All those deaths…Trixie Smith, stabbed in Ashwood Studios. Mariana and Bruce Trent, died in that fire that had only been meant to punish…And Aunt Deborah…The sheer unfairness rose up like bile in his throat, choking him. You shouldn’t have made me kill Aunt Deborah, cried Edmund, and to his complete astonishment, he began to sob.
There was the faint whiff of something antiseptic, and then the hurting jab of a needle in his arm, and then of someone counting, and saying, ‘He’s going.’
And then the counting faded away and Edmund sank thankfully into a deep, soft darkness where he could no longer hear Crispin’s voice.