To my mother Patricia and in memory of my father Philip Bretherick
Contents
Cover
Dedication
Title Page
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Author’s Notes
Bliography
Acknowledgements
Copyright
Prologue
In general thieves are notable for their expressive faces and manual dexterity, small wandering eyes that are often oblique in form, thick and close eyebrows, distorted or squashed noses, thin beards and hair and sloping foreheads. Like rapists they often have jug ears.
Lombroso, 1876, p 51
Turin, October 31st 1887
Giuseppe Soldati stopped suddenly and sniffed the air as if he was a beast on the trail of its prey. He could smell some-thing tart and unpleasant that reminded him of sour milk. He looked around to see if someone was following him but it was difficult to tell. The narrow lane was winding and there were plenty of hiding places. As he peered into the darkness, he could see his breath forming small clouds of vapour in the cold, damp air. Soldati was accustomed to the night and its secrets and he sensed that he was not alone. Despite this he could see nothing, which, he supposed, was hardly surprising given the lateness of the hour. As if to confirm it, he heard the bells of Chiesa di Santa Teresa softly chime in the distance. It was midnight. He shook himself and hurried on, heaving the small sack that contained the spoils from his night’s work higher onto his back. He stopped again. This time it was more than just a smell. He could hear it quite clearly in the stillness of the night even though it was little more than a whisper.
‘Giuseppe Soldati . . .’
He pulled the sack round and clutched it to him. He had worked hard for his ill-gotten gains and he wasn’t about to lose them to a fellow thief. Every instinct told him to run – and yet he was curious. Who would be calling out his name at this time of night?
‘Giuseppe Soldati,’ whispered the voice again, more urgently this time. It seemed to come from nowhere as if it was a spirit – perhaps of one of his victims returned from the grave to seek vengeance. He gulped and crossed himself but God offered no protection.
He moved away cautiously, his eyes moving from side to side like an agitated reptile. By now the sense of being followed was almost overwhelming. He was surrounded by shadows that seemed to lurk down every alley and in every doorway as if waiting for him to pass before leaping out at him. Once or twice he thought he could hear heavy breathing – almost like panting. But when he stopped to listen all he could hear was his own breath and his heart beating ferociously as if it was burrowing through his chest in a bid to escape.
Soldati set off once more, telling himself not to be a fool, that it was simply a case of his imagination playing tricks on him in the darkness. But then his name was called for a third time.
‘Giuseppe Soldati . . .’
Somewhere between a whisper and an incantation, the words seemed to hang in the air as if waiting for him to snatch them away. He came to an abrupt halt and looked around him, trying to work out exactly where the voice had come from. Before it had been behind him but now it seemed to come from everywhere so he did not know whether to run forwards or retrace his steps. As he swivelled in confusion, first this way then the other, he thought he could hear laughter. Soldati started to move forwards but then a figure stepped out of the darkness and blocked his path. He turned to run away but he was not quick enough.
His last thought, as he felt the garrotte tighten around his throat, was not of his family or acquaintances – who all loathed him. He didn’t even ask himself why he was being murdered. He knew perfectly well there were plenty who wished him dead. Instead, ever the professional criminal, he wondered why his killer needed a knife. He could have sworn that he had glimpsed a tell-tale glint of metal as the noose was slipped around his neck with the deftness of the skilled assassin. Then the final blackness descended upon him and for Soldati it ceased to matter.
It was just as well that he did not live long enough to find out the answer to his final question. The knife was put to work in such a hideous fashion that those who later saw the body were quite unable to put the image from their minds.
Soon the dense Turin fog swept in from the river and surrounded Soldati like a clammy shroud. His attacker had long since melted into the mist and he was left, propped up against a monument that was dedicated to the dead, like a sacrifice to an unnamed idol. A fitting end, for Giuseppe Soldati’s last resting place in the Piazza Statuto was reputed to be the black heart of the city, a point of pilgrimage for Satanists, the location of the gates of Hell itself. The monument was topped by a stone angel that stared down at the corpse below with an expression that might have seemed strangely malevolent for a creature of God. For Lucifer, though, whose likeness it was said to be, it was more than apt.
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Tests of compression show rapists, brigands and arsonists to be stronger than murderers and robbers, who are in turn stronger than forgers and thieves.
Lombroso, 1884, p 209
Turin, November 1st 1887
It was torture . . . or at least that’s what it looked like. A bearded, thickset, middle-aged man stood in the centre of a large room in his shirtsleeves. He was manipulating a younger man into a fearful looking contraption with leather buckles, dials and metal spikes. It was not a straightforward process. The younger man did not fit easily into the equipment and there was a certain amount of grunting and cries of pain as he was pushed this way and that.
James Murray stood half hidden, watching in the doorway. He ran his hands through his thick dark hair as he always did when he was trying to work out something that perplexed him. After a moment or two he leant forward, as if to get closer to the scene being played before him, his brow creased with concentration.
He weighed up the evidence, just as he had been taught to do by his tutor Dr Bell when he was studying to be a doctor in Edinburgh. Everything indicated that he had stumbled on a medieval torture chamber, except in this case, despite his evident discomfort, the subject seemed happy enough to comply. The older man was still having some difficulty in sliding his companion into the correct position. Seeing James, Professor Lombroso, for so he turned out to be, beckoned him over.
‘You over there – give us a hand, won’t you? This is clearly a task for two rather than one!’
James obeyed and under the older man’s direction held the subject by the shoulders, steadying him whilst the various straps were fastened.
‘Now all that is required is the calibration of the dials and we can start the experiment. Perhaps you could assist by recording the results, as you have already been so helpful?’
James nodded. He had not expected his chance to come so soon and he was somewhat apprehensive. But this was at least one of the things he had come to the University of Turin for – hands-on experience of the new science of criminal anthropology, and it was an opportunity he could not tur
n down. Being in a foreign city had already lifted what had become his natural state of gloom and now, despite some reticence in the face of something unfamiliar, he was exhilarated at the chance to be a part of something that previously he had only read about. The professor gestured towards the equipment.
‘Now, young man, what you see here is a measuring device. You see this oval in the centre?’
James nodded and moved closer to inspect it.
‘Touch it. What does it feel like?’
Professor Lombroso looked at him, bushy eyebrows raised. James leaned forward and put his hands round the oval, expecting it to be cold and unyielding. Instead it was soft and flexible. He nodded as if he had been expecting it all along.
‘It bends.’
‘Exactly! You see it’s made of a pliant metal. Our subject here has to compress and pull at it so that we can test his strength. Off you go, Ottolenghi.’
The subject grunted as he pushed and pulled. Beads of sweat started to appear on his forehead. He stopped and mopped his brow with a handkerchief.
The professor urged him on. ‘Come, my friend. Keep it going or we won’t get a decent measurement.’
Ottolenghi gave a rueful grin and started again. Lombroso looked over his gold-rimmed glasses at James. ‘Now what I need you to do is to keep an eye on these dials and call out the numbers on them as accurately as you can. Do you think you can do that?’
‘Yes, sir,’ James replied confidently.
‘Eccellente! Now I will record the data and with a bit of luck we’ll get there. Keep going, Ottolenghi!’
Ottolenghi, now a deep red colour, continued with his labours and James called out the numbers on the dials, hesitantly at first and then, as they went on, with more certainty. After a number of attempts the experiment was finally completed. Ottolenghi looked relieved that it was over. He was drenched in sweat by his exertions and was clearly exhausted. There was a good deal of handshaking and nodding and expressions of gratitude as the participants inhaled their own, perhaps not entirely deserved, sense of achievement.
As all of this was taking place, out of the corner of his eye James saw the door open and a woman enter the room. She was tall and slim with long dark hair tamed into a loose braid that hung down her back, giving her an exotic air. She had on a sober grey dress that, worn by any other woman, might have been described as dowdy but on her it somehow seemed to enhance her beauty. James blushed slightly as she stared at him with her large brown eyes, a half smile playing about her lips as if she was mocking him. She moved towards the professor and began to whisper in his ear. He started to smile and nod, glancing over at James. Finally he spoke.
‘Dottor James Murray, I presume? You are clearly impatient to begin your studies! Sofia here tells me she left you in one of the empty exhibits rooms but when she returned to collect you she found that you had already gone off in search of excitement!’
James bowed his head in acknowledgement. ‘Professor Lombroso, I apologise. I was eager to explore the museum.’
Lombroso looked at him through narrowed eyes as if weighing him up.
‘Indeed, Dr Murray. Well, such curiosity is commendable and your arrival was timely. I prefer to conduct my experiments personally whenever I am able and it is obvious that you are going to be a great help in that endeavour.’ The young man who had been the subject of the experiment coughed meaningfully. ‘As of course Ottolenghi here already is.’
Ottolenghi was tall and gangling with a large, domeshaped forehead and small round glasses perched on the end of his nose. His arms were long and swung about as if he didn’t know quite where to put them. It made him seem awkward which was somehow comforting. He grinned amiably and extended a hand. James seized it gratefully, feeling instantly at ease with him.
‘Salvatore Ottolenghi at your service. I look forward to working with you.’ James returned his smile, happy to see a friendly face.
‘Ottolenghi is my chief assistant and will be your fellow student whilst you are here, assuming that you meet the requirements. But we shall soon see whether or not that is the case,’ Lombroso said.
Suddenly James felt a little nervous. The excitement of participating in an actual experiment had made him temporarily forget the purpose of this visit, an interview with the professor for the position of assistant. Ottolenghi gave him a sympathetic smile. Presumably he had once been in the same situation and James felt reassured to see that someone at least had survived the selection procedure unscathed. His new landlady had kindly informed him that Lombroso was said to be a difficult man to please.
Lombroso turned to the woman. ‘Sofia, could you bring us some refreshment in a moment or two?’
She nodded and left the room. James could not help but watch her retreating form. Their first encounter as she had showed him into the building had been . . . unusual. She was handsome, of course, and a little older than him, in her late twenties, perhaps. But it was more than that. She had looked at him in a way he’d found disconcerting. As she greeted him at the front door he had noticed that her large dark eyes had travelled the length of his body and she looked directly at him, holding his glance in a way that seemed not only incongruous for a servant, but also blatantly inviting.
‘Sofia is my housekeeper,’ Lombroso said firmly.
Ottolenghi smiled in amusement and winked at James. Lombroso looked over his spectacles at them. ‘Ottolenghi, I believe you have some duties to perform. The consignment of skulls from Madagascar – they need to be checked.’
Ottolenghi nodded. ‘Indeed, Professor. I will attend to it directly.’ He looked over to James, as he was leaving and gave a short bow. ‘See you again, I hope.’
Lombroso stroked his luxuriant beard thoughtfully. ‘So, Dr Murray, before we take refreshment what would you think to a tour of our little museum of criminal curiosities?’
‘I would be delighted, Professor.’
Lombroso smiled his satisfaction and beckoned to him to follow. James walked behind, struggling to keep up as the professor strode briskly through a series of corridors and up a flight of stairs to an imposing pair of wooden doors. Lombroso flung them open and ushered James into the room. He squinted into the gloom. The sight that met his eyes, once they had become accustomed to the darkness, was one that he would never forget.
From floor to ceiling were shelves packed with the most extraordinary artefacts. There was a selection of wax and plaster death masks propped up on a shelf as if they were ornaments, each carefully labelled with the name of the subject and the date of their execution. James peered into the empty lifeless eyes of one and wondered what the subject had been thinking as the minutes ticked away towards the inevitable. Did he know that his image would be captured and exhibited for all to see – that it would be held up as an example of the features of a born criminal? And what of its creator? How did he feel whilst smoothing plaster onto a dead man’s face? Did he know of his subject’s crimes? Did it matter to him or was it just another work of art? Indeed, could such a curiosity really be called art? He thought back to something his father had told him about Marie Tussaud, whose waxworks had become so popular in London. She had learned her art by modelling death masks on the corpses of the unfortunate victims of the guillotine during the French Revolution. James gave an involuntary shudder at the thought. As he did so he noticed that there was an odd smell to the place – a mixture of formaldehyde and damp mustiness – an apt combination of life and death perhaps.
Above the death masks were some jars of pickled brains and body parts which bobbed around gaily in the preserving fluid like ducks on a pond. Next to them were some samples of tattooed skin stretched onto frames.
Lombroso gestured towards them. ‘Feel free to take a closer look, won’t you.’
James examined the skins gingerly, running his hands over them, feeling their dryness – like parchment. He looked closely at the intricate designs, now fading. He saw angels, serpents, the sun and the moon, the names of long-lost sweethearts and eve
n what looked to be a tarantula. For a moment so lost was he in the artistry that he quite forgot that they were pieces of human skin. Once he remembered he put them down quickly, as if touching them might infect him in some way.
Lombroso smiled and beckoned him over to a selection of books on a nearby shelf; something with which he was at least familiar – or so he thought.
‘Have a look at this,’ Lombroso said, handing him a compact volume. ‘What do you think?’
The book had no title – just the name Cavaglia embossed on the front. James opened it, curious as to its contents. A slip of paper fell out. He picked it up and read it. It told him all he needed to know.
This binding is all that remains of the assassin Cavaglia who hanged himself on the hundredth day of his incarceration.
James had heard of the practice of binding of books with human skin, although he had never seen an example before. It was lighter in colour than leather, almost translucent. As he studied it further it seemed to him that an image of a face looked back at him. He shuddered again and was about to replace it with the others when Lombroso took it from him.
‘Ah yes, Cavaglia was an interesting case. A prime example of criminal man – thick dark hair, not unlike your own, and a large snub nose and jug ears. He murdered his landlord and put him in the closet, folded up like an old blanket.’
‘How did he end up as binding for a book?’ James asked.
‘One of my colleagues arranged it as a gift for me – a tribute,’ Lombroso said, as if it was the sort of thing that happened to him every day. ‘Mind you,’ he continued, ‘the most interesting thing about Cavaglia was that his skull and brain also had all the anomalies one would expect to find in a criminal – a round, slightly asymmetrical skull, flat forehead and so on, just like his wastrel of a father, so a prime example of inherited criminality.’
James surreptitiously put his hand up to his own head. It was flat, just like his father’s. What could that mean?
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