The Darker Arts

by Oscar de Muriel

  That was the only room that did not look half-stripped ; the carpets, the wallpaper and the wood panelling still in place. There were a couple of book cabinets and a drinks trolley which also seemed undisturbed.

  Everything looked domestic enough. It was just the centre of the parlour that spoke of death.

  There stood a round table which clearly did not belong in this room. It was surrounded by seven rather ugly chairs in the Chippendale style, two of them on their sides. The white tablecloth had been pulled, a spot still creased by a clenching hand. I pictured a dying person clinging to it while sliding onto the floor.

  I walked closer and saw seven silver candlesticks, only two still standing. The rest had been knocked over and lay in disarray. Molten wax had dripped, puddled and hardened all around, dotted with black specks of charred wicks. Underneath, the tablecloth looked singed ; the candles had set it on fire, but the wax had clearly stifled the flames. Quite fortunate, or the entire room might have burned to ashes.

  McGray leaned closer and placed a careful hand on the table, next to a stain I had not yet seen – a dark rim, left perhaps by a decanter.

  ‘The blood offering stood here,’ he said. ‘That was the one thing the lads took away.’

  I looked around. There were still two half-finished drinks on the little trolley, next to the perfectly tubular ashes of a cigar left to consume completely, and a china cup that still held dregs of tea.

  ‘It looks like it happened all at once,’ I muttered. ‘Within minutes, I’d say. Otherwise it would be more of a wreck.’

  McGray nodded, looking rather frustrated. Like the bodies, the room was not offering any immediate clues. We could tell where people had sat, what they had drunk and smoked ; we could tell which chair Katerina had taken, for her long fingernails had left deep marks on the tablecloth ; we could tell someone had dropped a cigar on the carpet ; we could deduce Mrs Grenville had had tea from the marks of lipstick on a cup …

  But there were no weapons, no suspicious little vials ; nothing that spoke of struggle or violence. The only trace of destruction was half-hidden behind the table. There, we found a very expensive photographic camera lying on the floor.

  The tripod was intact, but the bellows were crushed and the lens had been ejected. The glass plate – or plates – were smashed to smithereens.

  ‘Looks like someone fell on it,’ I said, squatting down next to Nine-Nails.

  ‘Must’ve been that lass Leonora. Katerina said she took several photos. That last flash o’ light she saw might have come from here.’

  I examined the camera carefully. The debris around it was undisturbed ; a perfect circle of glass and bent parts. It looked as though Miss Leonora had simply dropped dead, and none of the other attendants had been able to come to her aid.

  We then saw a wooden box sitting against the polished oak panelling of the nearest wall. It was large and sturdy, with a little brass key still in the lock.

  ‘The plaques?’ McGray asked with excitement.

  I went to the box and opened it carefully, suspecting it might contain exposed plates.

  ‘Blast,’ I said as I opened it fully. ‘These are all new plates.’

  They were stacked neatly in their own compartment, which was only half full. Lined with green velvet, I could still see the marks left when the plaques had been pulled out, visibly in a rush.

  Another compartment, smaller, contained chemicals, lenses and tins of flash powder.

  McGray cast them a frustrated look, and stared at the mess on the carpet. He picked at the shards of glass with a dejected look. ‘Pity … Only one bloody photograph could’ve told us quite a—’ McGray abruptly turned his head. I knew that expression far too well now. He’d heard something.

  He rose to his feet slowly, staring at the ajar door. I looked intently at the narrow gap, but only saw darkness.

  ‘Look at the window,’ McGray said loudly, but shaking his head and pointing at the door. ‘What d’ye think o’ those lawns?’

  Then I heard a faint sound ; something rubbing against the corridor’s carpet. There was someone out there.

  McGray was reaching for his gun just as we both caught a glimpse of a grey sleeve. Nine-Nails hurled himself forwards and kicked the door open.

  ‘Who the fuck are ye?’

  His holler made me jump and I nearly dropped the box of plaques. I put it down and ran to the door.

  A plump, grey-haired man stood in the darkened hall, his face fixed in sheer terror. He’d been dragging a huge cloth sack, tied up with burgundy curtain ropes he was still grasping.

  ‘Who the fuck are ye?’ McGray repeated. ‘Answer me! Before ye pass a turd.’

  When he spoke, his voice was so guttural, I feared he’d just done precisely that.

  ‘Ser-servant, sir.’

  ‘Whose?’

  ‘Colonel Grenville, rest in peace.’

  McGray pointed at the sack.

  ‘And what are ye doing with that?’

  The man looked at the bag, let go of the ropes and then looked back at us. After a moment of stammering, he smiled stupidly, like a child caught with his hands on somebody else’s cake.

  And then he ran.

  Nine-Nails growled. ‘Och, why do they always—’

  And then he dashed after the servant, gun in hand, and I followed.

  We ran down the stairs, McGray shouting at the man to stop. He shot at the ceiling and pieces of plaster fell on the entrance hall, just as the man pushed the main door open.

  I saw him run across the lawns like the wind, splattering mud as he dodged our carriage. McGray and I raised our guns, making the driver crouch and shriek.

  The instant before I pulled the trigger, a dark shape sprinted ahead. The huge mastiff, carrying its weight with disturbing speed, reached the servant in just a few strides and then pounced on him, throwing him onto the ground with a big splash of mud. The man thrashed and kicked about, but the dog pinned him down firmly with its thick paws.

  We rushed towards them – I feared the dog might rip the man apart. McGray, on the other hand, patted the animal as if it were his own.

  ‘Good Mackenzie! Now let the miserable sod go.’

  The dog stayed put, growling, until McGray pulled it by the collar.

  I was glad to see that, besides being covered in dirt and dribble, the servant looked unscathed.

  ‘Look at that!’ McGray said triumphantly, lifting the man by the lapels as if he were another dog. ‘Nae even my birthday!’

  ‘I can explain!’ the chap whimpered, covering his face as if still threatened by the mastiff. ‘I can—!’

  ‘Och, shut it! Ye’ll have plenty o’ time for that.’

  ‘Who are you?’ I asked.

  ‘H-Holt. Alexander Holt,’ he stuttered.

  ‘The colonel’s footman?’

  ‘His valet, actu—’

  ‘Frey, take him to the City Chambers. I’ll look at the rest o’ the house.’

  I was about to suggest the reverse (after all, brute force has always been McGray’s strongest suit), but a glance at the house deterred me. I could not possibly admit it, but I did not want to roam around those darkened rooms on my own.

  What was happening to me?

  8

  The blasted reporters were still prowling around the City Chambers when I returned. Miserable as they looked after hours in the rain, their eyes glowed in excitement when they saw me escorting the battered servant.

  ‘Mr Holt!’ they cried at once. ‘Did you do it? You said it was the gypsy!’

  Constable McNair came to my aid just in time, and extricated me from the pushing and shoving.

  ‘The police forces used to be respected, I’ll have you know!’ I grumbled at McNair as soon as we made it in. The rangy ginger officer was already taking Mr Holt to a cell. ‘There is a heavy sack still in the cab,’ I told him. ‘Have someone bring it to my office.’

  I rushed to the cellar and went directly to McGray’s desk. I knew he kept
whisky there, and I had a long swig directly from the bottle. I could swear I still felt that nasty chill that struck me at the Grenville house, and only the burn of the spirit managed to take it away.

  I heard someone come in just as I held the bottle high.

  ‘Never mind this,’ I said, clearing my throat before a second drink. ‘It is medicinal.’

  I turned then, only to find a thin, middle-aged man with auburn hair and deep creases around his eyes. His hands were serenely interlaced just below his chest, like those of a priest, and he was looking at me with a hooked eyebrow.

  ‘Inspector Frey, I assume?’

  Right then a young clerk walked in, bringing Holt’s bounty. He left it on McGray’s desk and walked away, but before leaving he bowed at the other man. ‘Superintendent.’

  Just as I faced the new head of the Scottish Police, a drip of whisky trickled down the side of my mouth. Slightly blushed, I wiped it with my handkerchief and put the bottle aside.

  ‘Superintendent Trevelyan,’ I said, also bowing, but not bothering to sound too deferential. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

  He cast an evaluating look at the whisky, but said nothing.

  ‘Evidence?’ he asked then, nodding at the sack.

  ‘Yes. And we caught another suspect.’

  ‘Good. Not another fortune teller, I hope.’ It was not said as a joke. That man, serene as he looked, did not seem designed for laughter. ‘I asked one of the clerks to prepare those documents for you,’ he continued, pointing at my desk. Only then did I notice the stack of files. ‘Legal documents of all the victims. Birth certificates, marriages, so on and so forth.’

  I was astonished. A helpful Superintendent – and Scottish – stood against all my existing paradigms.

  ‘Thank you, sir. How did you know that we—’

  ‘It is my job to know. And I want you to take good care of this investigation. The affair is becoming far too public for my taste. I had to send a couple of officers to disperse a crowd in Cattle Market. People were flocking to that gypsy’s brewery as if it were some sort of shrine.’ He sighed. ‘We can expect a circus at the inquest tomorrow. I trust you can handle that.’

  I nodded. ‘It would not be my first time, sir. You might have seen in my files, I was in charge of the prosecution of the serial killer nicknamed—’

  ‘Good Mary Brown,’ he interjected. ‘Yes. Though I had it from several officers, who remarked how much you revel in telling the story.’

  Again, if there was any humour intended, his face did not show it. He took a short step closer, and despite his relaxed demeanour, I could sense his underlying tension.

  ‘On other matters,’ he said, his voice a smidgen lower, ‘has Inspector McGray told you why you two are still here?’

  I sighed, preparing myself for what might be gruelling questioning.

  ‘He has.’

  I said no more, despite the superintendent’s expectant face. He waited patiently for a while, but eventually he had to get to the point.

  ‘I suspect you will not be able to shed more light on the motivations behind such a request? Or why the order came from – such person?’

  So he would not even dare mention the prime minister’s intervention. I remembered having had a similar conversation with the former superintendent. It had not been a full year ago, but it already felt like another lifetime. My attitude, for instance, could not have been more different. Only a few months ago I would have attempted to offer at least some sort of an answer ; today I no longer cared, and even if I did, the prime minister had spoken, so this man had no authority to sack me.

  ‘That would be accurate, sir,’ was my unadorned, yet honest reply. I was not going to give him a lengthy account on the murkier details of the Lancashire affair.

  Trevelyan stared at me, scrutinising. I wondered if he’d given McGray the same treatment. Surprisingly, he would not attempt to probe any deeper. Once more, he lowered his voice a little more.

  ‘Though I ignore the details of the matter, if the time comes I can be of any assistance …’

  We looked at each other in utter silence. How strange that dialogue had been ; so few words said, so many unknowns, yet so much implied.

  ‘You know where to find me,’ he concluded.

  He did not say those words as if talking to a subordinate. Upon leaving, Trevelyan nodded at me like one does an equal.

  I decided I liked him.

  I first looked at the goods Mr Holt had nearly stolen.

  There were a couple of pocket watches, some fine leather items, a couple of thick overcoats and some hunting gear, which accounted for the bulk and weight. Though not mere trinkets, those objects did not strike me as particularly valuable. I was expecting to see money, bonds or Mrs Grenville’s jewellery. This looked more like a bag of mementoes.

  I nearly tossed the bag aside, but then something caught my eye. A little black pouch, almost lost within the sack’s folds. It contained a fine chain which held a rather unusual pendant : a simple gold nugget, the size of a thumbnail. Rugged and opaque, it could have been freshly dug from the mine.

  After examining it for a moment, I put it safely aside. I’d have plenty of time to assess it.

  I looked next at the family documents. The files turned out to be much more comprehensive than I expected, and it was very easy to sketch out the family tree. Once I traced it, I put a mark on all of the deceased, and circled the six who had died on Friday. Things began to take shape.

  Grannie Alice had indeed married twice and had given birth to five children – three from the first marriage and two from the second. Of those five, only one remained alive ; Mrs Grenville’s mother. From the records, she must be fifty-six, and I assumed she’d be the one looking after the colonel’s three young orphans.

  Equally surprising was the fact that only two of Alice’s grandchildren were still alive, and there was an odd sort of symmetry to them : one was named Walter Fox, the only son of Alice’s eldest (her daughter, who had died a few years ago). The other one, Harvey Shaw, was the son of Alice’s youngest child, Richard, who was deceased. Walter and Harvey were thirty-eight and thirty-two respectively. I thought we were very likely to see them at the inquest.

  Just as I took one last look at my work, Nine-Nails burst into the office. He was drenched in rain and brought a huge piece of fish wrapped in greasy newspapers. The smell made me instantly queasy. To my wonderment, the two dogs, Mackenzie and Tucker, came behind him, jumping about with their tongues out, as McGray tossed chunks of fish at their muzzles.

  ‘Did you walk all the way from Morningside?’

  ‘Och nae, are ye mad? Just from the Ensign. It’s really chucking down out there.’

  McGray lounged back at his desk, putting his feet up and shoving a handful of chips into his mouth. ‘I forgot to eat this morning. I was fucking ravenous!’

  I had to cover my nose. ‘Did you find anything?’

  He looked at me with that portentous stare of his, which usually precedes his sillier statements.

  ‘There was something eerie in that house, Frey.’

  ‘Did you come face to face with the ghost of Grannie Alice?’

  McGray saw no humour in that. ‘Ye felt it too. I saw ye.’

  I breathed out. ‘I will not deny I was … somewhat altered. But it was not because of spooks at large.’

  McGray chewed on and had the unprecedented courtesy to speak only after he’d swallowed. Again, his understanding look only irritated me.

  ‘Frey, I don’t want to force ye to admit it, but I ken yer still hurting for yer uncle. Did ye feel ye were reliving it?’

  I turned my face away, but McGray went on.

  ‘Some spirits can do that to ye. Bring out yer worst—’

  ‘I don’t give a damn!’ I snapped. Even the dogs, now lying on the floor in a bundle, got startled. ‘That is all nonsense! All I need to know is if you found anything of consequence in that house. If not, just stuff your mouth with that ghastly—’r />
  ‘All right, all right! Nae need to burst out o’ yer stays! Aye, I found something. And yer goin’ to love this.’

  He searched his breast pocket and tossed something onto my desk. It was a filthy rag wrapping a small, thin object.

  I unwrapped it warily – for it was covered in fat and bits of soggy batter – and nearly gasped at the contents. A short knife.

  ‘Is this the knife they used for their offering?’

  ‘Must be.’

  Though compact, the blade was as sharp as a scalpel, and the handle was carved ivory. Its light colours contrasted with the deep red of coagulated blood all over its edge.

  ‘An expensive item,’ I mumbled, lifting it carefully. Just as I did so, McGray came closer and lifted the sheet with the family tree.

  ‘Where did you find this knife?’ I asked him. ‘I did not see it.’

  ‘Right underneath the camera. The thing must’ve fallen on top.’

  I sat back, interlacing my fingers. ‘According to Katerina, the colonel bled himself again during the session. So he must have dropped the knife right before that girl Leonora fell and knocked the camera over. The colonel then probably was dying while she was still— Nine-Nails, would you mind not smearing half your nauseating dinner on my work?’

  I snatched the already soiled family tree.

  ‘Och, what sodding difference does that make?’ and he snatched it back to read at leisure.

  In the meantime, I began to wrap the knife again. ‘We should keep this with the rest of the evidence. I am not sure what we—’ And then I stopped, tilting my head and bringing the knife closer to my eyes.

  ‘What?’ McGray asked. He caught me staring at the sharp end of the knife. I was holding it an inch from my eyes.

  ‘Do we know if they all used this knife?’

  ‘Dunno, but that would explain why only those six poor sods died. What could’ve done it? Arsenic?’

  I nodded. ‘Amongst many other things. We need Reed to perform those tests soon. If he is too busy, I can attempt to do them myself.’