City of Devils

by Diana Bretherick

  ‘Father Vincenzo believes that we are under threat from the Devil,’ Madame Tarnovsky said.

  ‘Preposterous!’ said Lombroso disdainfully.

  Madame Tarnovsky nodded.

  ‘Father Vincenzo is very outspoken on the matter,’ Ottolenghi said. ‘He is known locally as Father Hell.’

  Lombroso snorted. ‘After that Viennese charlatan! How apt!’

  ‘Does he pose a threat?’ James asked.

  ‘He would like to think so,’ replied Lombroso with disgust.

  Ottolenghi tried to clarify. ‘He has some extremely influential friends amongst the aristocracy and even at the university itself.’

  ‘And the real Father Hell?’ enquired James.

  ‘Maximilian Hell, an astronomer from the last century renowned for his forgery of scientific data,’ added Reiner helpfully, as he flicked an imaginary crumb away from his waistcoat.

  ‘I’ve heard that he has been misjudged,’ murmured DeClichy, shifting uncomfortably in a rather rickety chair next to the sofa where Horton was lounging. James looked at him. His suit was ill-fitting and looked shabby enough to be second-hand. James was sympathetic. He knew how it felt to be short of funds, and he himself was wearing one of his only two suits.

  ‘Well, our Father Hell is just a nuisance who should be ignored,’ declared Madame Tarnovsky, firmly.

  ‘What is his interest in criminal anthropology?’ James asked.

  ‘Professor, you should explain to Dr Murray. He is new to all of this,’ Madame Tarnovsky said.

  Lombroso sighed. ‘Yes, I suppose you should know of them, Murray, in case they disrupt us again. This city has a large and rather excitable population of religious maniacs, all of whom seem to think that I have something against God. Father Vincenzo, for example, believes that the city is under threat from Beelzebub himself and that, through my work, I am personally assisting him to open the gates of Hell.’

  ‘Which are reputed to be located here,’ added Ottolenghi. ‘Indeed, Turin is said to be the city of the Devil.’

  James raised his eyebrows. This was an unexpected piece of information, although it did explain, to some extent, Sofia’s comment. ‘But what has this to do with the professor’s work?’ he asked.

  ‘The Church disapproves of science and scientists,’ Borelli said, ‘and the professor here seems to particularly upset them.’

  ‘Well, if we’re all born bad, what’s the point of the Devil, or God for that matter?’ laughed Horton, offering Borelli a cigar. James watched Horton select one for himself from his silver case and discard the red and gold band of paper round its base, carelessly throwing it aside as if he was in his own home.

  Lombroso looked to the heavens again. ‘As I have told you many times, Horton, only some are born criminals.’

  Horton waved a hand, languorously. ‘Save it for the debate, Professor. No doubt DeClichy here will give you a run for your money. Maybe Father Vincenzo and his friends will turn up and you can let them know in person.’

  ‘Do you think he will be there?’ Madame Tarnovsky asked.

  Lombroso nodded morosely. ‘The university insisted that it was open to all who wished to buy a ticket. It’s not inconceivable that he’ll turn up at both the debate and the reception too. I know that the Marchesa will have invited him.’ He turned to James. ‘I have not yet informed you, Murray . . . the debate is followed by an evening reception hosted by the Marchesa Vittoria di Carignano. You are invited as my guest.’

  ‘Ah yes, how is the Marchesa?’ Madame Tarnovsky asked.

  ‘She is very well, as far as I know,’ Lombroso replied.

  ‘I hear she only has eyes for Father Vincenzo these days,’ Horton said, with a hint of mischief – or was it malevolence, James wondered.

  Madame Tarnovsky tutted. ‘Really, Dr Horton, I’m sure she is intelligent enough to see through him.’

  ‘No, Horton is right,’ Lombroso said ruefully. ‘The priest always seems to be at her side these days and she has little time left for science.’

  ‘Still, if she has agreed to host the reception, she must still care a little,’ Borelli said. ‘We must make every effort to rekindle her interest. After all, she’s the most influential woman in Piedmont, is she not? To lose her patronage would be a disaster.’

  Lombroso nodded. ‘Indeed it would.’

  ‘You’re very quiet, Herr Dr DeClichy. Any views on Father Vincenzo?’ Reiner asked.

  DeClichy shifted about on his chair again. ‘I remember the priest from the Congress in Rome, of course. He was difficult to forget, as were the exhibits you so helpfully provided, Professor.’

  ‘Ah yes, the exhibits,’ Madame Tarnovsky said. She turned to James. ‘They were deemed to be so disturbing in nature that women and children were not admitted. I thought for a while that I was going to have to be smuggled in disguised as one of Cesare’s assistants!’

  ‘Such things do not apply to scientists, whatever their sex,’ Lombroso said.

  Madame Tarnovsky smiled and patted his hand. ‘Not all would agree, but I am grateful for your view.’

  ‘There were all manner of curiosities,’ Reiner recalled. ‘I still remember those skulls . . . oh yes, and Giona La Gala. His presence remained with me for many months.’

  ‘I have not heard of him. Which university does he come from?’ asked James. Everyone laughed and he coloured slightly.

  Lombroso smiled at him. ‘Giona La Gala was a particularly murderous brigand. His remains were displayed by doctors from the prison in Genoa.’

  ‘Everything from his death mask to his brain, tattoos and gallstones were there!’ exclaimed Borelli. He turned to Lombroso. ‘Still, it was your skulls and photographs that stole the show, Cesare, much to the disdain of your critics!’

  ‘So tell us, DeClichy, how is your research progressing these days? What new discoveries have you made about crime in Lyon this year?’ Lombroso asked in mocking tones. ‘Do men become thieves because their mothers were cruel to them? Are murderers merely reacting to their lack of education? Do rapists commit their crimes because they are hungry?’

  His lips curled in disdain as he spoke. Some of the ideas he proposed sounded entirely plausible to James but he didn’t like to say so with Lombroso in his current mood. He was learning more of his character by the minute and, although he was clearly impatient with those who did not share his views, James still admired him. Such certainty in one’s own opinions seemed to him to be a quality worth emulating.

  DeClichy pursed his fleshy lips before answering. ‘It is perhaps more likely as a theory than being born to crime as one is born to be musical.’

  Madame Tarnovsky interceded. ‘Well now, Dr DeClichy, if I may say so, you are being a little hasty. If musical genius can be innate, then why cannot criminality?’

  Lombroso beamed at Madame Tarnovsky. ‘Exactly so, I could not have put it better myself.’

  Horton yawned openly. Lombroso looked at him severely. ‘I do apologise if we are boring you, Dr Horton.’

  ‘You’re not, Professor, although I’ve heard it all before. I was merely hoping for something a little more original this year.’

  James started to wonder what it was exactly that Horton did believe in as he seemed to be so disdainful about everything.

  ‘Dr Horton, remember you are a guest!’ Madame Tarnovsky said.

  ‘Don’t worry, I am used to such ignorance,’ Lombroso said. ‘I am more interested by what Horton means by original.’

  Horton stopped laughing and stared at him. ‘Well, for example, I’ve have not heard anyone say a thing about what we should do with these born criminals once we’ve identified them. Are we just to allow them to continue to breed and spread their criminal genes, as if their existence didn’t matter?’

  ‘Dr Horton! I thought that you agreed with me that there is no such thing as the born criminal!’ piped up DeClichy, his rickety chair rocking dangerously as he moved.

  ‘Perhaps, but I’m just playing devil’s advo
cate – oh, no sorry – that’s the professor’s role. How’s the family, by the way, Professor?’ Horton grinned archly. ‘Will they be joining us this evening?’

  Lombroso glowered at him. ‘They left for the country this morning, as it happens.’

  ‘That’s a shame. Still, it’s probably for the best, given the circumstances,’ declared Horton, winking at Lombroso who gave him a withering look in return.

  ‘What circumstances?’ asked Borelli. ‘Has something happened, Cesare?’

  Lombroso shook his head, briskly. ‘It’s nothing. I just needed solitude while the symposium is taking place.’

  Horton looked at him slyly. ‘Come, come now, it’s more than that. What about the murder?’

  Lombroso stared at him with ill-disguised dislike. ‘It has nothing whatsoever to do with that!’

  ‘Murder, what murder? You must tell us, Cesare!’ Borelli said, apparently concerned.

  Ottolenghi interceded in an effort to control the conversation. ‘A former subject of the professor’s was unfortunate enough to be the victim of a killer, that’s all. He was a criminal. What happened was hardly surprising, given the company he no doubt kept.’

  Horton shook his head. ‘My sources tell me Lombroso’s involvement is rather more than that.’

  ‘You seem remarkably well informed, Herr Doctor,’ Reiner commented.

  Horton tapped the side of his nose conspiratorially.

  ‘Come on, Horton, you can’t leave it there. What are you insinuating?’ Borelli said.

  Horton smirked. ‘I notice that the good professor hasn’t mentioned the bloody note.’

  ‘A bloody note? Oh, do tell us more, Cesare! It sounds intriguing!’ Madame Tarnovsky said eagerly.

  ‘What was on the note? How does it connect to you?’ Borelli asked.

  There was a pause. Lombroso wore a thunderous expression. He clearly didn’t want to talk about it and yet here he was being forced to discuss it at his own gathering.

  Horton interrupted. James noticed that his eyes were glinting with spite. ‘A Tribute to Lombroso, that’s what was written on it. Someone obviously wants to impress you!’

  ‘I really do not wish to discuss it. Let us talk of other matters! Madame Tarnovsky, how is Prague?’

  Madame Tarnovsky, apparently sensitive to her host’s discomfort, then proceeded to tell the assembled company of her recent experiments on the city’s prostitutes and female thieves. The way she explained it made it seem entirely natural as a process and her audience was enthralled by what she had to say.

  James sensed that Lombroso was relieved that the conversation had moved away from Soldati’s death. Eventually some more of Lombroso’s associates arrived and the party began to separate into small groups. James was asked to go downstairs to the kitchen and tell Sofia to bring more food and wine. Evidently his role as assistant to the professor extended to the domestic. He didn’t really mind. After all, it gave him an ideal excuse to see Sofia again.

  When he found Sofia she was baking bread and he looked on from the doorway, entranced, as she expertly kneaded the dough, her body moving sensuously as she did so. She looked up without warning and caught him looking at her. He held her stare and she looked away, smiling as if she was laughing at him.

  ‘The professor is asking for some more food and wine.’

  Sofia nodded. ‘I must finish this first or we will have no bread for the morning.’

  ‘Then I will wait,’ James said, taking a seat without looking away. Her directness fascinated him.

  Sofia smiled at him. ‘You wish to escape? All those fine people in one room – it can be a little overwhelming, perhaps.’

  ‘Perhaps . . .’ James returned her smile. ‘How long have you been with the professor?’

  ‘Five years. He saved me. Without him . . .’

  She paused in her work and looked into the distance. There was a haunted expression on her face as if she was reliving a part of her past that she would rather forget. James was angry with himself for asking such a crass question.

  Suddenly Sofia leaned forwards and grasped his hand. He felt a slight tingle at her touch, as if it was a caress. She looked intently into his eyes. ‘He is good man. You must help him. He needs you.’

  ‘But I barely know him!’

  ‘The murder – it hit him hard. I think he is worried that there may be another.’

  Just feeling her hand on his had left him almost breathless. He instinctively responded but she pulled away as if he had pricked her with a needle. She looked at him with a steady gaze and went back to her kneading.

  ‘Another? Why should there be?’

  She shrugged. ‘You should ask him.’

  ‘I want to help him but he won’t talk about it,’ he said.

  Sofia looked at him intently as if assessing his worth. ‘You must do what you can. He has enemies. They will use this against him if they can.’

  ‘You know a lot about his work?’

  ‘I have eyes and ears. That is enough.’ She wiped her hands on her apron and put a tea towel over the dough. ‘I will fetch some more food from the larder.’

  ‘I’ll help you.’

  Sofia inclined her head slightly in acknowledgement and he followed her through the large wooden door in the corner. She began to load plates and bowls onto a tray. He stood behind her and she turned around suddenly so that they stood face to face. They were so close that he could feel the light touch of her breath on his face. Their eyes met and she gave him that slow half smile as she had done on the first day he saw her. He felt almost overwhelmed by the urge to kiss her.

  He knew in his heart that it was wrong. Sofia was his new employer’s servant, which was bad enough. But there was also her background. From what Lombroso had said, she had done only what she had to in order to survive, but still . . . prostitution. He could hardly bear to think of what she must have gone through just to keep body and soul together. Sofia was forbidden to him in so many ways. How could he even begin think of her like that? And yet standing so close to her meant that any self-control he might have had was completely lost. He could not resist her, try as he might. He put his hand up to touch her cheek. She put her hand over his, all the time looking into his eyes and he was lost.

  ‘Not here . . . not now . . . There are things I must tell you—’

  Suddenly she stopped. Someone had come into the kitchen.

  ‘Sofia?’ It was the maid.

  She drew away from him and placed her finger on his lips. ‘Wait,’ she breathed. She lifted a tray of food and made her way past him out of the larder.

  ‘Would you take this upstairs, Gisella? I will follow with some more wine.’

  James peeped round the door and saw the girl leave. Sofia turned and looked intensely at him. ‘Another time . . . soon.’ She picked up a tray of glasses and a carafe of wine and went upstairs.

  James leaned against the larder door for a moment, his eyes closed, not wanting to release the memory of her touch.

  When he returned upstairs Ottolenghi came over and pulled him to one side. ‘You’ve been a long time,’ he whispered. ‘What were you doing?’

  James looked at him and shrugged as if he did not know what he meant. Ottolenghi shook his head at him. ‘Take care, Murray, take care.’

  Before James could say anything Horton sauntered over to them. ‘You’re both coming to the debate?’

  ‘Wouldn’t dream of missing it,’ replied Ottolenghi. ‘Tell me, Horton, do you really believe that the professor is wrong about the criminal type?’

  Horton chomped noisily on his cigar, occasionally baring his sharp little teeth. ‘Well, put it like this . . . No one’s right all of the time, are they?’

  ‘What does that mean?’ James asked.

  Horton smirked. ‘You’ll just have to wait and see, won’t you. One thing I can assure you of – the debate won’t be dull!’ He moved away, still smirking.

  Ottolenghi looked concerned.

  ‘What’s
the matter?’

  ‘I don’t know. There’s just something about that man. He’s not to be trusted. I wonder what he’s got up his sleeve. Whatever it is, the professor won’t like it. We’d better be ready for him. One false move and the academic vultures will descend!’

  James looked over to Lombroso. He was holding forth to a small crowd of admirers. Borelli stood behind him, a faint smile on his face. Horton stood beside him looking bored. Ottolenghi grinned. ‘He’s telling his skull story again.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘He’ll tell you himself soon enough, probably more than once. It is rather a favourite of the professor’s. It’s an account of how he was inspired to develop his theory of the born criminal being a throwback to primitive man.’

  James looked over again with fresh interest, listening to the performance.

  ‘As I looked at this scoundrel’s skull I could see the explanation for the enormous jaws, high cheekbones, prominent superciliary arches, solitary lines in the palms, extreme size of the orbits, handle-shaped ears found in criminals, savages and apes –’ Lombroso used his hands to illustrate his words like an old-fashioned actor miming a performance – insensibility to pain, extremely acute sight, tattooing, excessive idleness, love of orgies, and the irresponsible craving of evil for its own sake, the desire not only to extinguish life in the victim, but to mutilate the corpse, tear its flesh and drink its own blood.’

  Then Lombroso stopped and paused, evidently waiting for a reaction. There was a ripple of polite applause led by Madame Tarnovsky and he acknowledged it graciously, although James could see from his expression that he had been hoping for something more. Horton gave one of his audible yawns and Lombroso turned to glare at him. Madame Tarnovsky hastily asked a question and others followed her example and the moment had passed.

  James wandered over to Reiner who had been listening to Lombroso’s story from a distance, a wry smile on his face. ‘Have you heard the story before?’ he asked.

  Reiner smiled. ‘He may have mentioned it when we last met . . . and the time before . . . and . . .’

  ‘The time before that?’

  ‘Indeed, but it bears repetition nonetheless.’