Lucy said, ‘Well, because of Crispin.’
Crispin. Silence came down between them. In a moment I’ll be able to say something, thought Edmund. Something quite ordinary, so that she won’t think I’m at all thrown by this. But alarm bells were sounding in his mind, because Lucy had used Crispin’s name so lightly and so familiarly. As if she knew all about Crispin. Did she? But how much could she know – really, actually know…?
He resumed eating, and said offhandedly, ‘Oh. Yes, I see what you mean. Crispin. Did you say there was pudding, Lucy?’
‘What? Oh yes, sorry.’
The pudding was some kind of pastry concoction with honey and nuts in it.
‘It’s Greek baklava,’ said Lucy, when Edmund expressed his appreciation. ‘And before you ask, no, I didn’t make it myself, I bought it from the delicatessen on the corner. I’ve tried to get the recipe out of them, but they won’t tell anyone; it’s a family secret, or something.’
A family secret. The words set the alarm notes jingling in his head all over again. Family secrets…And some things must be kept secret, at all costs.
Lucy was saying, a bit hesitantly, ‘Edmund, while you were there, did you actually go inside Studio Twelve?’
‘What? Oh, yes, I did. Just for a short time.’
She had stopped eating, and she was fixing him with a wide-eyed stare. ‘What was it like?’
It was peopled with ghosts who watch while you commit murder, only the ghosts at Ashwood don’t call it murder, they call it mord…And what would you say, Lucy, my dear, if I told you that I think one of those ghosts was Alraune…
Edmund said, ‘It was dark and dismal and the whole place was in a disgraceful state, in fact it was little more than a few muddy fields with most of the buildings falling down where they stood.’
‘How sad,’ said Lucy softly. ‘I rather wish I hadn’t asked you, now. All those years of films and people, and all the friendships and romances and quarrels and feuds there must have been inside the studios. All those years of spinning dreams and now it’s just a clump of ruined bricks and mud.’
Go on, said Crispin’s voice in Edmund’s mind. There’s your cue. And she’s always attracted you, hasn’t she, hasn’t she…?
‘Oh, Lucy,’ said Edmund softly, ‘you’re such a romantic under that tough fa?ade.’
Lucy, disconcerted, looked sharply up and met Edmund’s eyes. ‘Am I?’
‘I’ve always thought so,’ said Edmund very deliberately. ‘Didn’t you know?’
‘No,’ said Lucy, still staring at him. Silence hung over the table for a moment, and then, with what was clearly an effort to return the conversation to a more ordinary level, she said, ‘But Edmund, you have to admit Ashwood is romantic. All the ghosts of the past—’
‘Oh, I’m not very keen on ghosts,’ said Edmund.
‘I know you’re not.’
‘I’d rather have the living than the dead.’ He put his hand out to take hers. Good! said Crispin in his mind. Go for it, dear boy! But as Edmund’s fingers closed around Lucy’s, she gave a start, and then pulled her hand free.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘I could be wrong, but for a moment I thought you were trying to hold hands with me.’
‘I dare say there are worse ideas,’ said Edmund, offhandedly. He finished the last spoonful of the Greek pudding, and looked at his watch. ‘It’s nearly nine o’clock. Did you say we’d have coffee? I usually have a cup after my evening meal, but I don’t want to be too late getting home.’
He followed her out to the kitchen, putting the dishes in the sink, and then standing behind her as she spooned coffee into the percolator. When she turned round, he put his arms round her and pulled her hard against him. Her body felt slender and supple, and there was a scent of clean hair and clean skin.
This time there was no doubt about her reaction; she flinched from him as if his touch had burned her, and put up a hand as if to defend herself.