City of Devils

by Diana Bretherick

  And Lucy, the city is so beautiful! I really cannot understand why it is not better known. It is full of baroque architecture and broad, shining streets full of grand palazzos. Everywhere I go I see fine sculptures and ornate fountains and there are museums and galleries around every corner.

  Now, dear Lucy, please do not reproach me for the brevity of this letter. I assure you there is really not much else to say as little has happened but I will write again soon to tell you more of my adventures. Please give my warmest regards to our aunt.

  Your devoted brother,

  James

  He looked again at his final sentence and grinned. Warmth and Aunt Agnes did not really go together. He could picture her now, a thin angular woman with a face that looked as if nothing resembling a smile would ever dare to cross it. The letter was short and somewhat bland but what else could he do? If he told Lucy what had really happened there was a risk that she would never get to read it. Better to receive this than nothing at all. Of course he could have mentioned Sofia, but what could he really say – that he had been attracted to a servant? Aunt Agnes would have a seizure, particularly following his rejection of Elspeth Gibson.

  James cringed at the memory. Presumably in an effort to restore some stability to their circumstances, given their father’s fate, Aunt Agnes had taken it upon herself to find him a wife and had engineered a number of meetings with Miss Gibson, a clergyman’s daughter, who was one of the dullest young women he had ever encountered. Every other sentence from her (and there were not that many to choose from) had come from the bible or the prayer book. Lucy had taken to referring to her as ‘Everlasting Elspeth’ as, she said, ten minutes with her seemed like an eternity. Aunt Agnes, however, was a determined woman and, like a spectre at a feast, Elspeth was at every social event he attended and was a constant visitor to their home. His aunt made it clear that it was his duty to make ‘a good marriage,’ as she had put it, and he had almost believed her. Riven by guilt at his part in his father’s fate and uncertain about his own future he was on the verge of doing his aunt’s bidding. But when it came to the day when he was supposed to ask for Elspeth Gibson’s hand he had found that he could not do it. The marriage would have made them both unhappy and what would have been the sense in that? James had inherited a romantic nature from his mother and wanted to follow her example, marrying for love not convenience, no matter what the consequences.

  Aunt Agnes had been furious, not it seemed at Miss Gibson’s alleged devastation, which James had somehow doubted as she had never seemed to do more than tolerate him, but at what ‘people would say’. It was at this point that James knew that he had to escape, not just for the sake of his own sanity but also for Lucy’s well-being. It was quite clear to him that if he was ever to forge an independent future for them, away from their father’s legacy, he had to look further than Edinburgh.

  As he sat in the fading light of the gloomy afternoon, James resolved to spend the rest of the day with his books. After all, he reasoned, if he was to be a worthy assistant to the professor then he should ensure that he was up to date with current thinking about criminality. He took out a selection of volumes from his travelling trunk and settled down to read.

  Hours passed and the day gradually turned to night. Diligently he worked on, poring over his books, determined to be the brightest assistant Professor Lombroso had ever engaged. Suddenly the yellow flame of the gaslight flickered in the draught from the window. He looked up quickly and caught his breath. He thought for a moment that he saw a shadow of something on the wall but it was just his imagination. He sighed at his folly and all at once felt tired; the events of the day had caught up with him and all he could see in his mind’s eye was the mutilated body of the victim and the malicious glare of the stone angel as it looked down upon them.

  He went to bed, but sleep did not come easily. He tossed and turned in the darkness, tortured by memories of Soldate’s mutilated corpse and the feelings and recollections that it had produced in him. These thoughts were nurtured by his own night demons until, like a malignant tumour, they had almost completely infected him.

  When he finally slept his dreams were punctuated by disturbing images. At first they were disjointed and made little sense. A few of the faces he had seen in photographs exhibited in Lombroso’s museum floated before him. Some of them were cackling loudly as if caught up in some unknown moment of hysteria. Others hissed the words ‘murderer’ and ‘killer’ at him with an intensity so terrifying it made him want to turn and run, though his feet refused to obey him.

  Then came the melody . . . the one that his sister was playing on the piano when the police arrived to tell them of what had befallen their father. It was a piece by Chopin. Again and again it played in his dream like a macabre music box. As he heard it he became aware that he was walking along a dark street. It had no ending and the buildings on either side were so tall that they seemed to lean in so that they were almost touching.

  Next, he saw a body. It was lying in a pool of blood, a dark figure hunched menacingly over it. As he drew closer he saw the glint of a knife in the figure’s hand. He thought, at first, that it was Lombroso but when the figure turned it had no face at all. He looked over to the corpse. It was his father, looking up at him with lifeless eyes. James tried to go to him but, almost overcome with a feeling of dread and fear, he could not. Then the faceless figure came towards him. It lifted the knife as if to strike and then looked up at him. And suddenly it had a face. It was his own.

  James woke with a start, his nightshirt damp with sweat, his heart pounding. Would he ever be able to leave his past behind? He went to the window and threw it open, taking gulps of the cool night air in an effort to calm himself. Gradually he felt better. It was only a dream after all. Given what he had seen it was hardly surprising that he had reacted to it. Indeed, Lombroso had also seemed to be badly affected by the sight. Was it possible that the professor had become unhinged by his own work? Obsession was not uncommon amongst academics, particularly scientists. He knew that much from bitter experience.

  But then whoever had done this must surely be cruel and merciless and Lombroso did not seem to be either of these things. The note, of course – A Tribute to Lombroso – meant there had to be some connection. But James could not imagine Lombroso committing such a hideous crime. Admittedly they had only met once and so he had little of substance to assist him in assessing the professor’s character. And that note was odd to say the least.

  James closed the window and went over to his shabby armchair in the corner of the room. He sank down in it and closed his eyes, the better to analyse the matter. It was perfectly true that he did not want his new employer to be involved – and it was very clear that the killer had sought to implicate Lombroso, which suggested strongly that the professor was unlikely to be the murderer. What needed to be established was why the professor had been drawn into the crime in this way. If this could be discovered, it would surely be a simple matter to identify the culprit.

  Having clarified things in his mind, he made the decision that he would offer his assistance in the matter. It was imperative that this crime was solved so Lombroso could continue with his experiments, unfettered by suspicion. Either that or be prevented from killing anyone else, whichever it turned out to be. Satisfied that he had reached a conclusion of sorts, James went back to his bed and fell soundly asleep.

  3

  Impulsive crimes among animals, as among humans, are frequently prompted by love.

  Lombroso, 1884, p 171

  The next morning James made his way through the streets of Turin to Lombroso’s museum. It was a beautiful day, unseasonably warm, sunny and bright, with the snowy peaks of the Alps clearly visible in the distance, watching over the city like a group of guardian angels. But weather and the scenery were wasted on James. He sat in a cab as it clattered through the unfamiliar streets and stared into the distance. The dream was still haunting him. He had so many questions and only Lombroso, it see
med to him, would be able to answer them.

  He fingered his starched collar nervously. Was this whole enterprise a foolish mistake? Should he leave the city now before Lombroso found out his secret? And what if the professor turned out to be a killer? Where would that leave him? A chill travelled through his body as he realised what was at stake.

  He leaned back and clenched his fists as if he was about to engage in hand-to-hand combat with his own fears. Breathing deeply, he tried to steady his nerves. The smell of the cab’s interior combined unpleasantly with the odour of the many bodies that had sat there before him. Suddenly it swerved to avoid a handcart being pulled slowly across the road by an elderly man who gesticulated angrily. He was so close that James could see his hostile glare and the spittle seeping from the corners of his snarling, toothless mouth as they drove past. The sight of it jolted him back to reality, reminding him of his purpose. It was then that he knew that he had no choice but to go on, for if he turned back now he would never be complete. It was a risk. He realised that he might not like what he discovered, but it seemed to him that not knowing was even worse.

  Everything had now become further complicated by the murder. If he was innocent, James assumed that Lombroso would wish to give its investigation priority, given the use of his name on the note. It would be interesting to see him apply his theories to an actual crime and he hoped that perhaps the professor would allow him to help, even if that meant that he would have to wait a little longer to address his own problems.

  James looked out of the window again in an effort to find some distraction and soon lost himself in the bustle of the city. Watching the Torinesi going about their business, he thought to himself that, at first glance, this place was not so very different from home. As in Edinburgh there were two contrasting sides to the city: both were built on old ground, one with broad, clean and straight streets and another of winding narrow lanes and alleyways. Here too street traders shouted out at passers-by in an effort to persuade them to buy their wares. The gentry strolled past, their noses high in the air as if trying to avoid the city smells that inevitably surrounded them – sewage, animal and human, sweat and filth; the stink of people, the stink of life.

  In Turin, though, the odour was different from Edinburgh’s. It had a slight undertone of fresh herbs, garlic and olive oil, wafting over from stalls that nestled under the walkways that lined the streets. How easy it would be for the uninitiated to see only the acceptable side of the place, the almost exotic golden glow of the piazzas and archways shining in the pale morning sunlight. One could simply brush aside the sight of the filthy beggars or the sharp-faced con men, ignore the bright-eyed thieves or the snarling pimps and their blousy prostitutes, turn away from the hidden grotesques of the city, lingering in dark corners waiting for night, all the sinister undercurrents that would sweep a man away in its filthy waters given half the chance. It was too late for him. He had already witnessed Turin’s less salubrious side at first hand and knew that beneath this shining surface lay a darker underbelly of shadows and secrets. And he also knew the raw truth: that he was no different.

  On the surface he was quite ordinary; a little pale perhaps, and serious, with a shock of dark hair that he habitually pushed away from his forehead. A colleague of his father’s had once told him that he had a noticeable pallor, as if he had rarely seen daylight, and that his eyes had a distant and haunted quality. When he had mentioned it to Lucy she had told him that he looked ‘romantic’ as if he was ‘a man with a past’. He had not said so but, given the burden he carried at the time, he had thought that description was apt and hardly surprising. After all, it was quite possible that his appearance was a mere reflection of the state of his soul.

  Finally the cab pulled up outside the museum. As before he knocked at the huge wooden doors and was met by Sofia. Today she was brusque, ushering him in as if she was too busy to pass the time of day with him. James was disappointed. He had hoped for a smile at least. He decided to regard her silence as a challenge.

  ‘It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it? Is it always like this in November?’ he said as she shut the door.

  ‘No,’ replied Sofia tersely as she took his hat and cane.

  James tried again. ‘So then it usually rains then, does it?’

  ‘Sì.’

  ‘Heavily?’

  Sofia sighed. ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘How often?’ he asked following her across the hallway. ‘Every day, once a week?’

  ‘Sometimes,’ she repeated.

  ‘In Edinburgh it rains all the time.’

  There was no reply.

  ‘Does it ever snow here?’

  ‘Follow me please,’ she said firmly.

  ‘Is there ever—’

  ‘No, never,’ she replied. It was clear that she was not in the mood to talk.

  He admitted defeat and dutifully followed her as they passed through various corridors, heavy with the fragrances of beeswax and lavender and just a hint of formaldehyde. Occasionally she would pause outside a door and James would think that they had reached their destination. Then, having waited just long enough to tantalise him, she would spin on her heel and on they would go. There was something sensual about the way she moved. Her bold walk and swinging hips reminded him of the girls who used to come out of the public houses in Edinburgh’s less salubrious areas, once they had closed for the night. And yet her movements had a certain elegance and grace that belied her sordid beginnings. There was something about her that both moved and disturbed him but he could not say for sure what that something might be. He decided that the only way to break the spell she had over him was to try again to engage her in conversation. Besides, there was something he needed to know.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said, hesitantly.

  Sofia stopped and turned to face him. ‘Sì?’

  ‘I heard you say something about the gates of Hell yesterday. What did you mean?’

  She looked at him intently and murmured under her breath as she had done the day before. James didn’t know exactly what she said but it did not sound entirely complimentary. She turned away as if to go and James seized her by her wrist.

  ‘Wait! Answer me!’

  ‘No!’ She shook his hand away and carried on, turning left into a corridor. James quickly followed her and was about to try to speak to her again when he noticed that they were not alone. Lining the passageway were full-length skeletons, standing like sentinels guarding the very gates of Hell that Sofia seemed so reluctant to discuss. James halted, staring at them. Then he heard a low laugh. He looked up indignantly. Sofia was leaning against the wall next to one of the skeletons, a wry smile on her face. ‘They will not bite!’

  James looked at the nearest one to him and pulled a face at it. ‘Are you sure about that?’

  ‘Sì,’ she said. ‘I will not let them!’

  James looked at the skeletons and smiled as a thought entered his head. ‘Does the professor make you dust them?’

  She laughed. ‘Sì, every day.’

  ‘And do they have much to say?’

  She paused, her head on one side as if she was giving serious consideration to his question. ‘No, they are very boring . . . for criminals.’

  ‘What sort of criminals?’

  ‘Murderers, thieves, pimps—’

  ‘And prostitutes?’ he said without thinking.

  Sofia’s smile disappeared and she looked at him haughtily. ‘No, only criminals. Come, signore, we must go. The professor is waiting.’

  ‘Oh, but can you not introduce me to one of these gentlemen, before we go?’ James asked, in an effort to return the conversation to its previous levity.

  ‘I will not. For one thing they have no conversation and for another . . .’ She paused.

  ‘What?’

  ‘For another they might lead you astray and we cannot have that!’

  ‘Do you enjoy your work, Sofia?’

  Sofia shrugged and started to walk away. ‘You ask a lot of questio
ns. No wonder the professor likes you!’

  James realised that she had no intention of answering him but at least they had spoken, which was a start – but of what, he wondered. Finally Sofia paused at a doorway, knocked and ushered him into a room then left.

  It was not the one he had found himself in the day before, although it too had shelves from floor to ceiling, but instead of the various artefacts that he had examined, there were what seemed like hundreds of skulls, staring down at him, each with a label attached.

  In the centre of the room was a contraption that in some ways resembled the one he had assisted Professor Lombroso with the day before. This one, however, had no straps. There was a platform in the centre and some dials and metal rulers. James had started to examine it, lifting each piece with care and trying to work out exactly what it was for, when the door opened and Lombroso bounded in. He slapped him on the back with such enthusiasm that he almost lost his footing.

  ‘Ah, Murray, you have returned. I thought perhaps you might have changed your mind and abandoned us!’

  ‘Not at all, Professor,’ he replied truthfully. ‘If anything I am even more determined to stay, if you will have me, that is. I wanted to ask you about yesterday—’

  ‘Young man,’ Lombroso interrupted, ‘I am delighted that you are still wishing to assist me! Welcome to my laboratory.’ He beamed at him and shook his hand energetically.

  James was somewhat taken aback. It was almost as if the murder had never happened. He wondered whether to mention it again but decided against it. Clearly Lombroso did not wish to talk about it at present and he was hardly in a position to force the issue. He resolved to bring it up later, perhaps over lunch.

  Lombroso guided him towards the door. ‘Now, allow me to show you round properly. I will take you through each room and I hope that by the end of the tour you will have reached a full understanding of what I am trying to achieve.’