The Darker Arts

by Oscar de Muriel

  McGray noticed it too but said nothing just then. ‘Has anyone else been here since yer masters died?’

  ‘Only Mr Fox. He’s Miss Leonora’s cousin.’

  ‘What did he want?’

  ‘Just to tell me the news.’

  ‘Did he stay around? Did he take or move anything?’

  Mrs Taylor cackled. ‘What’s here to take? Nae, he just told me what had happened and left. Didn’t even talk of what’s gonnae happen to me now.’

  ‘Have ye moved anything?’ McGray asked with as much delicacy as possible.

  ‘What d’ye mean? That I’m stuffing my pockets with their gold? Bah! They were broke! They owed me wages!’

  McGray did not hide the suspicion in his eyes. ‘Very well. We’re going to have a look around, and then we want to ask ye a few questions. Don’t leave ’til we’ve spoken to ye.’

  ‘Please yerselves. I’ll be in my room. That’s in the loft.’

  She made her way upstairs and we heard nearly every single step creak.

  ‘She reminds me of your old housemaid,’ I told McGray.

  ‘The one that made stews that looked like turds floating in sludge? Aye.’

  The rooms told the same story : cracked furniture, faded rugs, dirty crockery strewn here and there … There were even a few dog droppings in a corner of the smoking room.

  The first bedroom we looked at was Peter Willberg’s. The bed was still unmade (most likely since the day of his death) and there were clothes scattered everywhere. There must have been at least a dozen glasses on the bedside table, all with greasy fingerprints and caked with dregs of claret and other drinks. Something sparkled at the bottom of a fat tumbler. A pair of cufflinks, carelessly thrown there, possibly by a half-drunken man. I used my handkerchief to pick them

  up.

  ‘Cheap stuff?’ McGray asked.

  ‘So cheap even the bloody housemaid turns her nose up at them.’ I tossed them back to where I’d found them. ‘Cheap clothes as well … And look, this walking stick is pinewood painted black to look like ebony.’

  ‘Trying to look the part, Mr Willberg?’

  ‘Indeed. I can see how embarrassed he’d feel when invited to the house of his wealthier relatives.’

  ‘Do we ken what he did for a living?’

  ‘The documents Trevelyan gave me said that Willberg’s occupation was “gentleman”.’

  ‘Ha! Bloody right.’

  We found nothing of consequence, so we moved to Miss Leonora’s bedchamber.

  McGray whistled before I could speak. ‘So here’s where the money was going!’

  This was by far the cleanest corner of the house, and the only one with some feminine touches (crocheted carpets, embroidered linen, a wilted rose still on the bedside table …). However, the room was also the most cluttered, crammed with books, sketches and all manner of photographic equipment.

  It took a more careful look, however, to realise the eerie nature of the chamber. The ornate leather-bound books were all treatises of necromancy, conjuring and spiritualism. The handwritten sheets were filled with runes and witchcraft symbols.

  McGray went through the titles and whistled.

  ‘Do you approve?’ I sneered.

  ‘A mixed bag. Some are proper stuff ; others are the sort o’ quackery I saved up for the Christmas fire.’

  I moved on. There were tarot cards strewn everywhere, most of them with spidery notes on the margins, along with talismans, strange amulets and several boxes of candles of various widths and colours. And the dozens of photographs, both pinned to the walls and spread on the furniture, were all of morbid subjects like animal skulls, bleak landscapes, dead people propped up as if still alive (a custom as eerie as it was common), and quite a few – most of those arranged neatly on the bed – were purported images of ghosts, varying from the absurd to the downright hilarious.

  One showed a cloaked figure floating above the heads of a married couple – the spirit could well have been traced with charcoal, and the sitting room looked blatantly like a photographer’s cheap studio. Another one depicted a man looking wistfully at a piano, where a floating girl in white, perhaps his dead sweetheart, pretended to play. My favourite one, though, was the portrait of a see-through skeleton wrapped in rags, embracing a man whose attempt at a terrified pose was cringeworthy.

  ‘Double exposure,’ I said, pointing at the photo of the dead sweetheart. ‘You can even see the legs of the stool on which this woman was seated.’

  ‘I ken. People tried to sell me shite like that for small fortunes.’

  I snorted. ‘So she was just like you, only more gullible.’

  McGray went to an old davenport desk, where a small journal lay, a dip pen keeping it open. He picked it up, leafed through it and soon enough whistled again.

  ‘As I said, it’s mixed. This missy was getting in dangerous ground ; talking to the dead, banning their spirits from their former homes …’ he turned the page and nearly gasped. ‘Forcing truths from them? This is daring stuff, Frey. I wonder if Katerina kent what the lass was up to.’

  ‘Angering the netherworld?’ I asked.

  ‘Aye. And that reminds me …’ He searched his pocket and produced the gold nugget pendant. ‘I was sure this was a talisman. Women don’t usually wear chunks of unrefined gold.’

  I sighed. ‘I will regret asking this – but why gold?’

  ‘Gold is the noblest o’ metals. It has affinity with the sun, so it purifies and gives strength to the body. She was protecting herself. She must have thought the spirit o’ Grannie Alice might harm her. The question is—’

  ‘How is this helping in any way?’

  ‘Shut up! The question is, why contact an angered spirit who might hurt ye?’

  I did not bother contradicting him. Instead I went to the bedside table, where I found the only sort of normal portrait in the entire house.

  In an elaborate gilded frame, it depicted a thin man of around forty, with a thick dark moustache curled at the tips. With his bulbous nose and deep frown, he bore an uncanny resemblance to Peter Willberg. More remarkably, he was surrounded by five stern African women, all clad in intricately embroidered cloaks and sumptuous headpieces made of pleated taffeta. They all posed under the shade of an incredibly wide baobab, whose trunk took over most of the background, and there were picks and spades resting on it. Beyond the tree there seemed to be an endless grassland.

  ‘The lass’s dad?’ McGray asked, looking over my shoulder.

  I took off the back cover and found a brief handwritten note. ‘Bill Willberg, December 1868. Yes. No more details, though.’

  ‘Bring that. And help me gather the rest o’ the photographs. We’re taking the lot with us.’

  He grabbed a half-empty box of candles and in there tossed the journal, amulets, tarot cards and a stack of letters he found in the davenport desk. I added the photographs and we left the room.

  ‘Oi! Come doun, missus!’ McGray shouted at the stairs. ‘We don’t need to see yer stockings.’

  She joined us, though most begrudgingly, and we went to the cleanest room we could find ; a small parlour Miss Leonora probably used to embroider, for there was still some incomplete needlework forgotten on a moth-eaten sofa. I had to spread my handkerchief on it before I sat.

  Mrs Taylor stood in front of us until McGray bade her sit down. She did so on an armchair, as far from us as the room allowed. She stared at the box with the photographs as I put it aside.

  ‘How long did Miss Leonora live with her uncle?’ was my first question, and the woman cackled in the same manner as before. I thought she was slightly insane, but she’d turn out to be most helpful.

  ‘Live with him?’ she echoed. ‘It was him who lived with her. The lassie’s dad – his younger brother – left her this house. Mr Willberg also came across some family money, but as far as I know he squandered it all in a few months. He got letters from debt collectors all the time and asked me to hide them from his niece. She would’ve
been really cross had she known ; he had to beg her to take him in, after all. At least that’s what her auld housekeeper told me.’

  ‘So you did not work here when that happened?’

  ‘Och, nae, sir. They only hired me ’cause I’m cheaper than that auld snooty hag that used to serve them. The uncle didnae work and the niece spent all her gold on her spooks ; of course they had to get cheaper help.’

  I searched through the photographs and showed her the one I’d taken from the small frame. ‘I assume this man was the father?’

  ‘Aye, but I never met him. I only know ’cause Miss Leonora told me.’

  ‘Do you know when he died?’

  ‘Nae. She didnae like to talk about that. She missed him a lot. I think that’s why she was so interested in all this talking to the dead shite.’

  Nine-Nails grunted, and I rushed to speak before him. ‘Did Mr Willberg share that interest?’

  ‘Och, nae! He just humoured her. We both did. She was the one with the money, after all.’

  ‘I see. What did the rest of her relatives think of her pastimes? Did they visit much?’

  ‘Her cousin Walter – Mr Fox – came from time to time, but it was mostly her calling on him, if only to get out o’ the house. The colonel, rest in peace, also visited, but much less and only when Mr Willberg wasnae around.’

  ‘Really?’ McGray asked. ‘Why was that?’

  Mrs Taylor sneered. ‘That colonel didnae like Mr Willberg at all. I heard him say a few times the man was a parasite.’

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘Aye. He came several times to ask Miss Leonora to kick the lad out. The last few times he was very insistent, told her that her uncle was a drunken leech and should be in the streets, instead o’ sponging from the miss’s inheritance.’ Mrs Taylor chuckled then.

  ‘What’s funny?’ McGray asked.

  ‘The colonel fancied himself very bloody brave ’n’ manly, but he never spoke up in front o’ Mr Willberg. He got all uneasy when he saw him, and they were harsh to each other, aye, but that was all. If the colonel was so worried about the lass’s money, ye’d think he would’ve kicked the man out

  himself.’

  Things were becoming interesting, so I produced my notebook and began scribbling. ‘Why do you think that was?’

  Mrs Taylor shrugged. ‘Dunno. I asked Miss Leonora a couple o’ times, but she never told me.’ Mrs Taylor then pulled a malignant wince, as if she’d waited for years to say those words out loud. ‘I think Mr Willberg knew – stuff, if youse take my meaning. Some dirty linen. I think Miss Leonora knew too, but o’ course they never told me.’

  ‘Do you think anyone else in the family might know?’

  She nodded. ‘I’d ask Mr Fox ; I’m sure he will. Of all her bunch o’ relatives, he was the closest to Miss Leonora.’

  I remembered the thin, mercilessly tanned chap we’d seen at the Sheriff Court. He’d indeed looked angry.

  ‘Did you notice anything strange on the days before the deaths? Miss Leonora behaving oddly, perhaps?’

  Mrs Taylor shifted in the chair. ‘No more than usual. Truth be told – Miss Leonora was a very strange lass. Very, very strange. The things she did ’n’ said gave me the shudders sometimes. And she received some very odd visitors, most of the times to do their round tables and talk to dead folk.’

  McGray leaned forwards. ‘What can ye tell us about those?’

  ‘Nae much, sir. I never lingered when they did that. I told youse, the whole business gave me goose bumps. And she knew that. Whenever she got up to those rituals with her guests I just left them a pot of tea and went upstairs.’

  ‘Did ye ever hear her talk about Grannie Alice?’

  Mrs Taylor went instantly tense. ‘Aye. Miss Leonora and Mr Willberg were talking about her maybe a week before. He was quite upset.’

  ‘D’ye ken why?’

  ‘Nae. As soon as they saw I was nearby they went quiet. As youse can imagine, I didnae really care then. I had nae idea all this would happen.’

  ‘Was the lass upset too?’ McGray asked.

  ‘Och nae, she was loonier than ever! All excitement, gathering candles and those stinking herbs she liked to burn … and spending all her money on new bric-a-brac for her camera.’

  ‘And on the day o’ the séance …’

  ‘The colonel’s footman came to pick her up very early. He ran errands for her all the time.’

  ‘Were they nervous?’ I asked. ‘Did they say anything out of the ordinary?’

  Mrs Taylor shook her head. ‘I could nae say. That day I only saw Miss Leonora when I brought her breakfast, and then later when she walked out. But I do remember she made the poor man carry a shedload o’ crap for her. Her camera and other boxes full o’ trinkets.’

  I looked at my notes. What she said matched Holt’s statements.

  ‘What did Mr Willberg do that day?’ I asked.

  ‘He left early, but that was very usual. He didnae spend much time here during the day. And he usually came back with too many drams in him.’

  ‘Can you think of anyone who might want to harm them?’

  ‘I don’t know much about Mr Willberg’s life, but he did look like someone who got himself in a lot o’ trouble. And the colonel might’ve been glad to see him gone, but he’s dead too, is he nae?’

  ‘And Miss Leonora?’

  ‘Oh, I doubt anyone would have wanted her to end like that. She was harmless. Creepy and as mad as hops, o’ course, but harmless.’

  I wrote her answer down and then looked at the photographs sticking out of the box. The one on top was the blood-curdling portrait of a dead baby in a coffin bursting with white flowers.

  Harmless might be too rushed an assumption.

  ‘What is to happen to this house now?’ I asked Mrs Taylor as we walked out.

  ‘I dunno, sir. Mr Willberg had no children and Miss Leonora was already on her way to becoming a mad spinster.’

  ‘So what are ye goin’ to do?’ said McGray.

  Mrs Taylor shrugged. ‘Stay here ’til the family come round – or ’til the spuds in the pantry run out. Then I’ll look for another job. If youse need a good cook …’

  I had to bite my lip. ‘We shall keep you in mind,’ and I rushed away before she asked for my address.

  ‘What d’ye think o’ that?’ Nine-Nails asked as the cab took us back south.

  ‘Those were very peculiar living arrangements, though understandable.’

  ‘I’m curious about that ill will between the two sods.’

  ‘Yes, that was puzzling. If the colonel would not confront Willberg directly, the man indeed exerted some power over him … On the other hand, Willberg lived off his crazy niece’s crumbs. If he knew about the colonel’s “dirty linen”, like that woman said, why not milk it more?’

  ‘Maybe Willberg had dirty linen too?’

  I pondered. ‘Perhaps. That would have been an interesting impasse. It would explain why they abhorred each other.’

  ‘Shall we talk to that Fox lad? He might tell us more.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘And if he was close to Leonora he might ken why they wanted to talk to Grannie Alice. The whole bloody thing revolves around that. Katerina said so.’

  I snorted, opened my mouth, but then realised I did not have the energy to contradict him yet one more time. In fact, I did not feel like talking at all – to anybody. I’d felt those irascible episodes nearly every day since Uncle’s death, and though most times I managed to pull myself on like normal, today I knew I could not.

  I said nothing until we arrived in our underground office. I left the box with the eerie photos, candles and talismans on McGray’s desk and then walked out immediately, claiming I was off to telegram my former colleagues in Oxford and London. I did do that, but I took my time, and I also messaged a few of my former law professors in Cambridge, asking if they might recommend a Scottish lawyer who’d be interested in helping Katerina at the High Court.

 
After that I went to the Advocates Library, where it was fresh and quiet, and I leisurely perused the endless rows of dusty legal tomes.

  It was not an entire waste of time. I did find that they kept a copy of the latest edition of Battershall’s guide to legal chemistry. From the pristine pages, I could tell that hardly anybody had consulted it.

  There were dozens of tests I could ask Reed to try, but all focused on detecting one single compound, and most of them required sizable samples. To have any chance of helping Katerina we’d have to narrow down the suspected poisons not to a handful, but one or two.

  I spent the next few hours studying the forensic methods, the diagrams and the convoluted chemistry, distracting me from my otherwise fatalistic mood. I only registered the pass of time when the librarian came to light the gas lamps, and I also noticed my pained back and derriere. I loaned the book and rushed to the exit.

  On my way out, however, I noticed a very shiny head, smoother than a billiard ball, reflecting the light of a nearby lamp. It was Fiscal Pratt, leafing through an old book. Even on a normal day I would have avoided him, so I tried to leave as quietly as possible. It was useless, for he looked up and our eyes instantly met. He nodded at me with a slight side smile, and I did not bother to nod back.

  I knew that Katerina could not be the only case on his desk, and that the very thought was silly, but I could not help feeling the man had been following me.

  16

  The following morning I found McGray in a much brighter mood. He’d gone through Leonora’s journal and correspondence with even more meticulousness than I had the chemistry books : the letters were now pinned to the walls, categorised according to senders and subjects, and McGray had done the same with pages ripped out of the journal, comparing what the young woman wrote to what had been said in her letters. If the photographs and tarot cards were mentioned, he’d also pinned them next to the relevant sheet. Quite a few photographs were still in the candle box, which lay on the floor next to the lazy dogs.

  ‘It seems like you had a productive night,’ I said.

  ‘Aye. This lass kept correspondence with necromancers all over the land. Travelled to meet them too, and quite frequently.’