Once we arrived at his neat office he gave me a thin file. I went through it quickly and saw that it was a typed copy. ‘I see McGray had already asked you to have a copy ready for him.’
‘Indeed; as soon as he knew about the case. My clerk now keeps track of any new developments and types them with carbon paper so Inspector McGray can have a look too. We used to do the same for his sister up until last year, I think.’
‘Oh, why did you stop?’
Clouston shrugged. ‘There had been nothing new to report for two whole years, so McGray himself decided to put an end to it.’
Two years reading his sister’s medical files without seeing any change … the very thought made me shiver. I walked out of Clouston’s office in a sombre mood, wondering whether my grip on reason would hold if something like this were to befall Elgie …
‘Would you like me to show you the way to Miss McGray’s room? You can wait for your colleague.’
I nodded without paying much attention … All too soon I would regret that.
We were walking silently through the wide corridors of the west wing, when suddenly a horrendous howl echoed behind us. It sounded like the desperate groaning of a gagged man. Clouston turned faster than me, and he was already pulling me aside before I’d even looked.
There was a deranged inmate running along the hall, wearing only a torn nightgown and snarling like a wild animal. He ran past us and I had a glance of appalling, bloodshot eyes, and pieces of torn cloth jutting out of his mouth.
Behind him came three male orderlies screaming frantically. They managed to catch him only a few yards away from us. The man twisted madly and roared so savagely that even I felt disturbed.
As the orderlies dragged him back to his room, one of them pulled repulsive strips of cloth from the man’s mouth.
‘Poor Johnnie,’ said Dr Clouston after a sigh. ‘He suffers from an extreme case of delusion. He believes that there are foul vapours in the air, which, in his very words, “waste his insides”. He stuffs his nose and mouth with rags or paper to “protect” himself – actually, once he even stuffed his … well, I should not tell you such revolting things. You must excuse me; I become passionate about my job.’
‘You must indeed,’ was all I could say amidst the enraged roaring.
‘Fascinating phenomena, delusions,’ Clouston went on, his enraptured eyes on the patient. ‘I have always wondered how fervently these people must fear or yearn for something … how desperately, for their minds to simply crack under the strain.’
‘Let us hope we never find out ourselves,’ I replied.
Just when I was beginning to feel philosophical, the madman got himself loose and ran towards us, charging like a wild buffalo.
The orderlies chased him but caught him one second too late, for the man had gotten close enough to let out a spurt of vomited rags that fell straight onto my trousers.
I do not wish to even recall how repugnant that was for the eyes and the nose. A nurse immediately gave me a clean towel to wipe my suit, and Dr Clouston apologized in every imaginable way. Despite their attentions, my face remained distorted in indignation until we finally arrived at Miss McGray’s bedroom.
‘Well, this is the room, Inspector,’ Clouston told me, still slightly flushed. ‘I must leave you now, but thank you for enduring my chatter.’
‘Not at all, Doctor. I’ll always welcome a civilized conversation.’
Dr Clouston smiled and walked away. I then noticed that the door to the room was ajar, so I could hear McGray’s voice talking cheerfully. I could not quite make out what he was saying though, for he was displaying his thickest Dundee accent.
I could not help myself and, slowly, stepped towards the door and peeped inside.
The first thing I saw was the bouquet of white roses, now in a crystal vase on a small mahogany table. McGray was seated nearby, on an armchair, his arm stretched beyond my field of vision. I tilted a little and managed to see a second armchair … and a slender girl facing McGray.
Seemingly in her early twenties, she was a very pretty sight.
Everything in that face was delicate and demure: the soft line of her jaw, her pointy nose, the smooth skin and the thin lips like those painted on dolls. Her dark hair was held in a neat braid and adorned with tiny white flowers, wavy locks framing her small ears. Wearing a white muslin dress with lace and embroidered trimmings, she did not look like a lunatic at all.
I recognized in her the wide eyes of McGray, with the same shape and thick eyelashes, but instead of blue hers were of the darkest brown, almost black. She was staring hard at nothing, her expression vacant as her pupils scanned the room around her, seeing but not seeing. Still, there was a certain … intensity about her.
Her eyes stopped at some point on the floor and then, in a sharp movement, she lifted her face.
She was looking straight into my eyes … And I found myself unable to look away.
She watched me with a firm, arresting stare and I simply could not take my eyes off hers. Those were not the eyes of a demure girl, but of a turbulent, distressed woman.
She opened her eyes a little more, and I could almost tell that she was about to blush. That hint of a coy face lasted less than a second, for she immediately looked away, turning her head towards the window as unexpectedly as before.
McGray caressed her hands. ‘What is it, Pan?’
He turned around and saw me, and in a blink his face turned red with rage. All sensible words deserted me as I thought McGray was about to strike me down.
‘I-I am sorry!’ I spluttered. ‘I was about to knock but –’
McGray jumped to his feet and slammed the door in my face.
18
It was one of the most fraught silences I have ever endured. McGray was simply looking out of the coach window, breathing heavily and munching the end of a thick cigar; I could almost see the hatred radiating from him.
After the incident, I had decided to wait for McGray by the carriage, where I stood for more than half an hour until he finally emerged. He simply jumped up to his seat without saying a word, and even though I tried to apologize again, he would not reply. The old phrase ‘an atmosphere you could cut with a knife’ acquired full meaning for me as the carriage took us back to Moray Place.
I soon understood more apologies would not help. I had clearly touched McGray’s most delicate nerve, like that drunkard at the pub. I should be grateful all my bones were still intact.
We had postponed our visit to the luthier so many times that I felt quite weary when we finally reached Saint Julia’s Close, where he lived and worked.
It was one of those very narrow closes, as old as Hell, that descend from the north side of the Royal Mile towards Princes Street Gardens. The close ran along steep, irregular stone steps delimited by those horrid tall buildings – only a thin stripe of white sky could be seen, some fifteen yards above our heads.
There were piles of rubbish all around and the street stank of piss. I could only imagine what a frightful experience it must be to walk down there at night.
‘How can those violinists choose to bring their instruments to a man who dwells in this sort of place?’ I wondered out loud, especially thinking of Alistair Ardglass and his very fake airs of superiority.
‘The lad must be terribly good at his trade,’ McGray said when we made it to Joe’s address. There was a wooden sign hanging from the wall, eroded and cracked after many years of rain, which showed the carved silhouette of a violin.
The door to the workshop was open, so McGray and I simply walked in. Our steps lifted small clouds of sawdust, for the small room was an utter muddle: tools, violins in repair, crumpled diagrams of violins, blocks of half-carved ebony and maple, and timber shavings scattered all over the floor. The place smelled of freshly cut wood and oily varnish … and also as if the man had been breaking wind in the room throughout the day.
Nine-Nails whistled and then cried as he fanned his nose: ‘Pheff! This laddie
farts worse than Tucker!’
I could only agree. ‘I even prefer your weird gypsy’s brews.’
There was a line of freshly varnished violins hanging to dry. I had a close look at them and noticed that their backs were all signed with a winding character. Carved in the wood so that the varnish formed a dark pool, the symbol was the amalgamation of a J and an F.
‘Joe Fiddler,’ I said in a whisper.
‘Who’s that?’ a rough voice demanded, and then we saw the luthier himself coming from some back room.
Joe Fiddler was a very short man and seemed to be just skin and bone. He did not strike me as too old but rather battered, for not a single spot on his face was free of wrinkles. He had a twisted nose, lacked his two frontal teeth, and his hair and beard were grey bushes of knotted hair, speckled with sawdust.
Over his mucky clothes he wore a leather apron stained with varnish. ‘What d’ye want?’ he cried again in the coarsest tone.
‘I’m Inspector McGray, from the CID. This is my colleague, Inspector Frey. We came to ask ye a few questions about Mr Fon-teen.’
As soon as he mentioned the name his hostile countenance disappeared. ‘Aye, I’ve been expectin’ youse folks to come and ask questions.’ Walking with a limp, he pulled some wooden boxes across and wiped away the thick layer of sawdust that coated them. ‘Siddoun.’
McGray sat but I preferred to remain standing. I had ruined enough suits already.
‘Ye aware o’ Mr Fon-teen’s passing, ain’t ye?’
‘Aye.’
‘D’ye ken ye were the last man he spoke to before he died?’
‘I ken now. I kinda thought so, from what his housekeeper told me.’
‘So ye ken Goodwife Hill?’
‘Aye.’
McGray nodded. ‘Can ye tell us about that day? Why did Mr Fon-teen come here?’
‘Aye. To pick up his fiddle.’
‘Ye were repairing it, weren’t ye?’
‘Aye’ – His monotonous way to utter those ‘ayes’ was soon getting on my nerves.
‘Did ye notice anything weird with Fon-teen?’
Then a surprise: ‘Aye.’
McGray and I exchanged a triumphant, yet discreet look. Joe Fiddler was the first person actually reporting something abnormal around Fontaine. Suddenly his foul vernacular sounded like Heaven.
‘Tell us,’ McGray asked him, his full attention on scruffy Fiddler.
‘Well, Guilleum had been worried about his fiddle for a while. He wouldn’t tell anyone else but me.’
‘So he had a good deal of confidence in you,’ I said.
‘Aye. I’ve been repairin’ his fiddles even before he moved into town. The last ten years he’d have me for dinner now and then.’
McGray nodded. ‘Very well. So ye saying that Fon-teen was concerned about his fiddle. Are ye talking about his Amati?’
I studied carefully the man’s reaction and noticed McGray doing the same. His mentioning the right instrument did surprise the luthier, who wrinkled his nose as if suddenly aware of the room’s odour.
‘Aye. How’d ye ken?’
‘We ken a good deal, lad,’ McGray said. ‘So, what was Mr Fontaine’s fear? He afraid someone would steal the Amati?’
Joe Fiddler opened his mouth but then hesitated. ‘Errrrr … Nae … well – maybe.’
‘Can you elaborate on that, please?’ I said.
‘Can I ela– what?’
‘Tell us more about it,’ McGray jumped in.
‘Well, it all began early last year … I think. The fiddle had been givin’ up – ’Tis a very old piece. But both Guilleum and me were surprised the neck and the scroll were givin’ way: he’d been playin’ it for decades, but all of a sudden the thing cracked.’
McGray intervened. ‘Sorry, Joe, I’m not too learned about fiddles. Can ye explain me to exactly how it cracked?’
Joe Fiddler grabbed one of the half-finished instruments and pointed at the pieces as he spoke. His fingers were long and knotted. ‘The neck is this long piece o’ wood, almost always maple wood, holding the ebony fingerboard. The scroll is … well, the scroll: this curly carved piece at the tip of the neck, where ye have the tuning pegs. The only piece o’ the fiddle that’s there for decoration.’
Just like Theodore Wood, Joe Fiddler was spurred to talk when one asked him about his craft.
‘The neck looks glued on very firmly,’ McGray observed. ‘Yet ye said it cracked. How come?’
‘Playing it very tensely for hours and hours. It does happen, Inspector. One can tell a lot o’ the fiddler by lookin’ at the fiddle. This guy Ardglass, d’youse ken him?’
‘Aye we do.’
‘He plays like a damn beast; I have to adjust his fiddles every few months cos he wears them out. He grips the neck with his harsh, fat fingers and breaks the bridges with his mad bowing. Old Guilleum was very gentle with his instruments; only brought them to me for maintenance, and even then more often than needed. Aye, he treated his fiddles like they were his children. That’s why I was so dazed when the Amati started to get all worn and torn. I would repair it and adjust it at least once a month for a while, until the poor wee fiddle finally gave up. Old Guilleum was appalled when he brought the pieces, but I did a good job, Ah’m tellin’ youse. Adjusted the neck, got a new fingerboard cos the auld one was all scratched … and I also added a pretty lion head instead o’ the scroll.’
‘Really?’ I interrupted. ‘Why was that?’
‘Guilleum’s request.’
‘I see. Did you carve that yourself?’
‘Och, nae! That was very fine work; even I cannae do that kind o’ detail. Nae, Guilleum told me he got that from some good friend and he wanted it on the Amati.’
‘That sounds like a very special request,’ McGray said. ‘Did he ever mention who gave ’im that?’
‘Aye. He said it was this Italian laddie. Mr Caroli.’
‘How strange Signor Caroli would not mention that,’ I muttered, remembering the very fine carvings we’d seen at his house. It made sense. I took a mental note before moving on to my next question. ‘Did Mr Fontaine ever explain the sudden change in his playing?’
‘Never. He always claimed to be playin’ too much himself, but I could tell he was lying. He kept playin’ his other fiddles and those were normal. I just had to give them the usual maintenance.’
‘So … what d’ye reckon was happening?’
‘I can tell, almost assure youse, that someone else was playin’ that Amati. And for a good while, I tell youse. There’s no way Guilleum wouldn’t notice who.’
There was a moment of silence while McGray and I recollected the whole story.
‘That is very … interesting,’ I muttered, and McGray nodded.
‘That last day he came, Guilleum looked a wee bit nervous to take the fiddle back. In the middle of our talk he said somethin’ ’bout someone wanting to get hold of it – I cannae remember the exact words. I found that weird, but he wouldn’t say no more. It looked kinda like he was sorry to have mentioned the matter at all.’
McGray drew a bit closer. ‘Why would anyone be particularly interested in that fiddle? Fon-teen owned a Stradivarius, far more valuable and far more appreciated by musicians.’
Joe Fiddler clicked his tongue. ‘That wee fiddle’s an Amati and it’s got a lot o’ history. It belonged to Paganini, which abody ken, but only a few ken that before that it belonged to Stradivari, and even fewer ken that between Stradivari and Paganini it belonged briefly to this chap … what’s his name? Tartini.’
McGray almost fell off the box he was sitting on. ‘Tartini! ’
‘Aye. Ye ken about him, I see. Some people like to think that it was the fiddle he used to write his Auld Nick’s sonata.’
‘Old Nick?’ I repeated.
‘That’s what we call the Devil, Frey,’ McGray said, suddenly very serious.
Joe Fiddler nodded.
‘So that instrument is supposed to be the very violin that, acco
rding to Tartini’s mad tale, was played by the Devil,’ I concluded.
‘Aye. That’s why people call it the Maledetto, the cursed one, and say that it’ll only bring disgrace to its owners. Some even blame Paganini’s demise on that fiddle. The man lost all his money in gambles and died in misery. Even I have more wealth than him in his last years. It is a famous anecdote, too, how he lost it: someone actually stole it from his home right before he died and his household was in commotion. Apparently they were after his famous Guarnerius, but the idiots took the wrong one!’
‘What happened then?’ McGray asked, enthralled.
‘The fiddle’s history gets blurry after that. It must’ve passed from hand to hand in the black market for more than twenty years. In the end Guilleum bought it from a wretched French merchant that was dying of tuberculosis. Youse can see the fiddle deserves its reputation.’
Just like when we questioned the Carolis, McGray’s eyes flickered, his mind apparently working at full speed. He jumped up from his seat.
‘I think this is all we need to ask ye for now. Unless the stuck-up dandy wants to ask ye somethin’ else.’
I was not sure I should ask what I was about to, but I’d rather speak than remain in doubt.
‘Mr Fiddler, I could not help but notice that you walk with a slight limp. Is your leg injured?’
Joe Fiddler chuckled bitterly. ‘That’s a way to put it …’
Then, saying no more, he pulled up his baggy trousers. He had a wooden leg.
19
‘D’ye really believe Joe Fiddler could’ve done it?’ Nine-Nails spluttered as we returned to Moray Place.
‘Not strongly,’ I said, ‘but I find it best to suspect everybody.’
‘Even with the lad’s pirate leg? And ye say I’m mad!’
As soon as I stepped out of the carriage I wrapped up in my overcoat, for it was already dark and the temperature was dropping. We were well into November and the days were speedily getting shorter.
The Strings of Murder Page 16