The initial plan had been to use the empty hypodermic syringe on Trixie Smith, as he had done on Aunt Deborah. Quick and simple and relatively painless, and the verdict would be heart failure exactly as it had been with Deborah. It would be a gentlemanly way to commit a murder, if you could have such a thing. A coroner might say that Ms Smith was rather young to suffer a heart attack, but these things did happen; it was very sad, and deeply unfortunate that she should have been on her own at the time, but there you were.
But Crispin, with that devastating logic Edmund could never quite master on his own account, had pointed out a flaw in this plan. Yes, he had said, fine, dear boy, very good indeed, to go for that verdict of heart attack. But here’s the thing, Edmund: mightn’t such a verdict cause people to ask why a young and presumably healthy woman should succumb to a heart attack? In such a place? And how about the danger of tabloid newspapers picking the thing up and speculating as to what, precisely, Trixie Smith might have seen inside Ashwood to terrify her into it? A series of headlines had flashed across Edmund’s mind at this. ‘Death inside haunted studio…’ ‘Ashwood claims another victim…’ Perhaps even, ‘Was schoolteacher frightened to death?…’
It would be very newsworthy indeed, Edmund had seen that at once. It could mean that the whole Ashwood tale would be rehashed all over again, and Lucretia’s name would be splashed across the newspapers once more. People would become interested – worse, they would become curious.
Edmund had been aware of self-anger, because he had not seen any of this – he, who was so methodical and so meticulous, had almost bloody missed the great gaping flaw in his plan!
All right, so you didn’t see it, Crispin had said. But it doesn’t matter, because I saw it for you.
Yes, but what do I do? What do I do instead of shoving a prick into the bloody woman?
There had been the familiar ruffle of amusement from Crispin at the slight double entendre – he loved it when the normally prim Edmund occasionally became risqué – but he had said very coolly that for goodness’ sake, Edmund could surely make it appear that the Smith female had been attacked by a tramp or a drug-addict. Hit her over the head with an empty whisky bottle and leave the bottle there for the police to draw their own conclusions. And then, said Crispin, you can jab needles into her to your heart’s content.
Edmund had taken a moment to weigh this up. Both methods together?
Certainly. Blows to the head are unpredictable things, said Crispin. But this way you’re making sure. The verdict can be heart failure after a severe blow to the head. So set the scene for that, dear boy.
Set the scene. Edmund took off the rain-jacket he had been wearing, and retrieved the empty whisky bottle and the hypodermic from its capacious pockets. He was already wearing gloves, which were important because of not leaving fingerprints on the bottle, but he took a knitted balaclava helmet from the jacket’s inner pocket. A touch dramatic this last, perhaps, but you never knew.
He left the bulky rain-jacket on the floor, and when he stepped quietly back into the main studio the Crispin-spell was already working, and the feeling of Crispin’s presence was so strong there was even a moment when Edmund thought he glimpsed Crispin’s outline, slender and young, the glossy reddish hair tumbling over his forehead.
The light switches were on the left of the door – he had marked their position earlier – and he took the two steps that brought him within reach of them. A quick movement and a soft click, and the single overhead light was quenched.