My brother Elgie was already on his way there. He’d sent me the most affected letter, the ink smudged with his tears, his handwriting quivery. I could not wait to see him, for the rest of the Frey family appeared to be treating the tragedy with remarkable indifference. Father had replied a day after Elgie, telling me that my odious stepmother had a cold and could not travel at the moment. My two other brothers had not even sent a word.
I sighed as I adjusted my tie. This would be the first time I had stepped out of the house in four days; I had hidden indoors, pretexting that my body needed to recover.
It was not entirely a lie – had pulled muscles I’d not even known existed, and only last night had I finally been able to lift a full glass of wine. After our escape I had rowed perhaps five miles east before we stopped – not because we deemed it safe but because I could endure no more. I took the boat to a small beach on the north shore, its light sand almost glowing in the night. We had crouched in the semidarkness as I caught my breath, but the very early sunrise meant we had to keep moving.
McGray summoned up strength and helped me row from there. We reached the eastern end of Loch Maree, which then gave way to a meandering river. We were tempted to look for help there, but we had no idea how far the influence of the Kolomans would extend. We kept on moving at a sluggish pace until the sun was high in the sky. McGray then left me to look for help on foot. I told him he was mad to think we’d find a soul, but he went away nonetheless and a couple of hours later came back on a cart driven by a gentle farmer. I could not understand a single word the man uttered, but he was our saviour. He fed us, let us rest in his little house, and even put some of his clean clothes on Uncle Maurice. Ironic how the humblest of people are also the most generous.
He then took us to a ‘nearby village’ called Garve (it was by no means near, and to call it a village was a gross overstatement). Our journey back to civilization was much smoother from then on.
Indeed, my body still ached, and I wanted my blisters to subside a little before showing my face in public – but the truth is I had not gone out simply because I did not want to see or speak to anybody.
I am no stranger to death. My mother’s passing taught me very early, very clearly, that our days are finite. Nevertheless, we always seem to forget it. Uncle Maurice, always cheerful, always carefree . . . how could anybody expect someone like him to die? To him tragedies were tiresome; tribulations were strictly reserved for others. Then again, that very philosophy had also been the root of his worst mistakes.
I walked away from the mirror, feeling terrible for blaming my dear uncle for his own demise . . . but he had been so wrong about Veronika and the Kolomans, letting them lure him with their charm and their pleasantries. He had conducted himself with the self-confidence and recklessness that is possible only in men who have nothing to look after. He had been hedonistic and vain, and had probably never quite understood the darker mechanics of life. He’d only come to grasp that a mere day before his death. The story about his dead child – I could still not come to terms with that. Indeed, Uncle Maurice had been so wrong about so many things . . . but I had loved him so much nonetheless.
He was – still is – dearer to me than my own father, who is as cold and lifeless as a teaspoon dropped in the snow. He was dearer to me than my own brothers, my only beloved relative until Elgie was born.
I put on my jacket, recalling Uncle Maurice himself had suggested I wore that cut and colour. That had been just over a year ago, yet the memory seemed so trivial, so distant now. As I stepped out of the house I remembered how delighted he’d been when I finally gave in and let him take me to the tailor. And he had ended up commissioning another three jackets for himself.
I smiled. He’d led a good, lucky life. He had enjoyed his time, and he had made me and so many others very happy. I should be grateful for it.
As soon as I stepped into our basement office I felt the urge to retreat. The sight of McGray’s cluttered artefacts, the smell – a mixture of old books and damp, the many articles still where I’d last left them . . . they all reminded me of what life had been merely two weeks ago. It was a sensation more than a memory per se. I took a deep breath. How could things change so dramatically in such a short period of time?
I ignored the clutter and went to my desk, which I found loaded with correspondence and pending documents.
We had told everyone in the police about the Kolomans’ case and constables had been dispatched to investigate, but I still needed to file a comprehensive report, whose weight I could already feel. I had to detail the location and contents of the Kolomans’ manor, where the constable’s body had been buried, how we’d been led to believe Lazarus Nelapsi had committed the crime . . . I also realized I’d have to write a short description of the families’ ailment. And I’d have to telegram my old friends in Oxford, who might be able to send me those old papers by Dr Schultz.
I saw McGray had left me a note. Apparently he had been in touch with Constable McLachlan, who was still investigating the death of Father Thomas in Thurso. The man had sent telegram after telegram to Poolewe giving updates of his progress, but these, unsurprisingly, had never reached us.
There was a report from the team of constables who had had to force their way into the manor, for all the entrances had been locked. They’d found very little, mostly discarded books (novels, that is), old clothes and the sort of bric-a-brac one would leave behind in a hasty move. No trace of any chemicals, scientific instruments, medical literature, documents such as property deeds or birth certificates, valuables, works of art . . . even some of the plants had been uprooted, leaving but huge holes throughout the gardens. The Kolomans had acted swiftly, and if they had a tenth of the brains I thought they did, they’d never set foot in Britain again. A thorough investigation on the Continent, particularly around the Moravia region, where they said they had their vineyards, could be instigated, but such an enterprise might take years and vast resources and still not reach any conclusions. Besides, with the police force still lacking a leader, the whole affair did not seem to be anybody’s priority.
McGray found me lounging in my chair, pondering all this. He also looked terrible – even worse than usual, with the back of his neck still blistered.
‘Ye didnae have to come in today, I told ye.’
I sat up. ‘I had to leave the house at some point.’ I picked a letter from the pile of unread correspondence on my desk. ‘That chap Stoker wrote again.’
McGray shoved the envelope in his pocket. Aye, he’s becoming a nuisance. I see ye’ve read my notes.’
I shook my head. ‘It is pretty much what I expected. Did they question the villagers?’
‘Aye. Nobody wanted to tell a thing. They all said they’d had naught to do with the family, that they rarely came out to mingle with the paupers.’
‘That could easily be proven false. Even if they were not aware of the Kolomans’ dark deeds, I’d say all of them would have heard enough that night at the island.’
‘Indeedy, but even if ye and me went back there and managed to find all the damned sods involved, we’d probably end up arresting two entire bloody villages, and I don’t think that’s goin’ to happen right now.’
I sat back, interlacing my fingers. ‘Indeed. I . . . I have been wondering . . . Who do you think survived? The constables found no corpses. Other than the piles of old bones, that is.’
Nine-Nails sat on his desk and lighted up a cigar. ‘Who kens? I think we can safely assume that Dominik and Silas were blown to smithereens. Everyone else is in doubt.’
‘The twins and Mrs Koloman were the first ones to disappear.’
McGray was kind enough not to joke about the girls. ‘Aye. And Miss Fletcher said she was going with Benjamin.’ He puffed at his cigar. ‘I saw the book she talked about. A michty hefty tome, Frey, and it was crammed with handwriting.’
I took a deep breath. ‘Do you think the Nelapsis, if they survived, might . . . adopt the Kolomans’ t
reatment?’
‘Cannae tell. I’m not even sure they’d be able to make sense of it. Kind though they were, the Nelapsis were nae precisely highly literate.’
‘True,’ I said. ‘Do you think the Kolomans will be able to continue? Having lost their book?’
McGray arched an eyebrow. ‘I hadnae thought o’ that. They might know the procedure by heart . . . then again . . .’ He sighed. ‘Nae use wondering now, is there?’
‘No,’ I mumbled. ‘No use indeed.’
I remained silent for a good while, unaware of my sombreness until McGray spoke.
‘I’m very sorry, Frey.’
I bit my lip. This was one of the reasons that had kept me at home. I did not want commiseration; I did not want to have to reassure people I was doing all right.
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I know you are.’ I broke the silence before McGray could say any more. ‘I have been thinking of this disease. I read the study about it a while ago. Here is something you might be interested to hear.’
McGray leaned forward, biting his cigar and grasping his knees. ‘Tell me.’
‘I remember only the generalities, but this man, J. H. Schultz, described a patient who had fits of pain, skin sensitivity, an enlarged spleen and reddish urine. The man eventually lost his mind. Schultz called his ailment pempigus leprosus.’
‘I doubt that name’s the important bit,’ said McGray.
‘Well, Schultz suggested that the madness was not really a physical symptom, that it is the constant strain of the pain and seizures that disturbs the patients’ minds. And if Mr Nelapsi found some physical relief from that blood serum, if his fits and pains became less frequent, it makes sense that his mind would improve. The waters might have had nothing to do with his recovery.’
McGray nodded. His answer was far too predictable. ‘Aye. Ye said might.’
I sighed and looked away. I had no patience to argue, but this time I understood him like never before. What would I be willing to do, or believe, if I thought there was even a slight chance of bringing Uncle Maurice back?
‘I sent a vial o’ those waters to Doctor Clouston,’ McGray admitted.
‘You did what?’
‘I collected a wee vial when I went to Isle Maree. I thought it’d be better if I didnae tell ye.’
I sighed again. ‘McGray, if you believe in those legends, you should also believe that there was a curse on anyone who took anything off that island.’
‘Aye, I ken. Too late. Clouston has it now, with my specific instructions to post it to Pansy as soon as he can. He should send me a report soon enough.’
I attempted to say something encouraging, but no words came out.
McGray put both hands on the desk, his missing finger somehow more noticeable than ever, and pushed himself up. He knew what I thought and, just like me, he had no energy left to argue, so he simply made his way to the door.
What I said next came out of nowhere, as if somebody else had put the words in my mouth.
‘McGray, if you are not otherwise engaged, would you care to join me at Great King Street for a measure of whisky?’
He halted, turned very slowly and looked at me sternly. ‘Frey, I ken yer hurting, but ye sound like yer losing yer mind.’
I smirked. ‘No, that will be the day I offer you a glass of Bordeaux and expect you to appreciate it. In fact, it is your own bloody whisky I will be serving.’
‘Och, aye! That ill-gotten whisky ye tricked out o’ me!’
‘Tricked? It was won most fairly. In fact, you should still be supplying me bottles, and you know it! But I should not expect any better; the bloody Scotches have no word, just like my father has always said . . .’
‘All right, all right, I’ll come to yer house and drink my own bloody whisky. But only if ye promise ye won’t talk too much. Ye ken I hate yer Soothron accent.’
Cassandra Smith, head nurse, brought a stack of files back to the superintendent’s office, her back aching. It was nearly eleven, according to her little pocket watch, and the corridor windows showed that the skies were as dark as they could go.
She knocked, the good doctor answered promptly and she stepped in.
Dr Clouston was still seated at his desk, the fire behind him the only source of light. And he was still starting at the little sample.
‘You’ve not turned your lamp on,’ Cassandra said, leaving the files on the desk. ‘Shall I do it for you?’
Clouston was lost in thought. It took him a moment to answer. ‘No, no, Miss Smith. I was about to go home.’
Cassandra saw Mr McGray’s letter on the desk, exactly where she’d seen it two hours ago. She interlaced her fingers and approached slowly. The vial caught a glimmer from the hearth, the ounce of spring water as clear as the purest glass.
She had to ask the question now.
‘Have you . . . have you decided?’
Dr Clouston massaged his temples. ‘Yes, I have. I am simply gathering the courage.’
Cassandra went to the threshold, made sure the hallway was deserted and shut the door. By the time she turned back Dr Clouston had already opened the vial, and before his determination waned again he poured its contents into the fire.
The flames flickered and the water hissed as it became nothing but vapour.
Clouston threw the vial into the hearth too, then turned away and buried his face in his trembling hands. Cassandra came over and, confident nobody was looking, placed a comforting hand on the doctor’s shoulder.
‘You’re only doing what you must.’
He took a deep breath.
‘I know. May God forgive me.’
Author’s Note
The plot of this book relies on a physical impossibility: that in the 1880s the north of Scotland could see two sunny days within a single week. Everything else is based on strict scientific fact (and no, I am not going to tell you how to make explosives from guano).
Acute porphyrias are a group of rare genetic disorders, the sufferers of which produce abnormally high amounts of porphyrins, precursors of haemoglobin. The symptoms vary widely depending on the type of porphyria, but photosensitivity and attacks of acute abdominal pain are the most common. Madness, as mentioned by Frey, can occur in severe cases (George III is rumoured to have had the disease); however, this is triggered not by the porphyrin imbalance itself but by the anxiety and depression that the ailment can cause. The most severe varieties of porphyria, though very rare, can lead to harrowing manifestations like loss of hair, nails and ears, and eye abnormalities.
Because of these unique effects, porphyria sufferers have been unjustly associated with vampires in recent times. However, the only (somewhat) shared symptom between vampires and porphyria patients is photosensitivity, and this does not even feature in the original folklore tales. Bram Stoker was one of the first authors to state that vampires could be killed by sunlight, and the first one to mention them turning into bats. Dracula would not be published until 1897.
Treatment for porphyria is now available. Patients experiencing seizures are injected with human heme, the iron- containing part of the haemoglobin molecule, which stabilizes the blood through inhumanly complicated biochemistry I do not need to go into here.
The full process for heme synthesis remains proprietary knowledge; however, I can tell you that plenty of the medical research has relied on isolating heme from the blood of healthy human donors. This treatment was, of course, not known in Victorian times, and they would not have had the means to produce complex synthetic proteins. On the other hand, they would have been able to isolate heme from fresh human blood, and the method would have been surprisingly uncomplicated. It would be unethical to give away such a recipe, so I only kept in the first steps: isolating haemoglobin with a centrifuge (which Boyde is seen doing in the kitchen) and maintaining the blood liquid.
The anti-clotting properties of leeches and bat saliva have been known for centuries. Sodium citrate, despite the simplicity of its synthesis (it really can be
made out of lemon juice and caustic soda), was not successfully applied as an anticoagulant until 1914 in Belgium. It is still used nowadays in blood banks and laboratories.
Light diffraction has been used to identify proteins since the mid nineteenth century, even if the mechanics behind it were poorly understood. Crystallization of proteins is an even older practice.
The rapid degradation of human heme into toxic compounds, mentioned in the story, was a real challenge, and it limited the efficiency of the treatment for many years (about half the heme decomposes as soon as it is dissolved with traditional methods, which would account for the high doses needed by Veronika). These issues have been addressed in recent decades and treatment with human heme is now safe. The medicament now has a much longer shelf life too.
I want to stress the fact that porphyrias are serious, painful disorders, often misdiagnosed even today, and I raise my glass to all the men and women who have worked for decades to make the treatment widely available.
ALSO BY OSCAR DE MURIEL
The Strings of Murder
A Fever of the Blood
A Mask of Shadows
LOCH OF THE DEAD
Pegasus Books Ltd
148 West 37th Street, 13th Floor
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2019 by Oscar de Muriel
First Pegasus Books hardcover edition April 2019
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