Roots of Evil by Sarah Rayne Page A

was bothering him. He could not bear anything to be lopsided or uneven.
    Edmund raised his hand again, and this time thestiletto came down with more intensity and more assurance. He felt the deep shudder go through the prying snooping creature, and he saw a spasm wrack her body. And then she was still. Ah, she had not been quite dead, then. He straightened up for the second time. Yes, that was better. Both eyes gone now. Now you really won’t be able to see anything that might be dangerous, my dear.
    Her body would be found eventually, of course. Someone would miss her and make inquiries, and backtrack to her journey here; her car, still parked at Ashwood’s entrance, would be spotted. That was all perfectly in order, and it did not matter who found her; what did matter was whether Edmund had left any telltale traces.
    But he was certain he had not. Any fingerprints or traces of his hair found here would be ascribed to his earlier visit, and he had worn gloves for the return. The stiletto was still in the left eye, though; he was uncertain whether it would be better to remove it.
    But the point was embedded so deeply in the bone behind the eye socket he could not get it out. The gloves which he dared not take off slid over the smooth steel surface, and although he made several attempts, it resisted him. But did it really matter? The thing had been here all along; it was not as if he had purchased it anywhere and brought it with him. No, it would be all right to leave it in place.
    The crackling starbursts of energy were gradually dimming and he was aware of a dull ache across his temples and of his hands trembling. No matter, hewould overcome that sufficiently to drive home. But he did not move yet. He stayed where he was, looking down at the crumpled thing that had been Trixie Smith. Something was still not quite right. Something still needed doing.
    And then he knew what it was. On the day Lucretia von Wolff died, the people who had broken down her dressing-room door had been greeted by a macabre tableau. If Edmund was really going to echo that day, he must re-create that scene as closely as he could.
    He walked cautiously around the studio again, and after a few abortive explorations beneath the dust-sheeted mounds, he found a large, high-backed chair near one of the walls. On closer inspection it turned out to be a rather elaborate affair, ornately carved. The satin or velvet upholstery had long since gone, of course, but it was still an imposing-looking thing. Edmund smiled to himself as he dragged it clear and set it in the centre of the studio. It was exactly right. It might even be the original chair Lucretia had used that day. Your chair, Madame von Wolff. Your stiletto. Who would have thought it?
    He turned it to face the main door, and then he arranged Trixie Smith so that she was sitting upright, her hands lying along the carved wooden arms, her head turned slightly as if she was watching for someone to enter. It took longer than he had expected because Trixie was heavier than he had allowed for. Dead weight, of course. But in the end it was done and he stepped back to consider the effect. Yes, very good indeed.
    And now there was one final thing. It must seem asif the killer had had to break in. The police were not fools; if there were no signs of forced entry, they would instantly start suspecting anyone who knew where the keys were kept. That would mean Liam Devlin, and possibly his staff if he had any: presumably Devlin employed other people at his office. Edmund would not lose any sleep if Devlin came under suspicion, but he was not going to risk coming under suspicion himself.
    It was clearly impossible for the door to be broken in or the lock snapped off, but what about those nailed-up windows? Edmund walked across to examine them. They were a bit more solid than he had previously thought, but he managed to prise a corner free, and saw that there was a second board nailed on outside. Awkward, but not