A Mask of Shadows: Frey & McGray Book 3 (A Case for Frey & McGray)

by Oscar de Muriel

  My mind engaged in such thoughts, I started as the grotesque face of a monster received me. McGray had been recently sent a large Peruvian sculpture, and he’d planted it right by the entrance, for there was little space left in the room: the place was overflowing with countless books, amulets, formaldehyde jars containing horrendous things, along with all manner of odd artefacts. Everything was crammed on unstable shelves or teetering in precariously balanced towers. Last month I had tried to put some order into the room, but McGray threw an epic tantrum, telling me he could no longer find anything. Indeed, he somehow knew the precise location of each book, specimen or sheet of paper in that chaos.

  I found him already there, part of me glad he was back at work, part of me already bored by his obsession.

  Standing by one of the tallest piles of books, he was holding an ancient tome in one hand. In the other he had the thickest sandwich I’d seen in a while, bits of bacon and fried egg sticking out, all wrapped in a sheet of newspaper now drenched in fat.

  ‘Yer late,’ he said, his mouth so full of food I had to guess the words.

  ‘No, McGray, you are early.’

  ‘I don’t sleep much, ye ken that. Thought I’d come and do some reading on banshees. I don’t have much literature about … Wait, why are ye looking so bleeding cocky?’

  My deformed reflection on a formaldehyde jar informed me I was smiling in my most contemptuous way. I tried to control my features while tossing The Scotsman before McGray.

  He frowned, put his dusty book down and picked up the paper.

  ‘Those laddies are quick!’ He read through the article at staggering speed. ‘Is this shite accurate? Ye were there last night.’

  ‘Accurate to the last word. They even mention the exact writing that Mr Wheatstone scribbled down.’

  McGray arched an eyebrow. ‘Might’ve been a whistle-blower in our lines? Which officers were there?’

  I shook my head. ‘McNair, Millar and a few of their chaps. I doubt the story leaked through any of them. I know them by now, and they have seen far stranger, far juicier stories.’

  ‘Yer still grinning.’

  ‘Yes. Do you not see why?’

  He took a huge bite before speaking, bits of egg yolk spurting on to my collar. ‘Another smug remark like that and I’ll break yer legs.’

  I thought I’d better get to the point. ‘McGray, this is all a very predictable, very convenient publicity stunt.’

  I was expecting McGray to smack me in the face with his fried eggs and bacon, and then defend most passionately the theory of a banshee visiting from the netherworld to announce impending doom.

  He did not, however. He chewed on, pensively looking at the headline, and his frown deepened.

  ‘Aye, ye might be right.’

  I blinked, utterly confused. Then again, even McGray refused cases from time to time, like the one of the stout lady who’d come two months ago claiming a poltergeist was stealing lard from her pantry – and the lady was very stout.

  ‘Did … did I just hear … you say I might be right?’

  Very carefully, very neatly, McGray folded the paper in half, and then in half again, and then rolled it firmly and used it to bat the top of my head. ‘Aye. Might.’

  I grunted in frustration, telling myself I should be used to all this by now.

  ‘Nine-Nails, this is bloody obvious. Only last night Elgie was telling me about the poor sales of this play. He told me it has been postponed twice. People are angry, and according to Elgie more than two-thirds of the tickets have been returned.’

  McGray looked at the rolled-up paper. ‘So they’re creating a wee bit o’ scandal and telling the papers themselves?’

  ‘Precisely; a little supernatural touch for a play that is already reputed to be cursed. Make people believe something sinister might happen and that will guarantee a morbid crowd queueing to see.’

  I could almost see reason creeping into McGray’s mind, and then his enthusiasm leaving him, like air from a punctured balloon. Without a case to occupy his thoughts he’d probably go back to his depressive state, and all of a sudden the softer side of me regretted my haste in convincing him it was all a hoax. I thus have mixed feelings as to what happened next.

  I heard a tapping coming from the steps behind the office door: the instantly recognizable sound of Superintendent Campbell’s walking stick. In the police headquarters that sound was more effective than a bell tied to a cat’s neck.

  The man pushed the door open, looking furiously at us. With his bushy mane and beard, I have always thought of him as a wild, grey lion, and that morning he did not disappoint. His vicious eyes and his gnashing teeth were as eloquent as his very presence down here, for the head of Edinburgh’s police force had never ventured into our Dumping Ground before. I was about to ask mockingly to what we owed the honour of his visit, but McGray took a slightly more direct approach.

  ‘What the fuck ye want?’

  Campbell took a little step back, surely reminded of the time McGray had punched and half-strangled him – something I had witnessed from mere inches away. After that the superintendent’s face had bruised awfully, and stayed purple for so long everyone now called him Peach-Skin Campbell.

  ‘Watch your mouth, McGray!’ he roared, regaining his ground. He looked around with a disgusted, yet not surprised stare; our office must look exactly as he had imagined it. ‘I sent you direct orders last night, only to find that your English secretary sent Mr Stoker away!’

  ‘Sir,’ I said, ‘with all due respect, I am not a secre–’

  ‘Shush, Frey! I’m sick of your stupid English pomposity. Mr Stoker says you didn’t even read my blasted note!’

  As he spoke, Mr Stoker himself came in, his full ginger beard the first thing that caught my eyes. I’d not looked at him with much attention the night before, but even if I had I would have never guessed he was a theatre manager: tall, brawny and solidly built, he rather looked like a rugby player. His eyes, a little too close together, had an air of benevolence, even of slight fright at Campbell’s shouting.

  ‘I see you two have read The Scotsman,’ Campbell said, pointing at the roll of pages in McGray’s hand.

  ‘Sir, McGray and I were just discussing the implications of –’

  ‘I said shush, Frey! I did not think much of these ridiculous apparitions’ – Mr Stoker seemed quite offended – ‘but now that it’s all gone to the press we have to look as if we’re doing something – justify the bloody budget of this damned department for once!’

  ‘Aye, yer vast budget!’ McGray ruminated. It was no secret that he funded most of the investigations himself. The large collection of ancient books and his many ‘research trips’, for instance, had all come from his own pocket.

  ‘If you’re unhappy, pack up your rubbish and leave,’ said Campbell. ‘In the meantime, you’d better attend to this case as a matter of urgency. These are murder threats. I don’t want the press crying we won’t get involved.’

  ‘If we do get involved,’ I said, rushing the words before Campbell hushed me again, ‘we only will be implying we think these apparitions are legitimate.’

  ‘You too are welcome to go to hell if you don’t like my orders,’ Campbell snarled. ‘And make sure the door doesn’t hit your royal English arse when you leave.’ He turned on his feet and barked at Mr Stoker. ‘These blithering idiots will hear you now. Come to me if they don’t.’

  First letter from the partially burned stack found at Calton Hill

  All letters undated. Their placement along the narrative is conjectural. – I. P. Frey.

  My dear,

  I am so sorry things couldn’t go as planned!

  But I left them presents. Something wicked you did not intend, but I am sure it would have gone with your blessing.

  I wish you could have felt the silky blood on your fingers. Oh yes. I wish ‘I’ had seen their faces writhing in disgust, but then that scream – [charred fragment, illegible]

  Oh m
y dear, how they have wronged us! Your heart shattered and my bones broken. Your dreams wrecked and my insides forever flayed.

  But my dear, I am glad, I confess. I am glad it all failed just now, for it means I will have plenty more chances to see you again before the inevitable end.

  We shall meet again, my dear, as soon as my stupor has worn off, and I confess – yes! – I confess I will try, again, to make you change your mind.

  Love,

  X

  5

  ‘Is this … the department assigned to the investigation?’ Stoker asked, casting a dubious stare at the dusty witchcraft books and the little sepia monsters floating in formaldehyde.

  McGray took the hint. ‘Aye. Like Campbell said, if ye don’t like it ye can sod off.’

  ‘Mr Stoker,’ I said, ‘what did you expect? You are asking the police to investigate threats from banshees.’

  He tensed his lips. By now he must have really disliked me.

  ‘Have a seat,’ I offered. ‘Mr Stoker, the first thing I want to know is how on earth the papers heard about yesterday’s sighting in such exquisite detail.’

  Stoker chuckled. ‘I came to ask you the same thing. It must have come from one of your officers, surely.’

  McGray raised a hand before I scolded the Irishman.

  ‘Nae, laddie. Our boys are beyond suspicion. It must have leaked through yer own side.’

  ‘Well, that cannot be! I didn’t know anything about it ’til today. I had it from Mr Wheatstone himself over breakfast. He mentioned you, Inspector, and pretty much every word the newspapers reported. But he returned to the hotel right after the incident.’

  I nodded. ‘Did he mention he was quite intoxicated when he strolled around Regent Bridge?’ Stoker’s eyes opened in bewilderment. ‘I guessed not; a very convenient detail to omit, just like disclosing the entire matter to a bloody reporter.’

  ‘You are speculating.’

  ‘Perhaps, but a quick questioning will clarify it all. See, Mr Stoker, we believe these banshee apparitions are a little too convenient, given your plummeting ticket sales.’

  That left Stoker open-mouthed. ‘How – how do you know that?’

  ‘Doesnae matter now,’ McGray jumped in. ‘How d’ye think this scandal will affect yer numbers?’

  Stoker stammered, his chest swollen. ‘I … I had not given a thought to that!’

  ‘Had you not?’ I probed.

  ‘Of course not!’ Stoker leaned forward. ‘Everyone in the theatre heard the cry, Inspector. And two people told me they were certain it was a banshee – that they could swear it on the Bible. One of them was our most reliable seamstress; the second was – well, Irving himself!’

  ‘In that case,’ I said with a half-smile, ‘what precisely do you want us to do, Mr Stoker? Execute the banshee or just incarcerate her?’

  ‘I beg you stop insulting me! I am an educated man! I have an honours degree from Trinity College in Dublin. I have worked and written pamphlets on public service. I have published literature: Under the Sunset, The Primrose Path …’

  I chuckled. ‘Well, I have never heard of those, so they cannot be any good.’

  That made him explode.

  ‘Gentlemen, I came to the police for help!’ He rubbed his face with both hands, forcing himself back into composure. ‘There might be people in danger – people I care for most dearly. If you don’t want to help me I don’t know what else to do!’ Prone to melodrama as the Irish can be, Stoker’s distress seemed genuine.

  McGray approached him and patted him brusquely on the back. ‘There, there, laddie. As much as I like the odd banshee story, I can tell something else is worrying ye. Am I right?’

  Stoker struggled to swallow.

  ‘Yes …’ he said in a whisper and then cleared his throat. ‘There are two other very ugly matters I must tell you. Horrible things the press doesn’t know yet.’

  He was so anxious I could not mock him again. ‘Yes?’

  Stoker gathered breath. ‘Our leading lady, Miss Ellen Terry, might be in great danger.’

  ‘Brains?’ I said, almost feeling a foul taste in my mouth.

  ‘Indeed, Inspector. Sheep brains. She found them at the exact same time the banshee cry was heard.’

  McGray stopped chewing, lifted his face, and I saw his pupils slowly roll sideways, like he does when his mind works at full speed. He jumped from his seat and went straight to one of his quackery books.

  ‘Why did you not report that to the London police?’ I asked. ‘If Miss Terry is being stalked, this should have been taken to a proper CID department, not our sad little basement.’

  ‘She insisted, most emphatically, that I told nobody. Not even Mr Irving knows about this yet.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Miss Terry feared that the news would trickle through the press and she doesn’t want to upset her children. They are studying in Germany, and if this reaches them they’d be distraught.’

  I instantly remembered my stepmother’s indignant voice, remarking how Britain’s beloved ‘Miss’ Terry was in fact twice a divorcee, and also had a son and a daughter out of wedlock. Shocking.

  ‘That was a reckless decision,’ I remarked.

  ‘Indeed,’ said Stoker, ‘but we never thought the nightmare would follow us here. I convinced her that the police needed to know now. Thankfully, this second banshee didn’t bring any more little presents for her.’

  I nodded. ‘Do you suspect anyone, Mr Stoker? Can you think of anyone with privileged access to Miss Terry’s dressing room?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. It’s purposely out of the way – for her privacy. People do try to sneak in with flowers or letters, but we always spot them. There are, of course, some corridors that could be used to gain access unseen, but only people who know the theatre like the back of their hand could … could have …’

  Like McGray, Stoker looked sideways, as if having a sudden realization.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked.

  ‘Well … I was about to tell you: I found one of the doors to the backstreet wide open. There was a trail of blood, and then I saw the d–’ His eyes went down all of a sudden and the man bit his lip. His next statement, however, distracted me altogether: ‘But I’ve just remembered … somebody had been in that corridor only minutes before … and had turned all the lights off!’

  ‘Do you know who?’

  ‘Indeed. And you know the man already. It was Mr Wheatstone.’

  McGray came by right then, holding a very thick, very dusty tome. ‘Laddie, regarding banshees –’

  ‘Oh, not now, Nine-Nails!’ I shrieked. ‘Mr Stoker, have you said Wheatstone? The very man I suspect told the press?’

  ‘Yes, Inspector. But … but then he couldn’t have written the message … He might have gone down that corridor in the darkness – he manages explosives, you see – but he spent the rest of the play in plain sight. This is a very complex production with all manner of visual effects; Mr Wheatstone coordinates an entire team who would have noticed his absence.’

  ‘I definitely want to question him again,’ I said. ‘He might have had an accomplice. At least now we know there is an entry point through which the blood and brains –’

  ‘Can I speak now, yer royal bloody majesty?’ McGray said.

  I snorted. ‘If you must …’

  ‘Mr Stoker, going back to banshees, ye, of course, are as Irish as a poorly rhymed limerick …’

  I laughed out loud. ‘Said by Nine-Nails McPorridge.’

  ‘Och, shut it, Hairy-Back Mary.’ He looked back at Stoker. ‘I believe banshees are only s’pposed to announce the death of the most ancient Irish families. Isn’t that true?’

  Stoker opened his mouth slightly, as if to say something, but then he looked at me (I was rolling my eyes in utter disbelief) and only nodded.

  ‘Now,’ said McGray, ‘can ye think of any other person in the theatre who might be of Irish descent?’

  Stoker whistled. ‘Lord, I would need
to go through my books. There are plenty! Miss Terry’s father is a son of Irish immigrants. Mr Howard – Edinburgh’s theatre manager – is from Ireland. A couple of seamstresses, one of the ladies playing the Weird Sisters … My – myself … I hadn’t paid much attention ’til now, but this play is packed with Irish blood.’

  Again I chuckled. ‘Mr Stoker, the world has been packed with Irish blood since the potato famine.’

  McGray’s eyes had opened wide.

  ‘Mr Stoker,’ he said in an undertone, ‘d’ye mind if I have a private word with my sorry excuse of a colleague?’

  As soon as Mr Stoker stepped out McGray grinned like a little boy.

  ‘Ye almost convinced me to drop this, Frey. But now I think there might be more to it …’

  ‘More to it!’

  ‘Indeedy. And those brains really worry me. Didnae ye hear Miss Terry is Irish too?’

  ‘I did, Nine-Nails, and a sadistic stalker is indeed a matter of concern, but it also proves that when these people want to keep things quiet – they keep them quiet. Unlike this bloody clamour about the banshees, which was clearly orchestrated by people who know very well how to mount a good show.’

  ‘Ye think ye can prove it?’

  ‘I will bloody well do! I bet I’ll only need to question a couple of dim-witted actors and stagehands to find out who is behind this limp masquerade.’

  McGray closed the book in a swift thump, a cloud of dust bursting towards my face. ‘I might take that bet. See if yer wits are worth yer bloody mouth.’

  I cast him a derisive look. ‘What could you possibly stake that I might want?’

  It was indeed a difficult question and it took McGray a rather long moment to answer. ‘What about ten years’ supply o’ my dad’s single malt? And it’ll really bleed me. I ken how much ye drink.’

  ‘Ten years!’ I said, not believing my luck. ‘It does sound tempting.’

  ‘But if ye cannae find an explanation,’ McGray said, ‘I’ll keep yer Bavarian mare.’

  I felt a twinge. ‘Philippa! Are you mad?’

  ‘Well, if yer not so sure about yer theories …’