A Fever of the Blood

by Oscar de Muriel

  I took a sip of the tea, which had been brewed very strong. ‘Miss Smith was right. We are looking for him, and if there is any piece of information you could provide, however inconsequential it might seem, we’d be very grateful.’

  She fixed her eyes on her still-full cup of tea, thinking. ‘I couldn’t possibly tell you, sir. As I said, I knew nothing about him, not even his real name.’

  I wrote that down, thinking that it fitted perfectly with Lady Anne’s obsession with secrecy. ‘Now I would like to ask you a few questions that you definitely should be able to answer – about Elizabeth Greenwood.’

  ‘That I might be able to help with,’ she said, just before McGray slurped his tea as if attempting to be as loud as possible. She cast him an uncomfortable look.

  ‘I understand this is, or rather was Miss Greenwood’s house,’ I said.

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘How did you come to share lodgings?’

  ‘We had a few acquaintances in common. When they knew I was coming to Edinburgh they suggested I contact her. She was very kind to receive me.’

  ‘Can you elaborate on these acquaintances?’

  She shook her head. ‘Oh, it is somewhat convoluted, sir. More tea? There you go. You see, my late father was a landlord, and one of his tenants was the cousin of a very good shoemaker in Lancaster. One of his regulars was this spirit merchant, who happened to know Lizzy’s – Nurse Greenwood’s – milkman.’

  I gave up on jotting that down. ‘I see, that is convoluted. So you moved here very recently.’

  ‘Yes, last summer.’

  ‘Yet you and Miss Greenwood became very close friends.’

  ‘Oh yes. She was very kind to me. She took me on, refused to be paid any rent – my finances would not have worked out otherwise – and she also taught me a lot about her work. I could not have coped without her help.’

  ‘You are a long way from your home in Lancashire,’ I said, which appeared to surprise her as much as the mention of marigolds.

  ‘Did you notice my accent?’

  ‘Yes. My housekeeper is from Burnley.’

  She wrinkled her nose. ‘Not a very nice place.’

  ‘I have never been, but can undoubtedly take your word. What made you come this far north?’

  ‘It was a very long, sad affair. My father went into debt, lost the family home and then unfortunately died – I shan’t go into the detail of it. My only choice was to find some employment elsewhere.’ She looked down, visibly affected. ‘I preferred to come here, where nobody knew me. Mr Frey, you look like a fine gentleman; you must know how humiliating it is to be whispered about in one’s own circle.’

  I nodded. ‘Sadly, I do know.’ I took a deep breath, blocking my too-fresh memories. ‘I am sorry to hear you have had hard times.’

  ‘I appreciate it, sir.’

  ‘So you and Elizabeth became very close … This will be a very uncomfortable question but I must ask it. Were you aware of Miss Greenwood’s pregnancies?’

  If she’d appeared nervous before, that was the question that utterly threw her off balance. She spilled some of her tea before hastily placing the cup back on the tray. Her cheeks were as red as ripe tomatoes.

  ‘How could you possibly know about that?’

  I downed my cup of tea before replying. ‘A post-mortem was needed. It was not difficult to tell.’

  ‘Of course,’ she whispered. ‘There is no point in denying it now. She had a child before coming to Scotland. She didn’t like to talk about it … understandably.’

  ‘It would help us if you could tell us any details.’

  ‘Details? Well … there are very few I know for sure. She left home when she couldn’t hide her state any more and gave birth in some rotten village. Her family would not have her back, so she had to leave the child there with an old matron. Poor Lizzy had to work hard and sent money to support her daughter.’

  ‘Where does the child live now?’

  Miss Oakley looked down. ‘Oh, well … the poor creature died. Lizzy never brought her up in conversation.’

  I wrote down the story. It was as sad as it was common; families turning their back on their daughters when they got themselves into trouble.

  ‘Thank you for that,’ I said. ‘Inspector McGray may have some … additional questions. Please bear with him.’

  He’d already set down his cup, spilling some tea since he’d drunk very little. It was impossible for him not to notice Miss Oakley’s sudden apprehension. ‘Don’t worry, lass. I won’t bite. How often would ye interact with Lord Bampot?’

  ‘Very little, sir.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. Well, I was supposed to take over some of Lizzy’s patients. He was going to be among those, but I was still familiarizing myself with his case.’

  ‘I see. Ye forgot to tell us that when we mentioned him a moment ago.’

  The girl looked sideways. ‘Indeed. I do apologize.’

  McGray crossed his legs and stroked his stubble, distractedly looking at the low ceiling. ‘Miss, tell me what ye could do with an onion ’n’ some sugar.’

  By then Miss Oakley would not have been surprised by anything he said. She laughed earnestly.

  ‘I do not know, Inspector. Onion marmalade?’

  ‘Everything we asked seemed to upset her,’ McGray said as we left the front garden.

  ‘I find your attitude shocking. You were the one who told me not to upset our witnesses. Now that girl thinks you are as lunatic as one of the inmates she tends to.’

  ‘D’ye think I give a rat’s arse?’

  My stomach churned a little. ‘You should. You never know when a witness will turn out to be crucial.’

  As we walked away we saw that next to our horses there was a black carriage. It must have arrived a few seconds ago, for its horse was still catching its breath. We saw a man alighting, and were astounded to see Dr Clouston himself.

  ‘Why, Doctor!’ I said. ‘This is quite unexpected.’

  ‘Hello, Inspector. Yes, I wanted to check on Miss Oakley. Last night I sent Miss Smith to give her the bad news. I wanted to see how she was faring.’

  ‘She looks a wee bit shaken,’ McGray said. ‘I’m sure she’ll appreciate yer visit.’

  A sudden gust of wind brought tiny drops of sleet. The doctor gulped, and instead of walking on he stood there, planted in the snow.

  ‘Are you all right?’ I asked.

  Clouston did not look up, but fixed his eyes on his shoes as he spoke. ‘I should have remembered this earlier … I think I can help you in your quest.’

  ‘Help us?’

  ‘Yes. I believe there is a place I forgot to mention. Lord Bampot might have decided to go and hide there.’

  McGray and I were flabbergasted.

  ‘And you forgot to mention that?’ I snapped.

  McGray leaned closer to him. ‘Tell us, Doc.’

  Clouston’s eyes were now on the house. From the corner of my eye I could see Miss Oakley standing in an upstairs window, watching us.

  The doctor took a deep breath. ‘Well, it is purely intuition, but there is this small farm in the outskirts of Edinburgh … I believe the land still belongs to Lady Anne.’

  13

  The wind was blowing mightily by the time we saw the farmhouse appear. The building was borderline derelict, the windows boarded up and the walls invaded by blackened ivy and hardened moss. However, I reckoned the place would make a luxurious shelter for a fugitive.

  ‘We’d better leave the horses here,’ McGray said when we were a good hundred yards away. We tied the reins to a pine tree and walked on. I picked up my lantern, anticipating that the place would be very dark. It might have been the harsh wind, or the season’s thick cloud, but there was a looming, oppressive presence in the air. I could feel it with every breath.

  McGray unholstered his weapon but kept it hidden in the folds of his overcoat, his eyes alert.

  As we drew closer we could see that the main door
was ajar. I drew my gun as well, just as a black cat jumped on to the house’s tattered fence. Its bright-green eyes followed us as we approached the entrance.

  Nine-Nails opened the door as quietly as he could, just enough for him to pass through, and after a careful look he stepped in.

  I followed, and the smell of damp hit us. Only a few streaks of dull sunshine filtered through the boards at the window, so I lit the lantern, which gave us a much better view of the interior. A cracked table and a broken chair were the only furnishings. There was a small fireplace so encrusted with cobwebs we could hardly see the bottom of the grate.

  ‘So this is where Lord Ardglass last saw his daughter,’ I muttered, thinking of the sad episode narrated by Dr Clouston shortly before we departed Miss Oakley’s residence.

  McGray pointed down. The floor was so dusty it almost looked white, and a trail of footsteps stood out as clear as an ink stain. They were irregular steps, smudged in places, as if whoever made them had been dragging something.

  The narrow stairs creaked under our feet so loudly I thought they might give way. They took us up to what should have been a landing to two rooms, but all the partition walls had been stripped, the entire storey now a single wide area.

  I looked around, my eyes following every shadow projected by the lantern. My heartbeats quickened; I expected a dark figure to jump from the filthy corners and strike us.

  ‘Nobody home,’ McGray said with a rather disappointed sigh. There was another mucky fireplace where we saw fresh ashes, and right in front of it lay a bundle of clean blankets.

  McGray kneeled down to inspect them. ‘He spent the night here.’

  ‘He? It could have been anybody. This place has been abandoned for quite a while.’

  McGray rummaged through the blankets. ‘Breadcrumbs, cheese crust, apple core – nice supper he had, but nothing to tell us for certain this was left by Lord Bampot.’

  He took the lantern out of my hands and we carefully searched every nook and cranny of the room. The place was so bare that we soon satisfied ourselves there were no further traces.

  We returned to the ground floor, where the thick layers of dust seemed disturbed only around a chair at the corner of the shabby table. Again, there were smudged tracks here and there, showing how someone had sat at that table without placing a single item on its surface.

  McGray shed light on a particularly dark corner, and our eyes instantly fell on a removed floorboard. The half-rotten wood had been tossed aside, revealing a shallow hole.

  ‘Look at that!’ McGray said. We kneeled down and the first thing we found was a clay bottle, corked and sealed with wax. It looked as though it had been buried there for centuries. ‘Could that be a –’

  ‘A what?’ I asked, as Nine-Nails picked up the bottle and shook it.

  ‘Yer not gonnae like this, laddie.’

  ‘Do you think it is something we should collect as evidence?’

  It might have been, but McGray banged the bottle’s neck against the edge of the table. The cork broke off as if cleanly cut with a sword.

  ‘Is that your best tavern trick?’ I said, but could not elaborate on the joke, for the acrid stench of ammonia hit my nostrils and instantly made my eyes tear. ‘Gosh, that is urine!’

  Even Nine-Nails seemed repulsed. ‘Very auld piss, I’d say.’

  He poured the contents on to the floor before I could protest. I expected to see pure urine, but the liquid that came out was dark red and viscous – it made me shudder. Then I heard metallic clinking and saw a handful of nails falling out, all bent and rusty, followed by a couple of blackened woody sprigs.

  I had to cover my nose and mouth with my handkerchief, but that only slightly mitigated the horrendous stench. ‘What on earth is that?’

  ‘A witch bottle,’ McGray said, observing the items with fascination. ‘They use ’em for protection. When ye move into a new house, ye bury one o’ these. They’re supposed to trap any harm coming to the folk living in the building.’

  ‘When you say harm, I suppose you mean …’

  ‘Hexes, spells, jinxes.’

  ‘Is that urine? Blood? What on earth … ?’

  ‘I’ve read the main liquid has to be the urine of one of the occupants, preferably the head o’ the house. Some witches add expensive wine as a kind of offering.’

  ‘And the nails?’

  ‘It’s like Madame Katerina said. For witches metal is like a well for – bad things. That’s where all the black magic is trapped.’

  I rose and walked to the still open door, trying to find some fresh air. As I took a deep breath I saw the same black cat pacing around the front garden. To my surprise, the animal looked directly at me before it turned around and walked away.

  ‘Are these … artefacts something you find at witches’ houses?’

  ‘Not witches alone. The hags can charge good money for making one o’ these for people’s homes. They’ve been used since the Middle Ages. They work as long as they’re left undisturbed and strangers don’t ken where they are.’

  ‘Why would someone come looking for that?’

  ‘Mmm … Perhaps this isn’t all they were looking for.’ McGray plunged his four-fingered hand into the ground and had a quick rummage. He pulled out a dusty leather bag and shook it. I thought it was empty, but then a single penny rolled out. ‘Aha! This must be what he came for.’

  ‘Money?’ I ventured.

  ‘Aye. It’s no surprise they’re in the same place: ye’d keep yer witch bottle well hidden, just as ye’d do yer gold.’

  I pressed my handkerchief a little harder against my nose. ‘If this house and land are Lady Anne’s – do you think she knew about that bottle and bag?’

  ‘I cannae tell about Lady Glass, but I’d bet yer tetchy nostrils Lord Bampot was here. Those leftovers looked fresh, and there’s no others, so I’d say the place was disturbed only last night. The night after he ran away. It cannae be a coincidence.’

  ‘Sounds logical. He comes here for shelter and to retrieve his money.’

  ‘Which he’ll definitely need if he’s on the run,’ McGray concluded, clapping the dust off his hands.

  He glanced around, suddenly looking lost.

  I shared the feeling. ‘At least we now can reasonably believe he is heading away, and not lurking around town preying on somebody else.’

  ‘He might be preying on somebody else out o’ town.’

  McGray made his way out, utterly frustrated. I was about to close the door, but then something half hidden behind it caught my eye, something that looked almost glossy against all the dusty surfaces.

  It was a thin cardboard folder, of a type I recognized immediately.

  ‘Nine-Nails, wait,’ I said, leaning to pick up the file. ‘This looks exactly like the file Clouston gave me! The one containing Lord Ardglass’s medical records.’

  McGray snatched it from my hands and looked inside. There was a single sheet of paper, torn from a ledger and with a couple of lines hastily jotted in pencil.

  ‘What does it say?’ I urged.

  Nine-Nails’ face had turned white. ‘We’ve just been there! It’s Miss Oakley’s address!’

  14

  We retraced our steps at a wild gallop, sleet lashing our faces, the horses moving so fast their steaming breath trailed behind.

  ‘We might have even crossed paths!’ McGray grunted.

  ‘Nonsense. These are open fields. We would have easily seen –’ I stopped there, realizing precisely what I was saying; Lord Ardglass could have seen us too, and he would have known we were heading to him. I winced. ‘What might he want with Miss Oakley?’

  McGray grunted. ‘He won’t be going there for a cup o’ tea.’

  Our worst fears were realized when we reached Miss Oakley’s cottage. The door was wide open, and on the snow there were fresh marks of thumping steps.

  We dismounted and rushed in, guns in hands; the place could not have looked more different from our earlier visit.
The table was upside down, its legs broken; the tea set was shattered, pieces of china all over the floor, and in the tumult the wet tea leaves had become mixed with the stuffing of ripped cushions.

  I opened my mouth to speak, but McGray raised his hand, asking me to listen.

  There was a rustle of papers coming from the kitchen.

  I took a sharp, involuntary breath.

  We drew closer, as quietly as we could, but then I stepped on something, and before I could realize it was a tiny shard of china the blasted thing cracked loudly under my shoe.

  The ruffling stopped immediately, and I saw the fury in McGray’s face. He hurled himself at the kitchen door and kicked it open.

  The room was in a greater mess than the parlour, but I barely noticed – my eyes fell on the black cat grooming itself on a working table, a pile of crumpled papers around it. There was nobody there.

  ‘Don’t move, gentlemen.’

  My heart stopped. I felt a hint of queasiness. The deep, imperious voice had come from behind us, sending blasts of ice-cold fear piercing through my body.

  McGray tried to turn around, but then a gunshot resounded and I saw the bullet hit the wooden floor right between his feet.

  ‘I said don’t move, Nine-Nails.’

  I did not attempt to turn; if the man wanted to shoot us he would have done so without giving warning. I could see him, however, reflected in the pane of the window in front of us.

  The man himself – Lord Joel Ardglass.

  Pointing a large-calibre handgun at us.

  I recognized his face from the picture I still carried in my breast pocket, but at the same time it could have been an entirely different man: the skin around his eyes was darkened and wrinkled, and his jaw appeared broader, as if his very bones had grown harder. He was clad in a thick black travel overcoat.

  ‘It’s fortunate you like your tartan trousers,’ he told McGray. ‘I’d recognize you three miles away.’

  ‘Where’s the lass?’ Nine-Nails snapped.