City of Devils

by Diana Bretherick

  ‘It is. You should read his paper,’ Ottolenghi said matter-of-factly, as if it was a natural subject for academic discussion. ‘And of course some of our homegrown experts will be there too. They will all, no doubt, have plenty to say, and there’s DeClichy, of course.’

  ‘I got the impression that the professor doesn’t have much time for him. Why would he be invited?’

  ‘Something you should know about the professor, he thrives on conflict; that’s why having so many enemies doesn’t bother him. He considers DeClichy to be so wrong that it makes him look right. That’s why he’s agreed to debate with him at the symposium. He is very fixed in his ideas about things. Once he has made a decision then nothing will change it.’

  ‘Certainty in science has got to be a good thing, surely.’

  ‘Up to a point, although I have heard it argued that uncertainty is even more valuable. At any rate, certain or not, I sometimes wonder if the professor goes too far. No one is infallible after all, not even him. There are quite a few people in the city who would enjoy proving just that.’

  Ottolenghi stared thoughtfully out of the window, his brows furrowed. His silence made it clear that he did not wish to discuss the topic further so James resolved to take a leaf out of his book and change the subject.

  ‘Is there anything I should know for this evening?’

  ‘Mmmm,’ replied Ottolenghi. ‘I don’t think so. If in doubt ask a question. They all love to talk about their work and it will make you look interested.’

  ‘I am interested.’ James laughed. ‘It’s why I’m here after all – to learn.’

  ‘Is it?’ asked Ottolenghi. ‘If you don’t mind me saying so, you look like a man with quite another purpose.’

  James stared at him. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Nothing, my friend, nothing. It’s just that you seem to me to be here for a particular reason – as well as learning, I mean.’

  James paused. He looked at Ottolenghi’s open features and saw a man he could trust. ‘There is something. But I don’t think I can talk of it now . . . I will, I promise you, but not until I am ready.’

  Ottolenghi nodded and smiled. ‘Of course, of course.’ He looked at his pocket watch. James recognised that Ottolenghi was trying to spare him any embarrassment and he warmed to him. He would be a good friend. ‘It is almost six o’clock,’ Ottolenghi said. ‘I think we should make our way to the professor’s house. We don’t want to be late.’

  James grinned. ‘Indeed not. I wouldn’t wish to miss anything.’

  They left the café and made their way through the evening gloom towards Lombroso’s residence. The gaslights were being ignited and the city was going through its daily metamorphosis from the clarity of daylight to a dimly lit world of shadows, whisperings, and ambiguities. As they walked James was vaguely aware of a figure behind them, following them stealthily as they passed through the streets. There seemed to be a sound of faint rustling every now and then and sometimes he thought that he could hear breathing. As he inhaled, it seemed to him that there was a suggestion of a familiar sour smell in the air. He turned his head slightly once or twice but could see nothing. He had to be discreet as he did not want to alarm Ottolenghi unnecessarily but it was difficult. The further they travelled the more convinced James became that they were not alone. There were no footsteps as such and yet he could hear something – a soft tread, as if someone was walking in James’s own footprints. This time he stopped suddenly and spun round.

  Ottolenghi started. ‘What is it?’

  James squinted into the distance. He thought he had seen a figure disappear into an alleyway, a few yards back. He held up his hand to quiet Ottolenghi and crept forward to where the alley began. He looked down the passage. It was barely lit and he could see nothing of significance. And yet he was certain that someone had been there. He turned back towards Ottolenghi.

  ‘I thought I saw something . . .’

  Ottolenghi looked down the passage himself and shook his head. ‘Whoever it was has long gone, it would seem.’

  ‘Perhaps I imagined it.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Ottolenghi said, ‘but perhaps not. Either way there is little we can do now. We should get going. We don’t want to be late.’

  ‘Should we not investigate further?’

  Ottolenghi shrugged. ‘If you want to, then be my guest. but I warn you, the professor is very keen on punctuality.’

  ‘But if someone is following us . . .’

  ‘Then it might be safer to leave them alone, don’t you think?’

  James weighed up the situation. Upsetting his new employer so soon was obviously not a good idea. But if someone was following him then, given what had happened to Soldati, Ottolenghi could be right. The whole thing made him feel distinctly uncomfortable. He had hoped to start afresh but it seemed as if the vague sense of unease that had blighted his life in the last year or so would not be lifting any time soon. If anything, it had deepened to something more like a feeling of being in danger somehow, although from what exactly was as yet unclear.

  He looked at Ottolenghi and nodded. ‘You’re right. Let’s go. We don’t have time to waste chasing shadows tonight.’

  The two young men turned and carried on with their journey. Once they reached the broad Corso Vittorio Emanuele II, not far from their destination, James looked back again but still there was nothing there. Was it really just his mind playing tricks on him? With what had happened so far in his short time in Turin, it would hardly be surprising. But it left him with more than merely a feeling of being on edge and he found that he could not shake it off. The closer they got to Lombroso’s home, the more acutely James experienced an overwhelming sensation of threat.

  5

  It is pleasing to note that few criminals come from the world of science.

  Lombroso, 1876, p 74

  Before long, James and Ottolenghi arrived at Lombroso’s home in the Via Legnano. It was, as James had anticipated, a large and imposing building with huge wooden doors at the front, not unlike those at the university. There was an enormous brass knocker in the shape of a man’s face and James peered at it, then smiled to himself. It bore more than a passing resemblance to Lombroso himself, as if he wanted to prepare his visitors to meet the great man in the flesh.

  They were welcomed in by a rather nervous young woman who ushered them upstairs as reverently as if they were royalty. She showed them into what looked like a cross between an exhibits room and a library and then scurried off like a startled mouse retreating into its hole. James felt a pang of regret that Sofia was not there.

  He looked around him. The room was lined with books but every other available space was filled with artefacts that would not have looked out of place at Lombroso’s museum at the university. In one corner there was a large, yellowing phrenology head which nestled next to a monkey’s skull. In another were various jars containing what looked like animal organs. In pride of place on the mantelpiece was a fearsome-looking shrunken head, its teeth bared menacingly at them. James stared at it. Presumably it had once belonged to a living, breathing human being. How, he wondered, had it come to be in this state? A clock ticked monotonously as they stood in silence and waited for the great man to arrive. As the seconds passed James became increasingly excited at the prospect of meeting Lombroso’s guests.

  In a moment or two, though it seemed longer, they were joined by Lombroso, who greeted both of them effusively. He motioned to them to sit by the fire where there were some well-worn armchairs and sofas, arranged in a semi-circle.

  ‘So, Murray, what are your first impressions?’ asked Lombroso as he poured wine for them, more of Paolo’s Barolo.

  James considered the events of the day: the museum, the market, Paolo’s trattoria. Despite all of it the only thing that he could think about at that moment was the mutilated corpse of Giuseppe Soldati. He had encountered violent death when working for Dr Bell, but nothing he had seen then could compare with this murder. The deliberate
cruelty of the killer in the use of the knife was something completely new to him. And the leaving of the note . . . it was all so planned, premeditated. How could someone do such a thing and, more importantly, why? Try as he might, James simply could not stop himself. The words propelled themselves from his mouth like bullets from a gun.

  ‘Who could have killed him, Professor?’

  Ottolenghi shook his head at him but he was too late.

  Lombroso frowned. ‘You are referring to Soldati, no doubt.’

  James nodded. Lombroso replied briskly, ‘I do not wish to discuss it – not now or at any other time.’

  ‘But, Professor, should we not at least look into it a little? After all, the note seemed to suggest that—’

  ‘Suggest what? That I am involved? You are beginning to sound like that fool Machinetti!’

  They sat in silence. James didn’t know what to say. Lombroso was clearly annoyed but he did not know the professor well enough to find out why. Finally Lombroso seemed to take pity on him.

  ‘Please, Murray, let us leave it there. We will not discuss it again. I assure you that I have my reasons.’ He paused and sipped some wine. ‘Now, about the museum – what did you think of the exhibits?’

  Before anyone could answer there was a knock at the door and Sofia entered, showing in the first of Lombroso’s guests. When he saw her, James felt his heartbeat quicken. She was wearing a dark blue dress, this time worn with a starched white apron, but as before, even shrouded in this drab uniform, she had a kind of effortless grace. He couldn’t say what it was about her that made him catch his breath as he watched her. Her features were by no means perfect. Her lips were just a little too full and her nose was slightly too large for her face. In fact, there was something altogether uneven about her. But yes, it was this lack of perfection that made her somehow so captivating. At first he thought that she had not noticed him but as she turned to leave he caught her eye. Blinking slowly at him like a cat she gave him her half smile. He wondered if she was laughing at him. Then in a moment she was gone and he felt her absence almost immediately.

  Only once Sofia had left the room did James notice that Horton was one of the party that had just arrived. He nodded at James and gave him a mock salute. James saw a broad grin cross Lombroso’s face. He was surprised at Lombroso’s evident pleasure, given his obvious dislike of the man. Then he realised that it was not directed at Horton but at the tall elegant woman who was standing next to him. Lombroso held out his hands to her in greeting.

  ‘Madame Tarnovsky, it is always a pleasure!’

  Lombroso kissed her hand and she smiled at him. James caught Ottolenghi’s glance and saw him wink almost imperceptibly. There was something about Madame Tarnovsky that made one feel instantly at ease in her company. She was attractive, with shining chestnut hair and sparkling eyes, but it was clear that there was more to her than that. She had a certain stillness that most people do not possess. James realised that it was the self-assurance that one only finds in the truly intelligent.

  ‘Professor, it is wonderful to see you again. I don’t think that we have met since the Rome Congress.’

  A slight balding man with a scant beard gave a small discreet cough. He was wearing a suit that was at least two sizes too big for him. It made him look vulnerable, as if he was a small child forced to wear cast off clothes. He smiled uncertainly.

  ‘We also met in Rome, Professor.’

  ‘Did we? I regret I do not recall seeing you there,’ replied Lombroso coldly.

  ‘Sure you do, Professor. It’s DeClichy from Lyon,’ Horton said, a mischievous glint in his eye. ‘I thought you’d enjoy an opportunity to catch up before the debate.’

  Lombroso peered at him haughtily and opened his mouth as if he was about to say something.

  Madame Tarnovsky hastily intervened. ‘May I also present Dr Reiner from Vienna?’ She looked towards an immaculately dressed man with a small, neat moustache. His hair was a very pale blond, so pale in fact that it seemed almost translucent and his eyes just about achieved blueness. He looked as if he had been out in the rain and washed almost completely clean of any colour. As if to compensate, he sported a fancy brocade waistcoat in bright colours that James immediately coveted.

  Reiner gave a short bow. ‘We have definitely met before, Herr Professor, at a symposium on psychiatry in Salzburg. We had a most stimulating discussion on the subject of phrenology.’

  ‘Ah yes, the science of head bumps!’ Horton said, sarcastically, making his way over to a sofa where he stretched himself out like a lizard basking in the sunshine.

  Lombroso ignored him. ‘Yes, I remember. We had witnessed a demonstration by a gentleman from America. He was less than persuasive, I think.’

  ‘Indeed so, although I had heard that you had become more sympathetic to these ideas,’ Reiner said, sitting next to Horton, whose outstretched legs he moved with little more than a glance.

  Lombroso frowned. ‘Well, I don’t know who told you that, one of my many critics, no doubt. They never seem to let facts interfere with a good story.’

  ‘I thought you were a keen examiner of skulls, Professor,’ Horton said with mock puzzlement.

  Lombroso pursed his lips. ‘As you well know, Horton, phrenology has been largely discredited. My interest is entirely different. I find physiological investigations – anthropometry, for example – to be much better indicators of behavioural characteristics. As I have said many times before, it is a pity that Bertillon’s methods are not widely used in this country. Machinetti might actually catch some criminals!’ He turned to James. ‘You are no doubt aware, Murray, that Monsieur Bertillon advocates the measurement of body parts as the most accurate method of criminal identification.’

  James nodded. ‘I have heard of his idea, though I’ve not seen its application.’

  Horton snorted. ‘It seems ridiculous to me. How can you catch a criminal just by knowing the size of his ears?’

  DeClichy cleared his throat politely. ‘Anthropometry has known some success in Paris, I understand. Bertillon has been responsible for the apprehension of a number of known criminals.’

  ‘There we have it,’ Lombroso said in delight. ‘Scientific policing in action! What do you think, Murray?’

  James paused. He recalled Dr Bell’s rather forthright views on the subject of phrenology. ‘Pseudo science’ was what he had called it. And although he had been more positive about Bertillon’s techniques, he had still been somewhat sceptical.

  ‘I have heard that it is not without its problems,’ James said diplomatically. ‘It is a costly system and only really works if you have a proper set of records with which to compare the apprehended criminal’s measurements.’

  ‘There is that, of course,’ Lombroso said quickly. ‘But we should not be too quick to dismiss it. All scientific policing methods are of potential interest.’

  James wondered again why Lombroso was so reluctant to get involved in the Soldati case. He was obviously interested in the application of science to the investigation of crime and this would have been an ideal opportunity to find out more.

  Lombroso went on, ‘You should also know, Murray, that many of my opponents claim that I am a supporter of phrenology in order to make me seem . . .’ He hesitated, looking for the right words.

  Horton readily butted in: ‘Old-fashioned? Hopelessly behind the times?’

  ‘One could never accuse Cesare Lombroso of that!’ protested a voice from the doorway. James turned and saw the latest of Lombroso’s guests to arrive, a dark-haired man with a long black beard and a florid complexion, every inch the ‘hail fellow well met’ type. He was thickset with a build not dissimilar to that of Lombroso. In fact, he could almost have been the professor’s younger, slightly more easygoing brother, if the broad grin on his face was anything to go by. James peered behind him to see if Sofia had returned but only the maid from earlier was there, bearing a tray of drinks that she distributed carefully before scuttling away.


  ‘Cesare, Cesare – how are you, my friend!’ the man boomed as he strode over to Lombroso and embraced him warmly.

  ‘Well, if it isn’t Borelli, “the best lawyer in Turin” – is that not what your clients call you?’ Lombroso said, beaming at him.

  ‘You’re too kind, Cesare!’ Borelli laughed.

  ‘How your clients must miss you when you are on your travels!’ Lombroso said, teasing him.

  ‘Absence makes the heart grow fonder, or that’s what I’m hoping!’ Borelli said before sitting himself down next to Lombroso. James looked over at them, perched next to each other. It was almost as if they were posing for a family photograph.

  Madame Tarnovsky smiled at Borelli warmly and then looked towards Lombroso. ‘I hear, Cesare, that Father Vincenzo has continued his protests against your work. The Church was particularly troublesome in Rome. I do hope we will not be disturbed by such interference again.’

  ‘Who is Father Vincenzo?’ James asked. His question was met with a brief silence and he wondered if he should have kept quiet. Then he remembered that Lombroso had not formally introduced him.

  Madame Tarnovsky smiled at him. ‘It is Dr Murray, is it not? Cesare told me he was hoping to have a new assistant.’

  Before James could reply Lombroso butted in. ‘Please forgive me, Madame. Where are my manners?’ James noticed that his forgiveness was not sought, but then, as he was beginning to learn, that was just the way Lombroso was.

  ‘This is indeed my new assistant, Dr James Murray from Edinburgh, Scotland.’

  ‘Welcome to Turin,’ Madame Tarnovsky said, smiling at James sympathetically. ‘Now, Cesare, I think you should answer his question.’

  Lombroso sighed. ‘Ah yes, Father Vincenzo . . . he and others like him are a particularly irritating band of fools and charlatans.’

  ‘As you are no doubt aware, Dr Murray, the Catholic church is very influential in Italy,’ said Madame Tarnovsky.

  ‘Hardly surprising, you may think,’ added Borelli, ‘but it goes beyond religion.’