The Darker Arts

by Oscar de Muriel

  I looked at her name on the wall. ‘That was not an entire waste of time. She did look like she was hiding something. And it appears she has developed some close connection with Walter Fox.’

  ‘And she only escaped the séance at the last minute, I remember. But it makes nae sense. Why murder her own daughter?’

  My eyes moved across the wall. ‘Mrs Grenville’s death makes little sense indeed. So do Leonora’s and Bertrand’s.’

  ‘Or the auld Mr Shaw. He was ten minutes from snuffing it anyway.’

  ‘Crude but, let us face it, accurate. I shall be pleased if by sixty-five I am still able to get out of the bath unaided.’

  ‘Nae if ye keep stuffing yer face with shortbread, ye won’t.’

  ‘Says the man who gobbles up a dozen fried eggs on a regular— Oh, never mind. Back to the case.’ I pointed at the centre of the family tree. ‘The colonel and Mr Willberg, I have to say, do look like people who might have made some enemies. It would not surprise me if there was someone who hated them so much they did not care who else died on the evening. Remember the wounds on Grenville’s hands? He may even have come from a skirmish that day.’

  McGray nodded. ‘Aye, yer right. But that means we’ll have to question absolutely everyone who met them. And we’re running out of time. And if we don’t have a case against anyone, we only have that sodding halfwit assigned to defend Katerina …’ He turned to face me. ‘Nae word from yer dad yet?’

  ‘No. Although it is likely my telegram is sitting on a little silver tray, with another twenty unopened messages, while he sips cognac a mere couple of feet away.’

  That did not improve McGray’s mood. Then, as if the universe were set on bringing him down, Dr Reed came by, looking extremely tired. His workload must be crushing him again.

  ‘Inspectors,’ he said after a yawn, ‘I’ve finished the tests on those bottles from Mr Holt’s dwellings. I ran them twice, just to be sure.’

  ‘And?’ McGray urged.

  Reed bit his lower lip. ‘Both the rat poison and the bedbug killer were rich in the same element.’ Our faces brightened, but then Reed struck the blow. ‘Arsenic.’

  ‘Arsenic?’ we cried in unison.

  He nodded, barely keeping himself awake. ‘Yes, inspectors. The one poisonous metal I had discarded with enough certainty.’

  ‘Blast!’ McGray cried, even if the result corroborated our suspicions.

  I sighed. ‘It looks like Holt did not do it after all … Unless, of course, he used a very sophisticated poisoning method – which, quite frankly, strikes me as beyond the man’s capacity.’ I looked at Reed. ‘Do you still have the samples of tissue?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’m keeping them in ice and I replenish it every morning. Do you want me to run any test on those?’

  ‘No, not yet. But do keep them well stored. Thanks, Reed.’

  He left, mumbling something in-between yawns.

  McGray and I remained silent for a good while, as befuddled as we’d been throughout the investigation.

  I stared at the family tree. With its tangled connections and the sea of documents and evidence, it resembled an enormous spider ready to strike. And the name of Grannie Alice, circled and underlined, was like the tiny body from where all the spindly legs emerged.

  27

  The next few days were an absolute blur.

  McGray and I separated to cover more ground, and we talked to every neighbour, friend, acquaintance, dealer and trader even slightly connected to the Willbergs and the Shaws. I’d wake up first thing in the morning, go through my list of leads over breakfast, and then cross the length and breadth of an increasingly rainy Edinburgh. I’d only return home well into the night with a pile of useless notes, sore feet and a shattered brain.

  Time was slipping through our fingers like running water, yet neither of us had found anything of consequence. We learned about Mr Willberg’s gambling and unpaid taps, and how Colonel Grenville appeared to have made most of his money outstandingly quickly. I had the feeling there might be something else there, but nothing seemed gargantuan enough as to spur a sextuple murder.

  We had only four days left by then, so we had to start entertaining the possibility that Katerina might be sentenced. McGray nearly punched me in the face when I suggested it, but we had to be prepared for every eventuality. Word from my Oxford contacts arrived that day, none of them able to provide more help with regards to the chemical tests.

  After reading that, McGray finally agreed we begin looking for people who might speak in Katerina’s favour, like my Cambridge colleagues had advised.

  She made us a lengthy list of her regular clients, who spanned all the ranks of society. Even Edinburgh’s Lord Provost, like McGray had once guessed, had consulted her a couple of times. And, to our utter shock, my landlady, the mighty Lady Anne Ardglass.

  McGray and I shared the legwork. He would visit all the clients that lived south of Princes Street (Old Town and similar slums), whilst I would go to New Town and also the few wealthy estates south of The Moors.

  He had tremendous success. Nearly everyone he spoke to agreed to vouch for Katerina, but I was not too sure how useful that would be. They were all working people ; butchers, horseshoers, seamstresses … Mary from the Ensign of course. I was afraid a contemptuous jury would laugh.

  I, on the other hand, had a terrible time. As soon as I mentioned the word ‘gypsy’ in the better-to-do neighbourhoods, they all slammed their doors on my face, denying any connection with Katerina. Word about my enquiries circulated at staggering speed, and by the end of the day everyone in New Town was crossing the street at the sight of me.

  It did not help at all that a dubious newspaper devoted three full pages to detail Katerina’s life and dealings, in an infamous article entitled The Mystery of the Gypsy Seer. Assassin Ghost or Silent Murderess??

  I did not bother calling at Lady Anne’s, even if I walked past her gigantic townhouse and, being one of her tenants, I had a perfect excuse. Her hatred towards McGray had only worsened after the dreadful Lancashire affair, in which she was deeply involved, and my refusing her granddaughter’s hand (long story …) would not help our case at all.

  Most of my Thursday was spent briefing that idiot Sperry, and by the time I returned home I had a splitting headache. The man was so useless we might as well dress up a baboon on the day : he kept asking me the same questions over and over, and he could not even memorise the names of the family members, always referring to the dead Bertrand as Walter Fox. And when I handed him the photographs – the hand of Satan on top – he let out the most childish high-pitched moan. He then told me, in the same pitiful tone, that Pratt had been pressing and bullying him. ‘Of course he will!’ I had roared.

  After that, it took three large brandies to dull my head enough to fall asleep.

  Layton had to stir me the next day. The sky was so darkened with stormy clouds, it made very little difference when he opened the curtains.

  My mood, if anything, had worsened.

  ‘Would you like to see today’s papers?’ he asked me as I ruminated dry toast, eating on my feet.

  ‘No, thanks. In the past few days I have scribbled and read the equivalent of the complete works of Madeleine de Scudéry.’

  I made my way to the door, but Layton followed me with the rolled newspaper.

  ‘Sir, I must insist you do.’

  ‘Will it ruin my day?’

  ‘Erm … inescapably, sir.’

  ‘Then I am in no rush to see it.’

  I grabbed my coat and rushed onto the street, where the clouds looked like a turbulent dome of thick, black vapours, swirling about like the spurts of milk in my tea. In fact, the air above the entire city felt oppressive, invading the lungs and spreading despair. I lifted my fur-trimmed collar and moved on, but I would not forget that sky for quite a while.

  I found another shouting rabble gathered around the arches of the City Chambers – more numerous and far more indignant than in previous days.r />
  I was in no mood to confront an illiterate mob, so I walked stealthily to the Advocates Library, just across the road, and as I settled in a secluded corner, I asked a clerk to tell McGray where he could find me. The same clerk brought me a gaslight, for the entire library was shrouded in semi-darkness, hardly any daylight getting through the windows.

  I felt my eyes heavy after going through my notes for a while, and upon stretching my neck, I spotted a silent figure on the other side of the chamber. That glossy scalp again.

  Pratt met my eye and almost twitched, immediately burying his face in his book. A rather pathetic move, for the reflection of my lamp made his sweaty head gleam like a street light.

  ‘For goodness’ sake,’ I hissed, standing up and approaching him with long strides. I would not let this go on. ‘Have you been following me, Pratt?’ and my voice echoed throughout the library.

  His chest swelled. ‘What? Don’t be ridiculous! I have more than one assignment to look after.’

  ‘You do seem to be devoting considerable time to this case in particular.’

  ‘I’m simply doing my job. Unlike others, I do happen to have a serious post. But do not worry, inspector ; that woman will be sentenced very soon and you’ll be able to go back to your kelpie and will-o’-the-wisp hunting.’

  I took a step forwards, the purest rage burning in my chest. I wanted to strangle him on the spot. I even raised my hands, my fingers ready to wrap his wobbly neck. And then, as if awoken from a dream, I realised what I was about to do.

  These outbursts were like my nightmares ; like those nasty memories of the loch on fire, coming back to me at will, and I could do nothing about them. I saw the torches again, flashing before my eyes, and then the face of my dead uncle also appeared. That startled me, and it was like a second awakening.

  Pratt was staring at my trembling hands. He let out a muffled chuckle, his golden tooth catching a gleam from the lamp.

  I turned on my heels at once, saying nothing, for I feared I might lose control, and went back to pick up my papers. I heard Pratt’s footsteps right behind me.

  ‘I see that Nine-Nails has passed some of his charm onto you.’

  I did not reply, gathering the documents as swiftly as I could. Pratt, however, saw the three files I had entitled Walter Fox, Peter Willberg and Col Arthur Grenville.

  ‘You believe there is something untoward there,’ he said, his mocking tone fuelling the fire in my stomach. ‘You can feel it with your guts, can you not? Something lurking just underneath the surface, yet you cannot grasp what it is.’

  I pretended to ignore him, but then he delivered a punchline he’d clearly longed to spit out for a long time.

  ‘That’s what I always felt about the McGrays.’

  I nearly dropped the stack of files.

  Pratt began to whisper, his voice all too polite ; however, there was poison in his eyes.

  ‘I don’t know what stories of family bliss Nine-Nails may have told you, but I know one thing : healthy young ladies do not simply lose their minds whilst on a laid-back summer holiday in the countryside. Something happened there, Mr Frey. I know it.’

  I made to leave, but he grasped my arm.

  ‘The late Mr McGray was an irascible rogue, and many people seemed to know things about him they would not repeat. The man built his fortune from scratch, yes, but his ways were not always … honourable. He made many powerful enemies. Quite deservedly.’

  I pulled away and used my free hand to shove him at the chest. Pratt staggered and nearly dropped backwards, but his smile never faded.

  ‘If I catch you following me again—’

  I did not bother saying more. I simply walked away before my temper got the better of me. I heard his voice fading in the distance.

  ‘I’ll hardly have much more time to follow you. You only have three days left!’

  I took all my notes and documents to the New Club, hoping to find some peace and quiet, but the place was racketing like a parrot-packed aviary. There were no free tables in the first-floor dining hall, and even the corridors were busy with chatting gentlemen.

  My favourite spot at the main smoking room was taken by a rather large old man ; however, as soon as he saw me, he coughed as if about to spit his lungs out, stood up as quickly as his chubby legs allowed, and stomped out, making some of the glassware clatter. I realised he’d been one of Katerina’s clients : he had been snooping over his butler’s shoulder as the servant refused to let me in to make my enquiries.

  At least I had my favourite armchair and table, just by one of the many windows that overlooked Princes Street.

  The waiter came by. ‘Anything to drink, sir?’

  ‘Yes. Brandy – no, claret. I’ll start with the claret, I need my mind sharp.’

  As I settled and displayed my work, I peered at the people around me.

  On the other side of the room there was a group of middle-aged men ; all grey-haired, big-bellied and either holding cigars or swirling glasses of liquor. They were gathered around a newspaper, whispering in each other’s ears, at times gasping and covering their mouths most comically. Here’s a token of wisdom : upper-class gentlemen at clubs are far worse gossips than washerwomen.

  I had taken but a few sips of claret when a skinny man burst in and ran straight to the windows, shouting with uninhibited excitement. ‘They’re coming!’

  Every soul in the room stood up as if thrust by springs and squeezed together by the windows, their hands and noses pressed against the glass. With their black jackets and stretched necks, they reminded me of vultures peering on a dying beast.

  Another three men came from the corridor and very ungentlemanly pushed themselves around my table, nearly knocking my glass over.

  I had to look out, and immediately saw the cause of such havoc.

  Six dark percherons came into view from the western side of the road, their heads decked with black feathers. They were slowly pulling a gilded hearse, as ornate as a small cathedral, bursting with white flowers and mourning shrouds. Nestled in them were the coffins of the colonel and his wife ; his was draped with the British flag and his military decorations.

  I then heard the laments from the bagpipers, the music rising as the men in kilts marched behind the hearse.

  ‘What are they doing?’ I blurted out, recalling the funeral arrangements I’d read in The Scotsman. ‘I thought the service would be at St Giles’ Cathedral.’

  ‘But they’ll bury them in St Cuthbert’s graveyard,’ said a nearby gentleman, and I cursed my poor foresight. Of course they had to take the procession along Princes Street ; there was simply no other route from the cathedral. And that took the funeral to the city’s widest road, turning the gloomy affair into a public carnival.

  The pipers were followed closely by a black landau with the roof drawn back. I instantly recognised Mrs Cobbold, seated very straight and sporting a flamboyant mourning hat with ostrich feathers that rivalled the horses’.

  I then had to rub my eyes to believe what I saw.

  The children were with her!

  Edward, the eldest, was looking around with a distorted face, at once angry, confused and grief-stricken. The younger ones, Daniel and little Alice, were simply frozen still.

  ‘What a hypocrite!’ I muttered. So much talk about shielding her grandchildren, and yet here she was, parading their teary eyes along the busiest street in Edinburgh, in a carriage followed by a morbid crowd.

  A random woman approached their carriage to put a flower in the little girl’s hand, and everyone around applauded. I even spotted several bystanders crying – people who probably had not even heard the name Grenville before the colonel’s death.

  Mrs Cobbold looked up, casting an arrogant stare at the crowds, the long funeral cortège that followed her and then the buildings on the northern side of the road. All windows must be crammed with curious faces. For a moment I thought she stared directly into my eyes, and saw what looked like the hint of a scorning smile.
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  I could stand it no more. For the second time, I gathered my documents and stood up swiftly, leaving two young men to fight over my spot by the window.

  As I rushed out, I saw the newspaper the gossipmongers had been reading. They’d tossed it carelessly on one of the armchairs, and it was that front page that caught my eye. From a distance, it looked like a solid black square, as if the press had broken and flooded the entire sheet with ink. I picked it up, already fearing what it might show, but the headline still made me gasp.

  THE MORNINGSIDE MURDERS :

  HORRID NEW EVIDENCE.

  Below it, the front page showed a ghastly engraving, printed across eight columns, which reproduced in utmost detail the photograph of the hand of Satan.

  Not only that. The paper implied, quite shamelessly, that Katerina had used her demonic arts to kill the six – the same paper that a few days ago had mocked the very idea.

  I felt my blood boil.

  And then, amidst my anger, I realised that the news had been circulating since the morning.

  McGray would already know.

  28

  ‘Do not break any bones! McGray, do not—!’

  He was already storming into the Advocates Library, clenching the newspaper in his hand ; Tucker and Mackenzie ran behind him, barking wildly.

  Officers and clerks moved aside as if Nine-Nails were an expansive wave, tripping and dropping their books.

  We found Sperry at one of the furthest tables, surrounded by documents. He saw us coming and jumped up, tipping his chair over and babbling.

  ‘I didn’t! I didn’t—’

  He tripped and fell backwards, but as soon as he touched the floor, McGray grabbed him by the collar with one hand, lifted him and slammed him against the bookshelves. Tomes of law fell all around.

  ‘Ye leaked this!’ Nine-Nails shouted, waving The Scotsman right in front of Sperry’s face. Tucker barked and Mackenzie showed his fangs.

  ‘It wasn’t me!’ Sperry cried, his legs flailing desperately.

  ‘Don’t lie to me, ye little shit! Or I’ll punch yer gob ’til yer face looks even more like a baboon’s arse!’