City of Devils

by Diana Bretherick

  Sofia stopped and turned to him, frowning. ‘I have my own life. It is private.’

  James looked at her as she stood there, her chin held up defiantly, her dark eyes flashing with fury and pride. He realised what a mistake it would be to underestimate such a woman. ‘I know. I am sorry if we embarrassed you.’

  ‘Rosa is my friend. We cannot afford doctors at fancy prices so she helps us all in one way or another.’

  ‘She said that she had something to tell us. Do you know what that might have been?’

  ‘No, I do not. Please do not ask me any more.’

  ‘And the man?’ James tried again.

  ‘He was not with us.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Stop this! I have told you. He was not with us. And Rosa was helping me. There is no more to say.’

  ‘I had to ask you. You do understand, Sofia? Rosa might be in danger.’

  Sofia sighed and held out her hand. ‘Enough please, James. Now come. It’s this way.’ She began to lead him through the streets as she had done before. As they walked he could feel the warmth of her hand and smell her perfume, spice and a hint of citrus, like an exotic dish of ripe fruit. Before long she stopped. ‘We are here,’ she said, looking up at him and smiling in her usual enigmatic way. Suddenly James could wait no longer. He pulled her to him and kissed her. She tasted of cinnamon. He felt her body press against him, voluptuous and yielding and it was as if he had, for an instant, become part of her. All that had happened since they met and even before that seemed inconsequential. It was just he and Sofia in their world and everyone and everything else could wait.

  ‘Do you want to come up, caro?’ whispered Sofia in his ear. ‘I have some wine or more grappa?’

  James looked into her dark eyes. ‘You are so beautiful . . .’ he said. ‘So, so beautiful . . .’ Then he groaned. ‘I can’t, I just can’t.’

  ‘Why not? Do you not want to drink with me?’

  He kissed her again. ‘More than I can say, but I am supposed to be with the professor. He’s expecting me at the reception and I’m late already. I could come back later.’ Sofia smiled again. ‘We’ll see,’ she said, laughing gently as she went up the rickety steps to her rooms. ‘We’ll see.’ With that she unlocked the door and went through it without so much as a look behind her, leaving James determined to leave the reception as early as was decent and return to ‘see’ as Sofia had so temptingly put it.

  9

  Religiosity, a characteristic of criminals, is also found in epileptics, where it alternates with cynicism and serves as a pretext for impulsive acts.

  Lombroso, 1889 p 252

  As he arrived at the Palazzo Carignano James stood and stared at the exterior, which was unlike anything he had seen before. It was curved like a series of waves and in the light of the torches that lit the building’s entrance, the terracotta walls seemed to be undulating gently, almost as if they were a living entity. He looked up at the windows. Most of them were surrounded by mouldings that were so cleverly carved they looked like folds of cloth. There were other decorative reliefs too in various shapes – flowers and plumes and other more abstract patterns. A rotunda crowned the façade and this was topped by an ornate cartouche in the form of a brass scroll. James could just make out enough of the lettering to see the words Vittorio Emanuele II, united Italy’s first king. The whole effect was just a little too much, as if one had eaten a few too many sweets.

  The torches gave a medieval atmosphere to the proceedings. The flames flickered in the chill autumn wind, making James feel as if he was arriving at a royal feast. His fellow guests, though, were rather less regal. As he walked through the entrance hall all he could see were academics standing around in groups and gossiping, exactly as they had been doing the last time he saw them.

  The company might have been familiar but their surroundings were not. The room he walked into, once he had crossed the torchlit courtyard, was the most magnificent that James had ever entered. The floor was of exquisite marquetry with intricate geometric patterns inlaid into the different woods. Everywhere there was gold and gilt shining in the light of glittering chandeliers. There were frescoes and paintings at every turn – goddesses and cherubs dancing in woodland scenes. No space was left undecorated. Heavy brocade curtains hung from the enormous windows as if waiting for a performance to begin. Uniformed waiters moved around the room discreetly, offering glasses of champagne and canapés to the assembled guests.

  Across the room James saw Ottolenghi waiting for him. ‘You managed to tear yourself away from Sofia then!’

  ‘I walked her home, as I said I would,’ James said firmly. He looked around him and raised his eyebrows. ‘I see you like to keep your décor understated.’

  Ottolenghi grinned. ‘This is an understated nation. Hadn’t you realised?’

  ‘So who’s here?’ James asked, looking round him at the assorted guests who were standing in groups chatting.

  ‘Well, most are academics from the university or delegates from the symposium but there are some other guests too. Over there are some members of the judiciary and their wives.’

  Ottolenghi pointed to a group standing by a statue of what appeared to be Zeus. The men were laughing between themselves. Their wives, like peacocks in their gaudy silk dresses, by contrast, looked rather bored.

  ‘What about those two ladies sitting with Borelli?’ James looked over to them. At first glance they appeared to be almost identical. They were even dressed in similar gowns in tones of russets and golds. But on closer scrutiny James noticed that one was bright and animated, holding forth with Borelli. He looked entertained enough, laughing every now and then and nodding vigorously at her comments. The second woman was much more subdued. She looked slightly lost, uncomfortable even, as if she was at the wrong party but could not think of a way of extricating herself without causing offence.

  ‘Ah yes. They’re the Delgado sisters, very influential here. They inherited a number of concerns from their father, bakeries mostly and a gelateria. They are not fond of the professor.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’m not sure exactly but it was something he said about epilepsy and crime. Their father and brother both suffer from the condition. The Marchesa had to smooth it over. Oh, and see over there.’ He pointed to a large group. ‘That’s the opera singer Luisa Cetto and the man next to her is her husband who owns the Teatro Carignano. The Marchesa is an enthusiastic supporter of the arts in the city as well as the sciences.’

  ‘The Marchesa sounds like a very interesting woman. Do you suppose I’ll get to meet her?’ James asked.

  ‘You may well do. She visits us from time to time. I think she has a soft spot for the professor. Mind you, since Father Vincenzo wormed his way into her circle her visits have tailed off a little.’

  ‘He seems to have quite a bit of influence then, this priest.’

  Ottolenghi frowned. ‘Too much, if you ask me. I don’t trust him.’

  ‘You were talking about Lombroso’s enemies when we were in the caffè the other day. From what you’ve said there seem to be quite a few.’

  Ottolenghi sighed. ‘Yes, I’m afraid so. They’re everywhere. You see the balding man with the monocle in the group of judges I pointed out? The professor wrote a somewhat disparaging article about the judiciary and gave a case he presided over as an example of bad practice.’

  ‘Ouch!’ James said. ‘Lombroso doesn’t believe in holding back, does he!’

  ‘You could say that,’ Ottolenghi said. ‘He likes to speak his mind.’

  ‘Well, that’s an admirable quality, don’t you think?’

  ‘Perhaps, but one day, as I told you before, if he’s not careful, it’s going to get him into trouble.’

  James wondered to himself what kind of ‘trouble’ that might be. Both Ottolenghi and Sofia seemed to be worried about Lombroso but neither had really said what they thought might happen to him. Before he could ask though, Lombroso and Madame Tarnovsky came
over to greet them.

  ‘I see you were admiring the room. It is an extraordinary vision, is it not, Murray? A little overblown, perhaps, but still a sight to behold,’ Lombroso said.

  ‘It’s certainly unusually ornate,’ James said diplomatically.

  ‘How elegantly put, Dr Murray.’

  ‘Madame Tarnovsky.’ James bowed to her and she smiled at him. She was dressed in blue and silver but still seemed to outshine the garish gold that surrounded her.

  ‘Tell me, did you enjoy Dr Horton’s little performance this afternoon?’ she asked playfully.

  ‘It was . . .’ James paused to find the right words, ‘interesting.’

  Lombroso beamed at him. ‘Exactly right, Murray.’

  ‘Everyone is discussing it. No one is sure if he was really issuing a warning or actually meant every word,’ Madame Tarnovsky said.

  DeClichy, Borelli and Reiner joined them in time to hear this comment. DeClichy shook his head and tutted. ‘He is certainly somewhat of an enigma. I have spent the last hour or so in the university library, Professor Lombroso. I could not find a single piece of work by Horton or indeed reference to him.’

  Lombroso frowned. ‘That is indeed strange.’

  ‘But we met him in Rome. He gave a paper there, did he not?’ said Reiner.

  Madame Tarnovsky nodded. ‘That’s right, I remember it. It was an odd little speech. He talked of a new method of neurological intervention – the use of surgery to the frontal lobe of the brain to alter behaviour. No one quite knew what to make of it; a lobotomy, I believe he called it.’

  ‘A lobotomy!’ James exclaimed before he could stop himself. The mere mention of the word made him feel sick to his stomach. It brought back so many memories that he would rather forget – frightening as well as sad ones.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Madame Tarnovsky. ‘Are you familiar with the technique, Mr Murray?’

  James coloured slightly. The memory of his last encounter with the method was only too vivid but how could he say more without revealing his secret? ‘I think I have read something of it,’ he said lamely.

  ‘Is Horton not attached to a university?’ Reiner asked.

  ‘I don’t believe so,’ replied Lombroso. ‘He merely cites his ownership of the asylum in San Francisco.’

  ‘Well, of course,’ said Reiner, ‘one does not have to be a professor to have an interest in these matters.’

  ‘So perhaps there is no mystery after all,’ Lombroso said. ‘He is merely somewhat of an outsider, a maverick, as the Americans say, and we should not condemn him for that. After all, where would science be without such men?’

  ‘Men like you, eh, Cesare?’ boomed Borelli, laughing.

  ‘Ah, but Adolfo, remember that today’s maverick is tomorrow’s genius!’ replied Lombroso.

  Everyone nodded sagely at that. The master had spoken and no one seemed inclined to disagree. James still wondered about Horton. There was something about him that he did not quite trust. He couldn’t put his finger on it but he knew that he didn’t like him and the mystery of his provenance was intriguing. He decided to investigate further as soon as the opportunity arose. DeClichy was not the only one with access to the library.

  The conversation had turned to other matters. Lombroso was holding forth with his views about the use of science to solve crime. James looked on and hoped that one day he might have the confidence to speak so fluently on the subject. He had been in Turin for less than a week and so much had happened in that short time that he was beginning to feel quite overwhelmed by it all. There were so many people saying so many things that their words had begun to echo around his head in a jumbled mass. He tried his hardest to disentangle their ideas but he was beginning to struggle. He longed for a little time to himself to assimilate it all.

  A hush suddenly descended upon the room and everyone seemed to turn at the same time. James followed their eyes and saw a magnificently dressed woman regally descending the staircase at one end of the room. Her satin gown was embroidered with pearls and diamonds that shone in the candlelight. She was tall and elegant and as she progressed down the stairs her movements were fluid, sinuous – like those of a dancer. Her silver hair was dressed in an elaborate coiffure. Everything about her suggested power, from her demeanour to her facial expression. And yet there was a slight smile playing about her lips and a mischievous glint in her eye which made James warm to her. She was escorted by a tall, gaunt man in a black robe and sash who looked round with a haughty glare, his lips curling slightly, almost as if he was laughing at them in disdain. Perhaps he was. It was difficult to tell. James thought he looked like a bird of prey; his features were certainly hawk-like, sharp and angular, the kind of face it was hard to forget.

  As the pair reached the bottom of the stairs, those closest to them bowed. As they passed through the room the ripple of obsequiousness became a wave. Even Lombroso did his best, though James thought he looked decidedly unenthusiastic, as if his heart was not in it. His bow was little more than a begrudging nod. James gathered that the lady was the Marchesa herself but he wasn’t sure at first who accompanied her. Ottolenghi leant towards him and whispered in his ear, ‘Father Vincenzo . . .’

  James was surprised. He had imagined the priest to be elderly, grey and cadaverous. This man was nothing of the kind. For a start, he was much younger and could even be described by some as handsome. He had jet-black hair and piercing eyes that seemed to bore through one’s consciousness like a gimlet. He escorted the Marchesa to a large chair in the corner of the room. Once she was seated she only had to glance to one side and a small orchestra began to play . . . Mozart? wondered James. It was all done with such taste that it hardly seemed to belong to the ostentation and vulgarity surrounding them. The conversation started up once more and now and again a footman would approach people and whisper discreetly in their ear. They would then make their way over to the Marchesa and be presented to her. How had the chosen few had been selected? By the demeanour of Father Vincenzo it looked as if he had something to do with it. He stood by the Marchesa’s side, glancing over at the throng and then speaking to her. It was clear that he wanted everyone to know of his influence.

  James saw Ottolenghi give a hint of a frown as they were joined by Professor Gemelli, who had been upstaged so conclusively by Borelli at the debate. Gemelli’s hair, what there was of it, had been carefully smoothed down and covered with Macassar oil to hold it in place. His head shone through it giving the impression of a badly knitted skullcap.

  Gemelli looked at Lombroso. ‘Ah, Professor, I am glad to have caught you.’

  Lombroso smiled thinly at him. ‘Professor Gemelli, I am glad you are here,’ he said insincerely. Then with a glance in James’s direction he said, ‘May I present my new assistant from Scotland, Dottor James Murray.’

  James smiled and bowed. Gemelli looked down his nose at him as if he had scraped him from the bottom of his shoe. James was rather startled and felt his own smile freeze. Gemelli gestured at him dismissively.

  ‘I have not come here to meet new members of your entourage, Lombroso. We have graver matters to discuss.’

  Lombroso looked at him angrily. ‘Whatever you have on your mind, Gemelli, I am sure that it is not so important that it cannot wait until tomorrow.’

  ‘I wish to discuss the Soldati business . . .’

  Lombroso stared at Gemelli and shrugged his shoulders as if he didn’t know what he was talking about.

  Gemelli looked around him to see who was listening. ‘The murder,’ he hissed.

  Madame Tarnovsky gave a small cry and started to swoon.

  ‘Quickly! Get a chair for the lady!’ barked Reiner. Ottolenghi obliged and James helped Madame Tarnovsky to sit down. She covered her face with her fan. And then she winked at him from behind it and started to moan slightly.

  Gemelli stood helplessly nearby until Lombroso turned towards him and glared at him. ‘Tomorrow!’

  ‘I think you will find that there may be cer
tain . . .’ Gemelli paused and narrowed his eyes, ‘consequences.’

  Lombroso ignored him, leaving the dean with little choice but to walk away. He joined another two men – one tall and thin with a pronounced stoop and the other large and untidy-looking with unruly hair. All three of them were looking back at Lombroso’s group and glaring malevolently. James was beginning to see what Ottolenghi had been getting at when he had talked of Lombroso’s enemies.

  ‘Who are the other two?’ James asked him.

  ‘Oh, just some of Gemelli’s cronies.’

  ‘Why are they so hostile?’

  Ottolenghi shrugged. ‘I suppose you could say it is a mixture of jealousy and academic difference. Gemelli has published several articles criticising Lombroso’s work, dismissing criminal anthropology as pseudo-science, calling it an affront to Catholicism, that sort of thing. He gave the last edition of Criminal Man a terrible review. The professor was not best pleased.’

  James imagined Lombroso’s reaction would be rather more extreme than Ottolenghi had described. He didn’t seem to respond well to criticism at the best of times.

  ‘My dear Professor, I don’t know how you manage to keep your temper!’ exclaimed Madame Tarnovsky, still sitting in her chair. Every now and again she looked over at Gemelli and stared at him reproachfully.

  ‘Madame,’ sighed Lombroso, ‘it is not easy. But do you know what keeps me going?’

  She looked at him eagerly. ‘No, Professor, do tell us.’

  He paused for effect and they all gathered round to hear his answer.

  ‘It is the absolute certainty that I am right.’ He grinned at them. ‘That is what science gives us. We measure and record, observe and note until we are sure. Anything else is guesswork at best or groundless superstition at worse.’

  ‘I do not think that God would agree,’ a voice boomed over his shoulder and he turned to see Father Vincenzo towering over them.

  ‘God will not be consulted,’ replied Lombroso, firmly. ‘As La Place said to Napoleon: “I have no need of that hypothesis.” ’