‘A little.’ I had questioned them while McGray and Massey arranged the search. ‘Apparently Pimblett did not have many visitors. The ones who came, however, did so quite frequently.’
‘Did they keep a record o’ their names?’
‘Yes, they register the names of all visitors. The book is very long, as you can imagine; I have one of the guards going through it as we speak.’
We walked back to the main yard, where a few shackled inmates were sweeping snow and spreading rock salt. I saw a young clerk running towards us. The poor chap slipped on the wet flagstones and fell right on his rump; after standing up and smoothing out his jacket, he spoke with grovelling enthusiasm: ‘Sirs, I’ve collected Pimblett’s files. They’re all in the library.’
He led us there, an airy room of high ceilings and large windows, its walls entirely covered by shelves of leather-bound law acts.
‘There,’ the clerk said, pointing at a wide round table, where a bundle of folders lay. ‘I have separated the court proceedings and Mr Pimblett’s personal documents. I also took the liberty of signalling the ones I considered particularly relevant.’
McGray sat on a very ornate chair, its arms so wide it looked more like a small bench.
‘That seat was custom-made for Her Majesty,’ the young man told us, rather eager to please. ‘Queen Victoria honoured us with a visit in the year –’
‘I don’t care,’ McGray interrupted. ‘Go away.’
Befuddled, the man looked at me. I just waved my hand, but he did not leave until McGray threw him a fuming glare. On his way out he banged his shoulder against the door frame.
‘That could be yer son,’ McGray said, already leafing through the files.
‘I hope not … although I must admit he has marked useful facts … Pimblett was born in some place called Slaidburn, somewhere in –’
‘Lancashire?’
‘Indeed. Have you heard of the place?’
‘Aye. Long story. Go on.’
‘He came to Lancaster as a young boy and worked here and there doing hard labour, until he was employed by a Miss Redfern.’
‘Redfern …’ McGray whispered, pensive. ‘Wasn’t Oakley’s telegram signed by a Miss R?’
‘Indeed!’ I made a note of that and continued to read. ‘Pimblett left her to go to Scotland – presumably that was the period when he served Joel Ardglass. He returned in early 1883, and a few months later he was prosecuted for smuggling.’
McGray sat back, wearing a deep frown. ‘Does it mention more specific dates?’
‘He left in 1875 and came back in January 1883.’
‘It was around that time that Ardglass went to the asylum …’
I checked my little notebook. ‘Indeed, and that makes sense. If Pimblett was his personal butler, his services would no longer have been required.’
‘There’s something here that feels odd …’ McGray said, looking now at the court proceedings, which were not very long. ‘The court files are dated June 1883 …’
I saw him shudder and by then I knew him well enough to tell why. That was the date he hated the most: the month when his sister had gone mad and he’d lost his finger. A mere coincidence, that was clear, but a bitter reminder nonetheless.
‘If I remember correctly,’ he said after clearing his throat, ‘Ardglass was locked up in December 1882. Pimblett arrives here a month later … and within five months manages to get himself in jail. Chief Constable Messy said he’d been imprisoned for five years, didn’t he?’
‘Yes.’ I pointed at a paragraph underlined with pencil. ‘His sentence was seven years; he would have been released eighteen months from now.’
‘Unlucky bastard,’ McGray said. ‘That’s a long sentence; he must have been smuggling serious shite to get himself in such dire straits so soon.’
‘The records will say.’
We leafed through, read and reread, but found only a one-line explanation: Under oath, Mr Harry Pimblett confessed to charges of unlawful trade.
‘Is that all?’ I was indignant. ‘What kind of judge passes a ruling like this? It makes you Scots look almost civilized.’
McGray went back to the first page. ‘Judge Matthew Spotson.’
‘Let’s forget it. I doubt his sentence will have anything to do with Lord Ardglass.’
McGray was looking intently at the name. ‘I’m not sure, Frey. Pimblett was Joel’s auld butler and he turns out to have a cryptic file … It doesnae feel right. We should dig a wee bit deeper.’ He whistled loudly, as if calling for his golden retriever.
Immediately the young clerk rushed back in, and I suspected he’d had his ear pressed against the door all this time. ‘Yes, sirs?’
McGray handed him the folder. ‘Laddie, we want to ask a few questions to this judge, Matthew Spotson. Can ye help us find him?’
The servile expression on the clerk’s face vanished, as did the colour in his cheeks.
‘Everything all right?’ I asked.
‘Yes, sir. He retired last year, but –’
‘We need to find him, laddie. Can ye arrange that?’
‘Oh, of course, sir. He – he happens to be my grandfather.’
I could but chuckle. ‘You must be joking.’
‘Oh, not at all, sir. He’s the reason I work here.’ As he spoke he dropped the folder, its sheets scattering everywhere, and after clumsily picking them up he banged his head against the edge of the table.
I sighed. ‘That I can believe.’
The Spotsons might be in want of wits, but they were certainly not short of money. The old judge lived in a large townhouse in Church Street, one of the most desirable addresses in Lancaster.
His clumsy grandson – Crispin – had guided us there reluctantly, sulking all the way. Fortunately the house was a few minutes’ walk from the castle; otherwise I would not have agreed to join them. I could not see the source of Nine-Nails’ hunch.
There was a black cat seated by the doorstep, looking almost regal as it watched us arrive. It did not move at all when the door opened and a wave of heat came out. A plump, very loud maid received us.
‘Master Crispin! You home so early?’
‘These gentlemen want to speak to Grandpapa. Is he up?’
The woman bit her lip. She seemed wilful and rather vulgar, and wore long cotton sleeves even though the house was kept a little too warm for my taste. Her blonde and white curls caught my eye: they were so tight they looked like spiralling wood shavings. ‘He is awake, but … Are you sure, master?’
‘Take us to him,’ McGray said, in a tone that did not admit contradiction, and we walked in.
We found the old judge seated in a small yet very elegant parlour on the first floor. His leather armchair was conveniently placed in front of the wide window, giving him a panoramic view of the street.
His age was evident: he was as wrinkled as a prune, with sparse white hair and golden spectacles that magnified his eyes to three times their size. He was settled on the armchair as if someone had pushed him down, or – more likely – as if he sat there for hours and hours every day, until the leather cushions had become moulded to the shape of his frail body. He wore a thick dressing gown and his legs were snugly wrapped in a blanket; rather unnecessary, given the warmth of the room.
Crispin announced us, but the old man only inclined his head slightly. He was staring at his hands, the fingertips of the left touching each of those of the right, as if he were counting, and he also mumbled unintelligibly from time to time.
‘Do be seated,’ Crispin said, and we sat down on a leather sofa. The maid soon came in with a silver tray and a shiny set of china.
‘Tea, gentlemen?’
I touched my stomach. ‘No, thank you.’
McGray refused as well. It would be a while before we accepted tea from strangers again.
Crispin did take a cup, with milk and three lumps of sugar.
I looked dubiously at the old judge. His stare was vacant and he had not ackno
wledged our arrival.
‘Mr Spotson?’ I said. ‘May we ask you a few questions?’
He did not even slightly move his head in our direction.
‘It’s about Mr Pimblett,’ said McGray.
Spotson’s fingers became still, the tip of his index fingers pressing against each other, but then he resumed his counting.
I looked at Crispin, all impatience. ‘How long has he been like this?’
Crispin dropped his cup on the saucer and half the tea spilled. ‘S-sorry?’
‘Ye heard the dandy,’ McGray intervened. ‘It’s not yer grandfather’s fault. How long’s he been in this state?’
Crispin had to put his dripping china on one of the side tables. ‘Well … two or three years.’
‘Is that why he retired?’ I asked.
‘Yes, sir. People were beginning to mock him at the courts – even the convicts.’
‘So he could not tell us much about Pimblett’s case.’
‘No … I don’t think so. He has his moments; from time to time he speaks and he makes sense, but they’re fewer every day.’
I was about to say what an awful waste of time the visit had been – Crispin could have told us about his grandfather’s condition before we came – but I felt sorry for them. I could imagine the frustration the old man must feel in those rare moments of lucidity; a once powerful, respected public figure reduced, in the end, to such helplessness. My brother and father had made their careers in Chancery Lane, so I knew very well how merciless the court halls could be. People surely made tasteless jokes about the senile judge whenever the name Spotson was uttered.
‘I am sorry to hear that.’ My manners took over, making it impossible to excuse myself and go without feeling terribly guilty. A most uncomfortable, awkward silence seemed to be preferable.
McGray was about to do the sensible thing and leave, but then we heard Mr Spotson grunt.
The man leaned forwards, his shaky hands grasping the armrests, and as he rose we heard his knees cracking. The blanket fell and then, with faltering steps, like those of a toddler, he made his way out. We all looked at him in puzzlement, even Crispin. Just as the old man crossed the threshold he paused and turned to give his grandson an eerie smile. His voice came out in a throaty, spine-chilling whisper: ‘Pim-blett …’ He inhaled. ‘I remember Pimblett … and his frogs …’
‘Frogs?’ I echoed.
Spotson nodded, making vague figures with his hands. ‘Yes, frogs … Hideous little things …’
Crispin flushed. ‘Grandpa, please …’
McGray raised a finger to his lips and the old man started fidgeting once again.
‘Frogs. And little snakes … He worked for the witches, you see …’
Then silence.
A death threat could not have had a greater impact. I was left open-mouthed, McGray gasped and Crispin spilled what was left of his tea all over himself.
Nine-Nails leaned forwards. ‘Witches, ye say?’
Spotson nodded, looking directly into McGray’s eyes. He stood still, then pulled at the collar of his dressing gown, as if suddenly aware of the house’s heat. It was an instant before his gaze became vacant once more, then he dreamily turned on his heel and was gone.
‘Told ye I had a funny feeling,’ McGray was saying, exhilarated, as we walked back to the castle.
‘He worked for the witches,’ I quoted, very conscious of my face looking as if I were smelling rotten eggs. ‘The words of a senile man. I would not take them as gospel.’
As soon as we entered the gates we were told the post-mortem had concluded, so we rushed to the morgue.
The mortician was a very old wisp of a man, and he must seldom leave the depths of his workspace: his skin was so pale there were blue veins running along his neck.
When we walked in he was scribbling the last lines of his report, his notepad resting unceremoniously on top of Pimblett’s forehead.
I was expecting to see the horribly bent torso, but the spine had been flattened and under the sheets the body looked almost normal – except for a pair of blueish feet sticking out.
‘I understand this was a mere formality,’ the mortician said, leafing through his report. ‘The chief constable told me you knew what killed this man. Is strychnine what you had in mind?’
‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘but we also want to know whether you found anything else. Anything untoward.’
‘Well, the lad was developing a bad case of arthritis – no wonder in those damp cells – but other than that he looked very normal. No signs of violence or struggle.’
McGray was looking at the feet with a slight frown.
‘What is it?’ I asked. Right under the edge of the sheet, by the man’s ankle, there was a thin, neat scar; a perfectly curved line.
McGray drew the sheet back to inspect the man’s calf. I walked around the table and saw that the entire circumference of his ankle was etched with a most intricate design: a snake, twisted and knotted in a disturbing yet beautiful pattern. It would have taken a lot of skill and a very sharp scalpel to mark the fine scales and the little fangs.
It looked just like the technique used to draw on Greenwood’s inner thigh, only this design had been cut deeper and was much more complex. They both had been marked with the same creature, which was surely no coincidence.
McGray looked at it, enthralled. ‘How come ye didnae mention this?’
The man shrugged. ‘Most of these lowlifes have tattoos or marks of some sort, and that’s not a particularly big one. Is it something of consequence for your investigation?’
‘It’s beginning to be,’ McGray said, and then whispered to himself, ‘So … he worked for the witches …’
19
I had completely forgotten about wiring some money from London, and when I mentioned the issue to McGray he did not react in quite the way I had expected. His eyes widened as if I’d unveiled a barrel of whisky, and before I finished talking he was already trotting towards the telegraph office.
‘I was thinking o’ that last night,’ he said. ‘It was going to be my first stop today, but then all this pile o’ shite happened.’
‘Your first stop?’
‘Indeedy. D’ye have Oakley’s telegram?’
‘Of course! I should have thought of that myself. I do have it. It seems all I do these days is carry documents for you.’
‘Good. Ye said it was sent from Lancaster, so –’
‘They might still remember the sender.’
‘Aye, but don’t say it now as if it was yer idea.’
I was glad Lancaster was not a large town. Its wire office had only six telegraphists and they all sat along two desks in the same room. Four of them were women, which seemed tremendously unusual; engineers did not like to leave their precious inventions in the hands of females. These ladies, however, were not deterred: sporting snow-white blouses and very straight skirts, they seemed completely at ease tapping the transmitters, and the air rang with the sound of electric pulses at a frantic rhythm.
It was one of the women who came to assist us. ‘Can I help you, gentlemen?’
Before anything else I requested my money, and saw her eyebrows rise when I mentioned the sum.
Once I had the notes neatly folded in my wallet, McGray showed his badge and put Oakley’s telegram on the counter. ‘One more thing, lass. We’re CID. We need to ken who sent this message to Edinburgh.’
‘Do excuse me, you need to … ?’
‘Och, we need to knoooow who sent this.’
I turned to the clerk. ‘Miss, you can see there is no signature. All the sender gave was an initial. Is it usual for you to send out telegrams without a proper return address?’
The woman nodded as if speaking to a young child. ‘Very common, sir. People try to send as few characters as possible – it’s cheaper.’
McGray rolled his eyes. I blushed a little and whispered, ‘What? In all my life I have never needed to count the words in my telegrams.’
<
br /> ‘Well,’ the woman said, ‘without a proper signature it could be difficult to track, but not impossible. I can work out the cost from the number of letters and look at the date in the ledger. The payment will be registered there.’
So she did, and after a short wait she came back carrying a thick ledger. ‘You’re lucky, sirs. The message was paid for by a Miss Redfern.’
McGray inhaled sharply. ‘Hear that, Frey?’
I nodded, feeling at last like some pieces were coming together. ‘So it was the Redfern in Pimblett’s file …’ I mumbled, and heard again the eerie words of Judge Spotson in my head. We were on the trail of a witch after all.
‘We need to find that woman,’ McGray told the telegraphist. ‘It’s vital. Any information ye can give us …’
She was already turning the pages. ‘I can definitely help you there. Miss Redfern has an account with us. She’s a very regular customer. I’ll give you her address.’
It was no surprise that Redfern had been Pimblett’s most assiduous visitor. She would call almost fortnightly, always at different times and days of the week, so none of the guards, despite their long shifts, had been fully aware of the frequency. Only a couple of them remembered her clearly, and they described her as a short, thin woman in her sixties or seventies, with a remarkably forceful voice.
They barely had time to tell us, for McGray had rushed back to the castle only to fetch a warrant and a couple of sergeants as backup. The chosen ones were Thatcher and a younger officer they called Kenny.
‘What are you expecting to find at Redfern’s lodgings?’ I asked, as I saw the sergeants picking up their truncheons and charging their guns. ‘We should not need reinforcements to question an old lady.’
McGray chuckled. ‘Did ye think we’d need muscle to question that wee lass Oakley?’
I had to nod. ‘Touché.’
We set off as the day was drawing to a close, with Thatcher on one side and Kenny on the other. A dry, icy wind scoured the town, turning the layers of snow into solid blocks of ice. However, I could barely feel the cold and I cannot fully credit my coat for that; suddenly I was feeling anxious. I had no idea what we were about to encounter, and the darkening sky, still moonless, seemed like an ill portent.
A Fever of the Blood Page 14