The Darker Arts

by Oscar de Muriel

  ‘That may become evident after I run the chemical tests,’ said Reed.

  ‘Good. Make sure you start with the Reinsch—’

  ‘The Reinsch and the Marsh tests, of course. I’ve already collected samples of blood and tissue.’ Before I could interrupt again, Reed turned another page. ‘I also found another thing you two might find interesting.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘One of the bodies does show some signs of violence, even if it doesn’t seem related to the deaths. Let me show you.’

  We followed him into the morgue. The place was as sterile as always, with its icy air and its smells of ethanol and formaldehyde, and its white tiles opaque after having been cleaned with vinegar for years on end.

  The six corpses were lined up neatly, all covered in white sheets. Not a speck of red tainted the pristine fabric.

  Reed went to the second table, where one of the smaller bodies lay. He uncovered the face first, to reveal an apparently well-to-do lady. Her curly brown hair was still braided in an intricate French plait, and her face, quite beautiful, had plump cheeks and a tiny, rather girlish mouth.

  ‘Mrs Martha Grenville,’ Reed read from his report. ‘Thirty-six years old. Quite healthy, except for—’ Reed lifted the sheet further to reveal the rest of the body.

  As usual, I could not repress a faint blush. There is nothing more intimate and vulnerable than an exposed body, and the lifeless ones, unable to defend themselves, make me feel like a voyeur. Still, I had to look carefully.

  The post-mortem’s Y-shaped suture, running all across her chest and stomach, was hard to ignore, even if Reed had done a very neat job with the stitches. The sight made me feel a tingle creeping all over my spine, just as an image of my dead uncle forced itself into my mind. And that of a rotting dead man refusing to be buried. I believe I swayed, but fortunately Reed and Nine-Nails were staring at the body and did not notice.

  All I could do was grasp my lapels, discreetly take a deep breath, and confront that sad corpse.

  Mrs Grenville, despite being dead, looked like a delicate porcelain doll. Her skin was firm and smooth, her hands soft and without blemish. I could picture her bathing in milk every night and then rubbing in all manner of oils and creams. However, amidst her abdomen’s ivory skin stood out a cluster of ghastly bruises. Smudges in all the shades of black and purple and green. The sight made me squint.

  ‘These are at least a few days old,’ said Reed. ‘Quite severe, but not life-threatening.’

  I bent down to look at a particularly dark spot. It was a perfectly round mark ; almost like a seal, its contours marked as sharply as if done with ink.

  ‘Is this—?’

  ‘Her husband’s signet ring. He was still wearing it when they brought him here.’

  I felt an instant compassion for that poor lady ; keeping herself prim and pretty, perhaps to please a husband who in return punched her in the stomach.

  I looked at her hand, still sporting a wedding ring. No wonder – the gold had grown into her flesh.

  ‘Was she wearing any other jewellery?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh yes, and very expensive pieces.’ Reed consulted the report. ‘Pearl choker, diamond and sapphire rings, matching earrings. None of that was taken from the scene.’

  ‘Did the others also have valuables on them?’

  ‘All but the youngest man and lady. All the other men had pocket clocks, cufflinks, wallets with money and so on. We have all that in the storeroom if you want to have a look. If something was taken, it was not obvious.’

  ‘We still cannae rule out theft,’ said McGray. I was glad he was following my advice and looking for reasonable explanations.

  I made a note as I said, ‘You are right. We should find out if that colonel had an inventory of valuables in his house, and—’

  ‘And I am afraid I must leave now,’ said Reed, shoving the file in my hands. ‘I’m already late. I am expected to testify at court.’

  ‘We need you to carry out those tests as soon as possible,’ I said as he made his brisk way out.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ said Reed over his shoulder and then he shut the door.

  I felt fire in my stomach. ‘I’ll see what I— I’ll see what I can do?’

  ‘There, there, Frey. I’ll talk to him. Now let’s focus. Who’s next?’

  We moved on to the next table, as I flipped the page. ‘Hector Shaw. Eighty-one.’

  ‘Bloody hell! Why even bother living that way?’

  ‘Why even bother killing him?’ I added. ‘I assume he was the ghost’s widower?’

  ‘Aye, according to Katerina.’

  I uncovered the body and found an old man with a large nose, a wiry white beard and very messy hair. From the marks on his nose, I could tell he’d worn heavy spectacles for years.

  I poked one of the old man’s calves. ‘Well, he looks reasonably healthy. I’d say fit enough to look after himself.’

  I looked thoroughly, but Reed had been right. Other than the cut on his arm, there were no wounds. The only sign of illness were a few rashes on his forearms – eczema, perhaps – which none of the other bodies shared.

  Next in line was his grandson-in-law, Colonel Grenville. Fifty-one.

  He was a tall man, with a brawny body perfectly suited for the military. His face was cleanly shaven, and though weather-beaten, he was a remarkably good-looking man. Prone to furious outbursts, though, suggested by the deep furrow on his brow. I recalled Holt’s statement, saying that this man had looked terribly angry, even after death. On the other hand, even his wrinkles and locks of grey hair appeared to have been placed by a dexterous hand, only to add more character to his features. His hands were large and sturdy, and he too had a wedding band which Dr Reed had not managed to remove. His signet ring had left a noticeable mark on the small finger. I looked more closely at the wound on the palm of his hand. That coincided with Katerina’s account. His knuckles, I noticed then, were grazed.

  ‘From beating the missus?’ McGray suggested.

  ‘I … I don’t think so. He broke his skin. Bad as they are, her bruises would have looked far worse. And his knuckles have barely healed. I’d say he was punching something solid – a wall, maybe. And most likely just a few hours before his death.’

  ‘The valet might’ve seen,’ said McGray, and I made a note. ‘It might not be important, but still …’

  We moved on.

  ‘Bertrand Shaw,’ I read. ‘Thirty-five. Martha … Mrs Grenville’s first cousin.’

  He shared the lady’s dark, wavy hair, and other than a flimsy face and a very thin body, he too appeared to have been in perfect health. The only remarkable features were the tips of his fingers ; chapped and reddened from insistent biting.

  ‘A nervous chap,’ I said.

  The next victim was a rather chubby man with a bulbous nose. His almost white hair contrasted starkly with a jet-black beard, bushy and scruffy. Like Colonel Grenville, this man looked like he’d spent his entire life frowning.

  ‘Peter Willberg. Fifty-nine. Grannie Alice’s son.’

  ‘Her son, ye said? How come he’s called Willberg instead o’ Shaw?’

  ‘Well spotted,’ I said, looking back at the corpse of old Hector Shaw. ‘Grannie Alice must have married twice. I will draw a family tree when we are done here.’ Then I looked at Reed’s report. ‘It says here he was a heavy smoker and drinker.’ I pulled the man’s lips and saw a set of yellowy teeth. ‘And a keen walker.’ His feet were all calloused, and his thick calves were those of a seasoned hiker.

  ‘So the last one,’ said McGray, going to the next body, ‘is Katerina’s client.’

  ‘Leonora Willberg, yes. Twenty-two years old. By far the youngest of the group.’

  She could not have been called handsome. Her round nose was the same as Mr Willberg’s – her uncle – and she even had a receding hairline, perhaps from braiding her hair very tightly since childhood. Besides, there was something strange about her. I could not pinpoin
t what, but it had much to do with the darkened skin under her eyes and the slight creases that already ran from her nose to the sides of her mouth. Even in death she exuded some sort of – malice.

  ‘What ye thinking, Frey?’ McGray asked, startling me a little.

  I cleared my throat. ‘I was hoping we’d find something glaringly obvious. One common symptom.’

  ‘Are ye puzzled now?’

  ‘To say the least. We have a very heterogeneous group here. I cannot think of anything terrible enough to kill an eighty-year-old man, his young step-granddaughter and a sturdy military man, all without leaving clear marks.’

  I saw Nine-Nails biting his lip, struggling not to insist that it all looked like the doings of an evil spirit.

  ‘Heart attack?’ McGray ventured. ‘Frightened to death after the hand of Satan appeared?’

  I flickered through the pages as I spoke. ‘Reed does not mention anything about it.’

  ‘D’ye think he forgot to check?’

  I chuckled. ‘I thought you trusted the chap beyond all—’

  ‘Och, shut it!’

  I tapped my chin with the file. It would be hours before Reed came back. ‘Bloody hell, I cannot wait. I will have a look myself.’

  McGray giggled. ‘Ye handling guts? That’s something I want to see.’

  I cast him a murderous look as I took my jacket off and rolled up my sleeves. I would have told him that I had performed many dissections while studying at Oxford, but preferred not to. McGray never tired of reminding me I had abandoned the degree. And I would very soon remember why.

  Reed kept his instruments in a nearby chestnut box, from where I retrieved two forceps and scissors. I chose to look at the colonel first, since he looked the least likely to have died of a fright.

  Very carefully, I cut the stitches and then pulled a fold of flesh with the forceps. The squelching noise nearly made me retch.

  ‘Hold this,’ I told McGray, and I used another pair of pincers to pull the pleat of skin on the other side of the man’s chest. As I expected, the colonel had very little body fat ; barely a thin layer of yellowish tissue.

  ‘What ye looking for?’ McGray asked.

  ‘If they died of an attack, the heart muscle will have gone black. It is usually very easy to see.’

  With my free hand (and after a very deep breath), I probed at the ribs and realised Reed had indeed cut them around the sternum. I pulled the bones aside and, nestled between the lungs, found one of the leanest hearts I had ever seen.

  ‘It looks really healthy,’ I said, though my voice sounded constricted. Again, I had to take a deep breath, past caring what McGray thought, and forced myself to pull up the heart. Reed had also cut the arteries, so I had no problem lifting it for a closer look. ‘Healthy indeed.’

  The organ was red and firm, as if about to come to life and beat again. For an instant, I marvelled at its design ; the strength of the muscle, the perfectly placed arteries, the fine, branched-out veins. What I held was an elegant, efficient propeller, built to last for life. I suddenly remembered why at some point I’d thought medicine was the path for me. Facing this on a daily basis, however, would have driven me completely insane.

  I put it back in place, followed by the ribs, and stitched back the skin – not as neatly as Reed, it pained me to admit.

  ‘Don’t ye want to check another one?’ McGray asked when he saw me rush to the ewer and basin.

  ‘No, I am satisfied Reed did it.’ And I could not stand that moist and slimy feeling on my hands.

  McGray covered his brow, exhaling in a grunt that infected me with his frustration.

  I reached for a rag to dry my hands. ‘If the bodies do not tell us much, perhaps the scene of the deaths will.’

  Still massaging his temples, McGray nodded. ‘Aye. The day’s nae over yet.’

  He went hastily to Reed’s desk and left him a note requesting he carried out the chemical tests as soon as humanly possible, and then we set off for Morningside.

  I was frustrated the bodies had not yielded any new information yet ; however, little did I know that the case was about to become an ever more puzzling, unsolvable tangle.

  7

  As soon as we stepped out, and despite the insistent rain, three journalists blocked our path like a colony of vultures.

  ‘Are you in charge of the Morningside deaths?’

  ‘Have you talked to the gypsy?’

  ‘Do you think a demon did it, Inspector Nine—?’

  McGray raised a hand and pointed directly at the man’s face, his index half an inch from the reporter’s nose. He had no need to speak. There was an instant of utter silence, and the chap gulped and stepped back, but once at a safe distance, he continued to shout out impertinencies.

  McGray walked on impassive, as I called a nearby cab. Before I could jump in, one of the hacks seized my arm, babbling some nonsense about the deaths happening on Friday the thirteenth.

  McGray grabbed him by the back of the collar and pulled him out of the way, using him as a dead weight to push the other two men back. We got on the carriage at once.

  ‘Friday the thirteenth!’ McGray grunted indignantly as the cab gathered speed.

  ‘Oh? Do you also think it is nonsense?’

  ‘Course it’s damn nonsense! Katerina chose it for the moon phase.’

  I only sighed as the driver took us south.

  By the time we made it to Morningside, the rain had become even worse.

  The Grenville house was the last one on Colinton Road, right after its intersection with Napier Road. That was the very edge of Edinburgh, where new money erected their mansions these days.

  The house was surrounded by extensive grounds, and the land was delimited by tall sycamores still in full leaf, so it was impossible to catch a glimpse of the property from the road. It would be useless to ask the neighbours if they’d seen anything.

  The cab passed through the gates and took us through some overgrown lawns. We then heard a distant sound, high-pitched, coming and going at regular intervals. Only when the cab stopped by the house did we realise it was the howling of a tormented dog.

  The poor animal, an enormous black mastiff, sat by the main entrance, drenched to the marrow and letting out the most harrowing laments towards the sky.

  I stepped down, landing straight into a brown puddle, and opened my umbrella.

  ‘A tad too … ostentatious,’ I said, looking at the wide façade with a grimace. The house had a mismatch of inappropriate features, some of which would have looked out of place even in Buckingham Palace : a turret, Greek columns far too thick for its portico, and two overgrown lions guarding the front steps. Carved in cheap sandstone, the weather would erode them within a few years.

  McGray was patting the dog’s head with one hand and scratching under its ear with the other. The animal stopped howling, instead letting out soft whimpers.

  ‘What happened to yer boss, ye wee brute?’ McGray said warmly. He looked at the collar and found a little nickel tag. ‘Yer name’s Mackenzie. Nice. And ye belonged to Peter Willberg! It has his address here, Frey.’

  ‘Good. That will save us some questioning. Do you have the keys?’

  Nine-Nails gave a last pat to the dog and came to the stone steps, pulling the set from his breast pocket.

  ‘Wait here,’ he told both the driver and the dog with a single gesture, and then unlocked the heavy oaken door.

  The hinges screeched and the sound echoed in an otherwise sepulchral interior. The air felt very cold and the clumsily placed windows let in very little light.

  ‘Did they live here?’ I said, for the place already felt like a dwelling abandoned long ago.

  ‘Aye,’ said McGray, his steps resounding throughout the hall as we went deeper into the house. ‘The colonel, his wife and the auld man.’

  There was something in the air. Something – hostile. It felt almost as if an invisible hand had rushed to the entrance and was now pushing my chest, bidding me t
o leave. I forced the thought out of my head.

  ‘So all the servants left,’ I said. ‘Before the séance?’

  ‘Aye. Katerina requested it. And no one was allowed in after they took the bodies, so everything should be—’

  I nearly tripped on something and had to lean against the wall.

  ‘Blast! I wish we’d brought a lantern,’ I grunted. Only then I realised that I had tripped over a floorboard. Several had been pulled out all across the hall.

  ‘I don’t think they were redecorating,’ said McGray.

  Indeed, we looked into one of the side rooms, a small seating parlour, where both floors and walls had been partially stripped. There were wooden boards and chunks of plaster and wallpaper strewn on an expensive mahogany table.

  ‘Apparently they were looking for something,’ I mumbled. ‘So … where did it happen?’

  ‘McNair said they found them on the first floor.’

  We climbed the broad staircase, dodging pieces of ripped carpet and nearly having to grope about to find our way.

  A draught hit my face then, but it felt almost solid, like a ghostly hand. I stopped for a second and pinched my septum. The instant I shut my eyes, I saw the fire of a thousand torches reflected on the choppy waters of a loch, all coming to get me.

  In the garden, the dog was howling again.

  ‘Ye all right, Percy?’

  I shook my head and gripped the banister, the touch of polished wood bringing me back to the here and now.

  ‘Yes,’ I assured, but McGray gave me a look of understanding that only managed to annoy me.

  ‘Frey, right after my sister—’

  ‘Let’s move on,’ I snapped, taking the lead. ‘Which room?’ I asked when I reached the landing.

  ‘Front parlour. It must be that one.’ He pointed at an ajar door, which allowed in a thin strip of sunlight. McGray opened it slowly, and the hinges, like those of the front door, screeched.

  I readied myself to see something dreadful, but for once that would not be the case. Nine-Nails and I stepped in as if treading on eggshells, saying nothing while our eyes took in every detail. The window was south-facing (my stepmother would be appalled) and the curtains wide open, so we had very decent light.