And from now on I am nothing to do with Pedlar’s Yard, and I am nothing to do with North London. I am somebody who has a normal life and a normal family, and I’m going to visit my grandmother.
The prospect was exciting and terrifying. It was an adventure like children had in books. It was the four Pevensie children going through the wardrobe into Narnia. Hadn’t they eaten apples to survive on one of their adventures? I’ll buy apples and eat them like they did. Or I’ll buy hamburgers and chips. Nobody looks twice at a child buying chips. And orange juice to drink.
Surely the journey could be managed, and at the other end of it, beyond all those villages with their ancient English names, would be the house surrounded by the will o’ the wisp lights that could give you your heart’s desire.
And the lady from all the stories would be there.
‘I don’t know if this will be of any help,’ said Edmund on the phone. ‘But I rather think I’ve got permission for you to actually go inside Ashwood Studios.’
Trixie Smith sounded as brisk and down-to-earth on the phone as she had face to face. ‘Very good of you,’ she said. ‘Lot of trouble for you as well, especially after your aunt’s death. Always a lot to do after a death, I know that. How did you manage it? I was going to see if I could trace the owners, but I didn’t know how to go about it.’
‘I haven’t actually traced the owners, but I have contacted a solicitor who holds the keys,’ said Edmund who had, in fact, done this by the simple process of consulting an Ordnance Survey map and then ringing Ashwood’s appropriate local council. ‘He acts as a kind of agent for the site, and he’s just phoned me to say you can have access to the place for a couple of hours.’
‘When?’
‘Well, that’s the thing,’ said Edmund slowly. ‘The solicitor wants me to be there with you. As a kind of surety for you, I suppose.’
‘In case I’m a sensation-seeker, likely to hold a seance on a wet afternoon, or a potential arsonist with a grudge against film studios in general?’
‘Your words, not mine, Ms Smith.’ Edmund pretended to consult a diary. ‘I think I might manage Monday afternoon,’ he said, with a take-it-or-leave-it air. ‘I could probably get there around four – it’s a couple of hours’ drive from here, I should think. But nearly all motorway, so it would be straightforward. You said you lived in North London, so you’re fairly near the place anyway. Would Monday suit you?’
Trixie said gruffly that Monday afternoon would suit her very well. ‘Have to admit I hadn’t expected to hear from you, Mr Fane,’ she said. ‘In fact I thought you were giving me the brush-off that day at your aunt’s house.’
‘Surely not,’ said Edmund politely.
‘And I’ll reimburse you for your time, of course. Never be beholden, that’s my maxim.’
‘Oh, that’s all right,’ said Edmund. ‘It’ll be quite interesting to see the place, although I gather it’s been derelict for years, so I don’t know what value it’ll be to you.’
‘Atmosphere,’ said Trixie at once. ‘Background details. And you never know, I might even pick up something the police missed.’
‘After more than fifty years? Oh really—’
‘Why not? History teaches us perspective, Mr Fane, and hindsight gives us twenty-twenty vision. And wouldn’t it be satisfying to discover that the baroness wasn’t a murderess after all?’
‘She wasn’t a baroness. The title was just another of the publicity stunts.’
‘Even so.’
‘Yes,’ said Edmund politely. ‘Yes, it would be marvellous.’