The Strings of Murder

by Oscar de Muriel

  McGray laughed and a spark glowed in his eyes when he spoke to the woman. The wrinkles around his mouth deepened as he smiled, yet a childish quality came afloat.

  The woman began mopping the blood and the spilt ale. Then she fixed her bright green eyes on me. ‘Oi! Ye brought a fetching one!’

  ‘Och, Mary! Ye hopeless flirt! Don’t tell me ye’ll fall for this peelie-wally! Come on, Frey, don’t stand there lookin’ all stiff like a pole; have a seat.’

  When I saw the greasy chairs I was about to produce my handkerchief again, but refrained from the impulse and sat down – Tucker had already ruined my suit. The dog was lying lazily right in front of the fireplace, enjoying the sudden heat; it was hard to believe that he’d been growling like a wild wolf but a moment earlier.

  I was about to protest again but McGray waved his hand dismissively. ‘Right, now we can eat in peace. Mary, what’ve ye cooked today?’

  ‘The usual, but we got haggis today, Adolphus.’

  ‘Bring it on, hen!’ McGray was all enthusiasm. ‘And a pint of ale.’

  ‘Haggis for yer friend too?’

  I resisted the urge to laugh at her. A sheep’s stomach stuffed with its blood and other discarded tripe was not my idea of food.

  ‘A plain pie, please,’ I said as politely as I could.

  ‘Ye mean a bridie?’

  ‘I do?’

  ‘Aye, get him a bridie,’ McGray said.

  One moment later Mary brought a huge, steaming bowl and served a ladleful of haggis on to McGray’s plate. I must admit that the meaty smell was not that bad, but I would sooner kiss a public latrine than eat something of such foul appearance. The thing looked like a cow’s ruminated cud, only soaked in fat and with a far more disgusting colour. A moment later she came with a meat pie.

  ‘Some gravy, lad?’ I saw her pulling a ladle from another bowl, a viscous brown fluid dripping from it.

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘A pint?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  Mary looked at McGray with a puzzled face, but he only shrugged. Once I started eating the terribly dry pastry I understood.

  McGray began gobbling up the hideous fried guts, chewing loudly and spilling food and ale all around him. I felt sick just from watching, but looking away did not help, for I could still hear him merrily smacking his lips.

  I sighed and could not repress my contemptuous remark. ‘What ever went wrong with you?’

  McGray raised his head with a quizzical brow. ‘Wrong how …?’

  ‘Wrong as in you live in one of the most expensive neighbourhoods in this town, you obviously have the intimidating butcher’s character that can take men very high within the police, and – it pains me to admit it – there is something about you that makes me think you are not entirely stupid …’

  McGray looked at me with firm, piercing eyes. ‘And …?’

  ‘And yet you dress like the jester of Mary Queen of Scots, you have instigated the creation of the most ridiculous investigation department in the force, and apparently you like to spend your time in the filthiest pigsties on the face of the earth – No offence.’

  I said the latter to the pub’s landlady, who happened to be mopping right beside me. She only replied with a vague ‘Eh?’

  Nine-Nails chuckled before grabbing his pint and gulping a long draught. When holding the glass his absent finger became evident.

  ‘Don’t ye mock our Queen Mary. Her ghost still lurks around Scotland … and don’t ye roll yer eyes like that whenever I speak, else I’ll snap yer own arm like a piece o’ liquorice! Now tell me, how much have ye heard of my subdivision?’

  I was tempted to ask how he’d lost his finger but preferred to save it for later. ‘I have not known about your subdivision for long. I was appointed to it only the day before yesterday.’

  ‘All polite ’n’ vague like a good Southron,’ he said. ‘Ye ken what we look after?’

  I nodded. ‘My superiors referred to them as apparitions.’

  ‘And what d’ye think of … apparitions?’

  I painfully swallowed a dry mouthful of bridie and felt it going down my throat like a tangle of rope. ‘You do not want my honest opinion.’

  ‘Ye think am out o’ my wits, I can see. Told ye, Ah’m past caring. People mock me all the time, like ye just saw. At least ye’ll use pretty words I may’ve not heard.’

  I sighed. ‘See, I cannot even be bothered to come up with an elaborate answer. Ghosts and spirits used to thrill me when I was a child and we needed a good horror around the Christmas fire, but fortunately most of us grow out of it.’

  He cackled. ‘Aye, yer one of those who’d whimper “McGray, yer ruining yer career!” and shite like that; I’ve heard it all. And am sure yer all-michty bosses told ye I’d only be a nuisance during yer hunt for Jack the Ripper.’

  That infamous name hit me like a rock. He knew!

  I raised my head so swiftly I nearly sprained my neck. ‘How on earth do you – ? You were not supposed to –’

  ‘See, I don’t only read ghostly tales. I ken they sent ye cos they think yer tripe lover has inspired some Scot to –’

  ‘Sshhhh! This matter is so delicate only a handful of men in the nation know about it, yet you bark it out in detail in the middle of this filthy den!’

  McGray cackled loudly and I felt fire in my stomach. ‘If we Scots ever need to be inspired for depravity, the last place we’ll turn to is yer glossy England, believe me.’

  ‘Whether you believe it or not,’ I said, ‘it is a case that came at the worst of moments. So do not, do not expect me to jump in excitement when you decide to go hunting will-o’-the-wisps.’

  McGray grinned, ‘Och, ye’ve read about the cases we’ll be working on! Aye, we’ll do some research on those wee lights.’

  ‘I do not give a damn about flames of methane produced from decaying matter. I’d much rather you finished eating that ghastly mush so we can start the work we are supposed to do.’

  I pushed my dish away. Hungry as I was, I could not possibly swallow another bite.

  ‘Ye won’t eat yer bridie?’

  ‘Absolutely not. That is the culinary equivalent of a kick in the groin.’

  Fortunately McGray was a fast eater and we soon left the Ensign Ewart. I swiftly put up my umbrella, picturing the contents of the tenants’ chamber pots.

  McGray, walking impassively under the raindrops, cast me a derisive look. ‘I cannae believe that such a soft dandy caught Good Mary Brown.’

  I sighed, thinking of the glory of those days. ‘Well, if you’d seen her you would not have believed that she was guilty either. She was this little, wide-eyed woman with a soft voice. Her modus operandi was rather blatant, though; all the bodies showed obvious signs of arsenic poisoning. Which reminds me – I would like to inspect Fontaine’s body as soon as possible.’

  ‘Can do. I spoke to the laddie at the morgue this morning. He should have the post-mortem report ready by now.’

  ‘We better go there straightaway,’ I said, anxious to begin the real work. ‘I still don’t know whether you have got a proper morgue here; the body might well be growing maggots as we speak.’

  Though meant as a joke, my words turned out to be rather premonitory.

  8

  For convenience, the morgue was housed in one of the basements of the City Chambers, which turned out to be uncomfortably close to our little department’s office.

  I felt a sudden chill as soon as the doors opened. That morgue was as depressing as its counterpart in London; its small reception only had the most essential furnishing and its tiled walls were matt after having been cleaned for years and years. Morgues always looked like that: tidy, hygienic and functional … yet as cold to the eye as they were to the skin.

  We were received by a young man I took to be the clerk. He had plump cheeks and wide, watery eyes that made him look rather childlike. His spotless lab coat told me otherwise.

  ‘Good day, Inspector
McGray,’ he said with a well-modulated, yet very noticeable, Scottish accent. ‘I was not expecting you ’til a bit later.’

  ‘My new colleague is disgustingly eager to start the job now,’ McGray replied. ‘Frey, this is Dr Reed, our head mortician.’

  ‘Dr Reed!’ I repeated, hardly believing my ears. I knew that good morticians were difficult to find, but I’d never seen a morgue kept by someone so young. ‘Pray, how old are you?’

  The young man held his chin higher. ‘Twenty-three, sir.’ He saw my arched eyebrows and added proudly: ‘I graduated two years early.’

  ‘I see. How long ago?’

  ‘Erm … three months – but I had a great deal of practical experience.’

  ‘And at least he did graduate,’ Nine-Nails intervened, making my stomach feel ablaze once more. ‘Did ye finish the post-mortem, laddie?’

  ‘Or course, Inspector. I have it right here.’ Reed went to the small desk and produced a notepad with a stack of sheets clipped to it. ‘I received a letter from Mr Campbell himself asking me to give priority to this. He also warned me about the confidential nature of the case.’

  Reed handed me the notepad.

  ‘Can you take us to the body?’ I asked. ‘I would like to see for myself.’

  ‘Oh, I’m afraid that won’t be possible, sir. I released it this morning.’

  My eyes almost fell out of their sockets. ‘You did what?’

  Reed’s face went white. ‘We – well … his great nephews wanted to bury him next to his wife … and that’s too far to keep it in here.’

  I took a deep breath. The young man was surely under too much pressure and I would not gain much by bullying him. ‘Well, I need to see that body myself. You will have to fetch it back.’ I was expecting Reed to reply, but he just stammered. ‘What is it?’

  His full accent came out. ‘Erm … it cannae be brought back.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Well … erm … they’re burying him in Calais, sir. That’s why I released it so soon. They told me their ship would set sail by noon.’

  ‘What! ’

  ‘Sir, I … I assure you my report is quite thorough.’

  ‘I do not care! You do not get rid of bodies until you have our authorization! Do you understand?’

  ‘Enough!’ McGray barked as Reed seemed about to burst in tears. He snatched the pad from my hands, his eyes fulminating. ‘We better read the damn report before ye skin ’im alive.’

  I snorted. ‘Well, I suppose it cannot be helped. By the time it gets to Calais the corpse’s flesh will look almost as putrid as your haggis.’ Reed was fiercely munching his fingernails and I could not help feeling for him. ‘It is all right, boy, but never do such thing again.’

  McGray read aloud. ‘Gee-jum Fon-teen …’

  ‘Guilleum Fontaine,’ I corrected.

  ‘Och, shut up. Let’s see … Male; fifty-eight years of age; och, fifteen stone – not a wee chap! Erm … aye, here it is: throat and belly cut open; no signs o’ struggle …’

  ‘The man was old and overweight,’ said Reed. ‘He would not have been difficult to subdue.’

  ‘One long cut in the centre o’ his belly,’ McGray went on. He arched his eyebrows. ‘Missing organs: heart, liver ’n’ half the intestines.’

  ‘Beautiful,’ I mumbled sarcastically, remembering the post-mortem report on Mary Jane Kelly, the Ripper’s latest victim; her heart had been missing too, but that detail had not reached the press yet. ‘Did the incision look as if it had been made by a medical man?’ I asked Reed, mentally looking for more similarities.

  ‘Erm … I don’t understand you, sir.’

  ‘Was it a clean, straight cut or did they … butcher the body?’

  ‘The cut was rough, sir; the flesh was even torn at some points. I do mention that in the report.’ The chap was obviously trying to make up for his mistake, for he promptly added: ‘Also, we had photographs made at the crime scene before we brought back the body, and a few during the post-mortem.’

  I could not help sighing in relief; a case like this, as important as the quest for Jack the Ripper himself, would of course have been documented by a photographer.

  ‘Good, when do you expect those to be ready?’

  ‘They’re supposed to be sent to your offices within two or three days, but I can have a word with the photographer. He’s a friend o’ mine. If we’re lucky you may even have them by tomorrow evening.’

  ‘That would help us a lot, laddie,’ McGray said, patting Reed’s shoulder. ‘Ye mind if we take this report with us?’

  ‘Please do, sir.’

  ‘And we better make haste, McGray,’ I said. ‘I would like to inspect Fontaine’s house while we still have some of this pathetic daylight.’

  ‘Easy, lassie! I don’t like to be rushed all the bloody time.’ Then he turned to Reed for a leisurely chat about the chap’s mother and fiancée. I looked at them impatiently, tapping my foot on the floor. When we were finally stepping out, Reed ran up behind us.

  ‘Oh! I almost forgot! Mr Campbell asked me to give you this.’ He handed us a couple of bronze keys. ‘These are the only keys to the room where they found Fontaine. The odd thing is, the room was locked, but these were found inside.’

  I took the keys, which were a matching pair. Reed bowed and went away.

  McGray whispered as we walked upstairs: ‘Take it easy with that laddie, Frey. I ken he’s a wee bit green, but he’s darn good at his job.’

  ‘He does look capable,’ I said, ‘but this case may be too much to take on so early.’

  McGray looked sombre. ‘Aye, ye might be right in that …’

  We decided to take a carriage to Abbey Hill, where the victim had lived and died. It would get dark very soon and, even though McGray had complained about my haste, I could tell that he was as keen as me to get on with the investigation.

  The rain had ceased but the mist persisted, so the towers and chimneys of Holyrood Palace appeared slowly as we descended through the Royal Mile. When we drove around the palace I saw the roofless nave of the ancient Holyrood Abbey.

  Under the dark clouds, with the jagged hills of Arthur’s Seat in the background, the group of buildings looked like an engraved illustration in a gothic novel. Perhaps it was because of all the grim stories I had heard about the place when I was a child, or its gloomy baroque architecture with its pointed frontal towers, or perhaps because the eroded stones of the abbey looked as though they’d been standing there since the beginning of time.

  ‘You Scots seem to be all about ruined and incomplete buildings,’ I said. ‘Look at that derelict abbey … it is downright depressing.’

  ‘Well, it was the English and their wretched Protestants that pillaged it in the first bloody place!’

  ‘I must tell you that I come from a most prominent Protestant family. My ancestors were close acquaintances of Martin Luther himself, and –’

  ‘Och, shush! Ye sound like Queen Vicky talking about the family trees o’ her hunting hounds.’

  The carriage took us to the curved street of Abbey Hill, which obviously received its name from the ruins next to the palace. There was a line of fine yet narrow houses, and the driver halted in front of one near the middle.

  McGray knocked on the door and almost immediately we were attended by a short, plump old woman. She had a mighty big nose and her face was all wrinkled like a prune.

  Nine-Nails stepped forward. ‘Evening. I’m Inspector McGray from the CID. This whiny lassie’s Inspector Frey.’

  ‘A-aye, I was told youse were to come soon.’ The housekeeper let us into a small hall crammed with packed boxes. ‘Excuse the mess, sirs. Mr Fontaine’s landlady ordered me to empty the house right away.’

  ‘Doesn’t surprise me,’ McGray said, not bothering to explain himself.

  ‘That room where the murder took place is still untouched, I hope?’ I immediately asked.

  ‘Aye, sir. I’ve not even got the keys. That nasty
photographer o’ yours took them after they broke in.’

  ‘Those keys found their way to us,’ I replied, showing them. ‘Can you show us the way?’

  She led us upstairs and pointed at a locked door. ‘There youse have it. I don’t want to see, but I’ll be downstairs if youse need anything.’

  ‘Thanks a lot, hen,’ McGray said. ‘We will come down to ask ye some questions. Hope ye’ll bear with us.’

  The woman actually seemed excited about it, her creased eyes suddenly sparkling. ‘Of course, sirs! I’ll prepare some tea if youse wish.’

  ‘That’ll be great, hen!’ McGray said with a wink, and we watched her leave. ‘Open it up, Frey.’

  I was about to ask how come he’d not called me dandy or wimp, but thought better of it; McGray would have surely asked whether I liked it.

  It was hard to turn the key in the lock. ‘The key seems worn,’ I said. ‘They locked this room very often, apparently.’

  As soon as I opened the door, a faint yet nauseating smell emerged. We walked into a wide studio with a dramatic view of the palace and, especially, of the dilapidated abbey. The window was smashed and there were pieces of glass scattered at its foot. I saw a shelf filled with sheet music, and counted three violins hanging over it; there was an empty gap for a missing instrument. Right next to a narrow fireplace there was a desk, equally packed with printed scores, and a wooden music stand. At first glance, the room seemed a very comfortable place for practising music – one that my brother Elgie would envy, especially given the inspiring view.

  ‘Look at that!’ McGray cried, and he quickly kneeled down by the foot of the stand.

  Only then did I notice the macabre sight.

  There was a twisted symbol on the green carpet, painted hastily with blood that now looked very dark. It was a long, inverted triangle, like the point of an arrow, divided vertically by a straight line. Inside it five eyes with vertical pupils had been drawn, two in the left half and three in the right half. The tracing was crude, almost primitive, and it gave the eyes a fixed, expressionless stare that was somehow distressing … like the stare of a snake.