When it became impossible to share lodgings with Inspector McGray – largely because of his sister’s worsening condition – and I secured my current property, I had insisted my brother moved in. I’d alleged that the house was too big for a single tenant, and that he’d be more comfortable here than in rented rooms at the New Club, but in reality I had come to genuinely appreciate Elgie’s company. He and my uncle Maurice are the only relatives whose presence I enjoy, and I appreciate them even more after closely witnessing the misfortunes of the McGrays. Now Elgie and I frequently dined together, or I would meet him at the theatre and listen to his rehearsals, and if the weather permitted it we’d walk back home in the evening, talking of everything and nothing in particular.
He’d been looking at the pages with sleepy eyes, but as soon as he saw me he became fully alert.
‘So?’ he urged. ‘What happened? Did they take that girl away?’
‘Good evening to you too,’ I replied, helping myself to a well-deserved brandy and lounging in my favourite chair. I realized the envelope was still in my hand. I shoved it distractedly into my shirt pocket, still unwilling to read it. ‘I thought you’d be practising,’ I said, nodding at the abandoned violin and bow by the music stand.
‘I know that Sullivan backwards and forwards by now,’ he said hurriedly. ‘Pray tell me, what did Mr McGray do? Was he very upset?’
‘Upset, raging, homicidal … I cannot think of a suitably emphatic term.’
‘Was the girl screaming when they took her away?’
‘Elgie, do not be morbid! It was a very sad scene, but if you must know, she was perfectly calm – her usual self.’
Indeed, after her initial burst of murderous frenzy six years ago, Pansy McGray had become a catatonic creature, completely mute and barely aware of her surroundings. She had thus spent the interim years, until last January, when her condition began to deteriorate steadily.
‘Do you still believe,’ Elgie began, ‘that it was all triggered by …?’
‘The Lancashire affair? But of course! The poor girl witnessed a murder, Elgie, and a very shocking one too. It would have been terrifying enough to disturb a sane, stout head; now imagine what it must have been like for a girl whose mind is already unbalanced.’ I sighed. ‘Yes, Miss McGray must have been shaken to her very core.’
As I spoke, Layton had come in and displayed an assortment of cold meats, cheese, bread and chutneys. His eyes did not even flicker upon the mention of murder or insanity. He simply bowed and quit the room.
Elgie had already dined, but he still helped himself to the best of my cheese. ‘Is Mr McGray still of the opinion it is all – witchcraft?’
I could not help but smile at his roguery. ‘You could not wait any longer to ask that question, could you?’
‘Of course not! The gentlemen at the New Club talk of nothing else these days.’
‘I had a chat with Dr Clouston,’ I said. The good doctor had appeared at my door a few hours earlier, begging that I helped him talk some sense into McGray – as if I, of all people, were capable of such a thing. I have a very high opinion of the doctor and his entirely professional approach to mental illnesses, so I could not refuse. Since I have some medical training myself, we were able to discuss Pansy’s case on our way to the asylum. ‘He agrees with my theory,’ I told Elgie. ‘The girl’s mind simply was not able to cope.’
McGray, on the other hand, attributed his sister’s relapse to something far more sinister.
‘Capital fellow, Dr Clouston,’ I said. ‘He is taking her by coach.’
‘Is he travelling all the way to the Orkneys with her?’
I shushed him, then whispered: ‘I told you not to mention that out loud! Yes. I assume he feared she might have another fit on a moving train. And I was not supposed to tell you where she is going in the first place.’
‘Will she spend a long time there?’
‘I cannot tell. He might send for her as soon as there are signs of recovery, I suppose.’
And that was the truth. Clouston thought the reclusion in the asylum was the very thing that had been torturing Pansy. Those walls, those corridors, the very people looking after her would be a constant reminder of the terrors she’d seen and heard. She needed a new environment, to be taken away from the distressing memories, and after very careful deliberation Clouston decided to take her to the Orkney Islands. They were as remote as one could conceive of, six miles above the northernmost tip of Scotland, but Dr Clouston had been born there, and now sponsored a small retirement house for the islands’ elderly. In the care of his most trusted pupils, Pansy would be well looked after there. And most importantly, she’d be safe – safe even from her own brother’s eagerness.
McGray now suspected Pansy’s insanity had been caused intentionally – quite understandable after the dreadful Lancashire affair, which I have described in detail elsewhere. Consequently, McGray mistrusted the medical staff and everyone around her: throughout the spring he had showed up in the asylum at ungodly hours demanding to see her, to inspect her room and food, to watch over people preparing her meals and washing her linen … Clouston and I discussed those episodes a few times, and we have come to believe that McGray’s attitude, though kindly meant, might well have worsened his sister’s condition.
Distance, it appeared, would be the best balm for both. Convincing Nine-Nails was, of course, an entirely different matter, and tonight he’d made one last, desperate attempt to talk Dr Clouston out of his plans.
These grim thoughts were lessening my appetite, so I turned my attention to the tray and ate silently for a moment, hearing the torrential rain battering the window.
‘We are finally playing Macbeth,’ Elgie said, also trying to brighten the mood. ‘Next week!’
I chuckled. ‘Are you sure now? How many times have they postponed the bloody thing?’
‘Twice. They were supposed to come on tour in February, and then around Easter.’
Elgie shook his head. He had initially come to Edinburgh to perform in that play, but it seemed that every time the orchestra was ready the production had to be postponed. The first time it had been apparently at the whim of the leading lady, the celebrated Ellen Terry, who did not fancy travelling to Scotland at the end of winter.
The second rescheduling was a little more justified: the theatre company had been summoned by Queen Victoria herself, who had requested a private performance.
The musicians, in the meanwhile, had been kept on for other productions, which had given Elgie the chance to play some beautiful and challenging pieces, but not everyone shared his enthusiasm. Disillusion had been followed by cynicism, and then boredom.
‘People are sick of waiting,’ Elgie went on. ‘They were saying the other day that the play would never happen; that it was all because of the curse of Macbeth.’
I sneered, for lately I had been learning plenty about curses.
‘Also,’ said Elgie, ‘three musicians have quit and more than two-thirds of the tickets have been returned. It is a real shame. The music is terrific, and Laurence told me he read some wonderful notices for the performances in London.’
I almost grunted at the mention of my estranged eldest brother.
‘Well, I hope they do manage to present it this time,’ I said. ‘You have worked really hard on those pieces.’
And I knew it too well. I had heard him play ‘Chorus of Witches and Spirits’ so many times I now hated every single bar.
‘It will definitely happen this time, Ian. Mr Irving and Miss Terry must be already in Edinburgh. I heard Mr Wyndham say their train would arrive today. He spent all day boasting very loudly he’d be having luncheon with Miss Terry tomorrow. He will miss the Saturday premiere; he has some conveyancing business out of town, I believe.’
‘Well, then you shall finally have your big performance – in just five days! I am sure your mother will be very proud.’
As soon as I said so, Elgie’s mouth opened a little, like the beginning o
f a gasp he had scarcely managed to contain.
I tilted my head. ‘Elgie?’
His eyes had suddenly turned sheepish. I knew what was about to happen, but I did not want to pronounce it and thus make it real. I had a sip of brandy instead, and Elgie finally spoke.
‘Mother and Father are coming. With our brother Oliver, I presume.’
It felt as though the spirit soured in my mouth. I savoured the drink, my jaw and lips tense, trying not to spray the very expensive brandy all over the carpet. I swallowed, and Elgie read the rage in my eyes. His lip was quivering; he was not done.
‘And?’ I grunted.
‘And … Well, I told them they were welcome to stay here.’
‘Damn it, Elgie!’
I jumped up and threw my cheese knife on the plate, crumbs falling all around, and the rattling made Elgie shrink in his chair, very much like a turtle’s head retreating into its shell. Right then there was a frantic knocking at the main door, which I barely noticed.
‘Are you completely out of your mind? Do you want your crazy mother, our cantankerous father – and me, all of us under the same roof? It will take five minutes for the house to become a bloody Bosworth Field!’
‘Well, I could not invite them and not offer them a room! They would have struggled to find decent lodgings on such short notice!’
I became aware of my dangerously firm grip on the tumbler. I put it on the table before I crushed it.
‘And when shall I expect the gentle pair of doves to arrive?’ I asked, and Elgie stammered. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, you can hardly tell me anything more shocking.’
‘The day after tomorrow. They telegrammed this afternoon.’
I took a few deep breaths, trying to keep myself as composed as the news allowed. Then I spoke through my teeth. ‘And for how long are we to be privileged with their presence?’
‘Well … at least a fortni–’
‘Damn it, Elgie!’
Layton knocked right then.
‘What?’ I yelped.
Layton entered, completely unaffected by my shouting, merely arching one of his eyebrows in puzzlement.
‘I do apologize for the interruption. Master Frey, there is a young constable at the door demanding your presence. I may have misheard, but he claims that … a banshee has been spotted under Regent Bridge.’
I exhaled noisily, feeling utterly spent. ‘You have not misheard, Layton. You had better get used to delivering that sort of message.’
2
‘Who was the man, again?’
‘Some southerner, sir,’ said Constable McNair. ‘Theatre type. Really odd-looking. Wheatstone, I think he said. Ye’ll meet him soon, Inspector.’
‘Is Inspector McGray at the scene?’
‘Nae, sir. We cannae find him.’
I sighed bitterly as the cab took us east, towards Waterloo Place and the craggy outlines of Calton Hill. Of course, nobody could find Nine-Nails. Not tonight. He would be either crying or drinking his sorrows away in some dreary place. I might have had an idea of where, but preferred not to say just yet – he’d need his solitude.
The rain had not receded, the tempestuous winds hitting the side of the carriage with such strength I thought it would capsize. A reminder of how close we were to the unruly North Sea.
We took a sharp turn to the right and entered Calton Road, which descended steeply south. The cab rattled along the street, which was flanked on both sides by alarmingly tall tenement buildings, all begrimed with soot.
There, ahead of us, was the solid, imposing arch of Regent Bridge, which connected the opulent Princes Street to the harbours, and which ran above the dingy, reeking Calton Road.
The bridge’s upper section was decorated with the lavish Greek-style columns that made Waterloo Place such a pleasant promenade. The bottom arch on which they rested, however, was a firm, plain, solely utilitarian structure, as grime-caked as the slums around it. Regent Bridge could not have been a better allegory of the city’s upsetting class differences.
As we approached I saw that the road had been closed. Half a dozen police officers stood around a spot under the arch, in the very centre of the road. Most of them carried bright bull’s-eye lanterns, silver beams flickering in all directions. A cart, heavily loaded with coal, had stopped in front of them, and an indignant driver was arguing heatedly.
‘Let me through!’ I heard him yell in an almost incomprehensible Glaswegian accent. ‘Youse bastards, Ah’ve a delivery to complete!’
My cab halted right next to him and I jumped down swiftly. I opened my umbrella but it gave me little protection; the wind, funnelled by the high buildings, carried the rain in horizontal swirls all around us. The carter whistled as he saw me wrap my fur-trimmed collar more tightly around my neck. ‘The pretty laddie in charge?’
I gave him my fiercest roar. ‘Get away! Now! Or your sorry bones spend the night in a cell!’
I did not give him time to reply. I turned to the small cluster of policemen and elbowed my way through. One of them was shedding light on the cobbled road.
‘What on earth is that?’ I asked, my eyes instantly attracted by four crimson stains on the wet stones, which the streams of rain were slowly washing away.
‘There was some writing on the road,’ one of the chaps told me. ‘We tried to save it for yer eyes, Inspector. This is the best we managed.’
‘Good job,’ I said, but merely as a courtesy. Despite their efforts, the message was now unintelligible. ‘Is it what I think it is?’
‘Blood?’ McNair said. ‘Aye, we think so.’
I kneeled down to inspect. It indeed looked like blood, dark red and more viscous than the water running between the stones of the road. I took off my leather glove and prodded the stain with my little finger, then tasted it with the very tip of my tongue. It had the unmistakable ferric hint of blood. I spat it out at once, a sudden retch reminding me why I had abandoned my career in medicine. I recalled how blood seeps into everything – clothes, skin, porous stone – leaving persistent marks that only vigorous brushing or caustic powders can remove.
‘Did anybody take note of it?’ I said, rising swiftly and trying to hide my repulsion.
The young officers looked nervously at each other, but McNair jumped in before I had a chance to scold them. ‘The weird auld man who found it kept babbling the words.’
‘The idiot who claimed it was a banshee?’
‘Aye, I’ll take ye to him.’
I followed McNair to one of the nearest tenements. We had to walk around the spurts of mucky water that fell furiously from the top of the bridge, spat out by the drains that collected the runoff from the road above our heads. I wondered if that was the destiny of our ever more crowded cities: to become clusters of cheap, claustrophobic dwellings stacked vertically as the land ran out.
We made it to a decayed door that led into a narrow, damp, darkened corridor. There was some light coming through the cracks on a tattered door, upon which McNair knocked.
‘Constable?’ a woman asked.
‘Aye, hen. The inspector’s here.’
The door opened and a slender woman received us, wrapped in a ragged shawl and carrying a sleepy toddler swaddled in blankets. She looked to be in her early thirties, around my own age, but her skin was so weather-beaten she seemed a decade older. She had wide, alert eyes that examined me nervously. I felt a twinge of compassion; she seemed the kind of woman who would have been bright and smart and beautiful, had she been born within the right circles.
‘Come in,’ she said, stepping aside. ‘There’s yer man.’
I walked into the single-room dwelling. A hard bed, a battered table and two chairs were the only furniture. There was not even a stove or a fireplace, the only light coming from a blackened oil lamp on the table. I saw a – blessedly empty – chamber pot half concealed under the bed, and thought how hard that woman’s life must be.
Sitting at the table was a middle-aged man leaning forward, one hand wra
pped around a pewter mug and the other pressed against his forehead. He was a short, compact sort of fellow, clearly experiencing a nasty hangover, but other than that he seemed incongruously respectable: he wore an expensive tweed suit and half-moon spectacles, and I noticed the shiny gold chain of a pocket watch. Thick, stiff curls of grey hair grew on each side of his balding head, his overall image reminding me of one of my eccentric professors of anatomy. His hands supported that impression, for his thick, stumpy fingers were dry and calloused.
‘I assume you two are not connected,’ I said.
The woman shook her head. ‘I’ve never seen him before. The other peelers asked me to shelter him here while youse arrived. I only went out there to have a look after I heard all the hurly burly.’
The man groaned as she said that.
I sat in front of him. ‘What is your name?’
He cleared his throat and massaged his head. ‘Wheatstone,’ he said, in an undoubtedly upper-class English voice. ‘John Wheatstone.’
‘Mr Wheatstone,’ I said, ‘Constable McNair here tells me you claim to have seen a banshee.’
I did not bother to hide my incredulity, and he gave me a bitter look in return.
‘Do you want me to lie, Inspector …?’
‘Ian Frey.’
‘Do you want me to lie, Inspector Frey, simply to avoid your mockery?’
‘What makes you think you saw a banshee?’ I could certainly guess, given the unpleasant scent of stale alcohol that the man gave off.
I did not get an immediate answer. He hesitated, rubbed his forehead hard and fixed his stare on the greasy table.
‘Mr Wheatstone, do you want me to investigate this matter or –’
‘I’ve seen one before!’
His outburst made us all start. The little girl burst into tears and her mother wrapped her more tightly, rocking her in her arms.
Wheatstone snorted. ‘Well … not seen. But heard. Tonight’s the first time I’ve actually laid eyes on one.’
‘What did she look like?’
‘A petite woman, all covered in white rags – I could not see her face. She was crouching in the middle of the road, washing a nasty bundle of bloody clothes in the street puddles.’
A Mask of Shadows: Frey & McGray Book 3 (A Case for Frey & McGray) Page 3