The Darker Arts

by Oscar de Muriel

  ‘The richer side of the family,’ I mumbled. ‘Sending their poor relations out there to do the dirty work …’

  ‘Leonora said almost the exact same words.’

  ‘Do you know what killed her father?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir. She wouldn’t tell me. It might have been some – you know – man’s problem. He barely made his way back. His brother-in-law died in the mine, and I think this other lad, one of the Shaws, died on the trip too.’

  ‘Wait, wait,’ I said, pulling out my little notebook. I looked again at my tiny copy of the family tree. ‘So, Alice’s son-in-law, married to her eldest daughter, Prudence, died in the mine.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And her second eldest, William, according to my notes, managed to travel all the way back, if only to die with his daughter, Miss Leonora.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And who was the man you said died on the trip?’

  ‘The old woman’s youngest son.’

  I looked at the far left of the tree. ‘That would have been Richard Shaw, Bertrand’s father.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  I wrote all that down as speedily as my hand allowed. ‘And you say you don’t know which disease killed Miss Leonora’s father.’

  ‘No, sir. She didn’t like to talk about it. Whatever it was, the poor wretch died in her arms. That gold nugget was the last thing he ever gave her. That’s why she always wore it.’

  I grunted, still scribbling. ‘How come nobody talked of this during the investigations? They never even—’

  I looked up then, recalling our encounter with the children at Kirkcaldy, and young Eddie’s words.

  ‘A treasure!’ I let out in a whisper.

  ‘Sorry, sir?’

  ‘Never mind.’

  Holt began fidgeting with the teacup. ‘Sir … Leonora told me that the family didn’t get the mine through very honest ways, if you take my meaning.’

  I frowned. ‘Did she tell you the particulars?’

  ‘No, sir. She only said it had been a disgraceful thing. That no one had been out of guilt. It got her very upset, so I didn’t press for more.’

  I stared at the family tree, running my fingertips along it, and then mumbled, ‘Everyone involved in some sort of fraud … Even Mrs Cobbold and the colonel and all the Shaws … Yes, that would have kept them quiet.’ I began drumming my fingers on the table, a thousand possibilities all swarming through my head. ‘What else do you know? You did mention that Colonel Grenville had a fight that day. Did it have anything to do with this?’

  ‘Maybe, sir. I wasn’t with him when it happened, fetching the guests and all, but I know he was supposed to meet this lad in the afternoon.’

  ‘Who?’ I urged, and Holt for the first time showed a hint of a smile.

  ‘Will you speak in my behalf? Will you see they take me out of this shithole?’

  I grunted, my patience wearing thin. ‘I can only do my very best. And I cannot guarantee you will be released immediately, or at all.’

  Holt sneered. ‘Well, with such thin promises I don’t think I’ll—’

  ‘Dammit! I’m so sick of being polite! I cannot guarantee you’ll be released, but if you do not talk right now, I swear on my mother’s grave, Nine-Nails and I will make sure that every single blasted second you spend here will be a bleeding fucking hell!’

  Holt seemed to have sunk several inches down his chair. His little eyes were burning with indignation, but he knew his only hope was to talk.

  ‘He went to meet that orange idiot. Walter Fox.’

  37

  I made my way back to the City Chambers so quickly I even forgot to bring Mrs Holt with me. I only remembered her when I saw McNair, still carrying the woman’s child. The naughty girl was about to make him cry.

  ‘Oh, sorry, McNair,’ I said as I rushed past him. ‘The mother is still in jail.’

  ‘What! But sir—!’

  I did not hear his protests – and I can only assume he did reunite mother and child at some point – for I dashed straight to our darkened basement. I ignited the gaslight and brought it to the little box with Miss Leonora’s possessions. I knelt down and began rummaging through the items. I tossed aside the bunch of candles, still wrapped in a very old receipt, and pulled out the photographs, the letters and the journal.

  I picked up the photograph of her father, still in its gilded frame. I saw the man, his resemblance to his now dead daughter, and the African women around him. I studied the background much more carefully this time. There was a thick baobab tree behind them, with picks and spades leaning onto the massive trunk. I now recognised they were all encrusted with dirt. The entrance to the mine might well have been behind the photographer’s back, and they might have been staring at it as they posed.

  The lamp shook a little in my hand, and something in the depths of the box caught a glint of light. The gold nugget ; not a talisman after all.

  When I picked it up it somehow felt heavier than before, and I could swear I felt pinpricks on my fingertips. For a reckless instant, I almost believed in Katerina’s gifts.

  Without thinking of it I put the pendant in my breast pocket, and then went back to Leonora’s journal. McGray had folded the corner of a page, and underlined the phrases ‘To ban spirits from their former homes …’ and ‘Forcing truths out of them …’

  I felt a shiver that made me stand up, and went to the wall lined with photographs, notes and evidence. I stood there for a long while, passing the light over the sea of names and documents. I scribbled ‘treasure’ next to the children’s names, and then followed the curved lines of the family tree.

  According to Holt, Grannie Alice would have lost two of her five children to the enterprise. Could William Willberg, Leonora’s father, have brought back not only a gold nugget, but piles of the stuff, and given them to his mother to hide? It made sense.

  ‘They wanted to find it,’ I speculated out loud. ‘And Grannie Alice was the only one who knew, so they …’ And then it hit me. ‘Maybe someone wanted it all for themselves!’

  I went through the names of all the surviving relatives, my hands running on the twisted bloodlines.

  Mrs Cobbold had lost her father, daughter and son-in-law. I could not picture her scheming such a terrible crime.

  Eliza and Harvey Shaw lost Bertrand, their only support. They claimed they had not been aware of the séance, and that rang true ; if they’d been up to something they would not have allowed Bertrand to attend.

  That left me with only one candidate. A little separate from everyone else, almost lost in a corner, was the name of Walter Fox.

  I took a deep breath and read the nearby notes. Eliza Shaw had told us a good deal about him. Walter had moved to Africa soon after his father’s death. And his mother had died too around that time, after miscarrying Walter’s unborn sibling.

  ‘And he lost no close connection at the séance,’ I mumbled. Mr Willberg and Leonora were his uncle and cousin, yes, but the man had lived abroad for years. From his own words, he did not like Mr Willberg very much, and even though he visited Leonora rather frequently—

  ‘Perhaps it was him who suggested the séance.’

  I shed light on the family tree again. Walter was now the last survivor of the Willberg offspring.

  ‘Inheritance?’ I mumbled, sitting on the edge of McGray’s desk. I put the lamp down and covered my face, at once invaded by excitement and relief. Katerina may still have some hope.

  I’d need to act quickly : comb Leonora’s journal for any mention of Walter’s influence, question the man himself, detain him if needed. And I’d also have to search for any documents related to the mine.

  However, I’d not get a chance to do much that night.

  I had barely begun collecting the documents in Leonora’s box, when I heard some female cries coming from the ground floor. The voice and the accent were unmistakable, and a moment later I saw the distraught face of my former housekeeper.

  �
��Joan!’ I cried. ‘What are you doing—? What happened?’

  The poor woman was as pale as a ghost, her eyes reddened with tears of desperation. She was still clenching a kitchen rag in her trembling hands, and her hair and clothes were dripping rain.

  ‘Sir, you have to help us! Please, come quick!’

  ‘What is it?’

  She tried to speak but the sobs did not let her.

  I grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. ‘Please, Joan, what is it?’

  She took a couple of deep breaths, wringing the filthy rag. ‘Mr McGray, sir …’

  ‘What with him?’

  ‘Oh, sir, he’s gone crazy! He … he brought home a boy … The poor creature was screaming!’

  ‘A boy! What b—?’ I gasped. ‘Ohhh … please, please do not tell me—’

  Joan nodded fretfully, wiping her nose with the cloth. ‘Yes, sir. The colonel’s son. The master snatched him.’

  38

  ‘I knew it!’ I said again and again as the cab took us in a frantic race to McGray’s home. ‘I knew I could not leave the bloody fool alone!’

  ‘I’m so sorry, sir,’ Joan moaned by my side. ‘I didn’t know who else to go to.’

  ‘You did well, Joan. And do not worry, we shall fix this.’

  ‘The poor child looked so scared, sir! You should’ve seen him cry …’

  I said nothing else, for I was as concerned as her.

  We made it to Moray Place just as the sun was setting. We ran to the entrance hall, where George, McGray’s ageing butler (and Joan’s current lover), met us. The old man trembled from head to toes, his weak knees shaking as his joints were about to give in.

  ‘They’re gone!’

  ‘What d’you mean they’re gone?’ Joan shrieked.

  Poor old George put up his hands, staring at his empty palms. ‘I’m so sorry, sir … I tried to detain him for as long as possible.’

  ‘Where’s Larry?’ Joan asked, referring to the young boy who helped them with the house chores.

  ‘He went with them,’ George said, barely managing to enunciate. ‘The master asked him to fetch candles and other trinkets, and they left with the wee lad.’

  ‘Where?’ I urged.

  George’s chest heaved. He looked at me with hopeless eyes. ‘The Morningside house. Where they all died before.’

  Joan instantly covered her mouth, muffling a deep gasp.

  I closed my eyes for a second, doing my best to keep myself calm ; a distraught trio would not help anyone right now.

  ‘We must go there now,’ I told Joan. ‘I might still persuade Nine-Nails to return the child before it is too late. Could you come and take the boy with you, if the situation turns … difficult?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Of course!’

  I rushed back to the entrance steps, but before I reached them, George pulled my forearm.

  ‘Sir, take me with youse, please.’

  I looked at the frail servant, unsure as to how he might be able to help, but I saw the desperation in his eyes and I could not refuse.

  We squeezed uncomfortably in the cab – it was designed as a two-seater, and Joan was not what you would call slim – and the driver took us south as fast as his measly horse could manage.

  Nobody said a word. We simply sat and watched the streets running past us at what felt a glacial speed. By the time we made it to Morningside the sky was pitch-black, the silver moon sending only a weak gleam through the clouds.

  We alighted at the gates of the gardens and I dispatched the cab driver – the fewer witnesses, the better. The wrought-iron gate was in fact unlocked, perhaps left open by Nine-Nails, so we stepped in without problem.

  I felt as if I were in one of my dreams, escorted by a couple of elderly servants as we approached the ominous house where the six had died. There was a single light coming through one of the windows. That window. The rest of the house looked like a black, menacing monolith. Unsurprisingly, the main door was ajar, and we found the staircase lit by the faint glimmer from the first floor.

  Just as I climbed the first step, I heard the whimper of a child.

  ‘McGray!’ I shouted, darting upstairs as fast as I could.

  The door to the parlour was wide open, McGray’s dogs posted on each side like Phobos and Deimos. They growled at me, baring their fangs, but I stepped in nonetheless.

  I first saw a dozen burning candles on the central table, shining like the entrance to a dark tunnel. The candlesticks stood on the same white tablecloth used on the night of the deaths, still smeared with wax and black ashes. McGray was lighting the last wick, his back turned to me. When he moved I saw an ornately carved chair beyond : with its dark mahogany and auburn upholstery, it looked like a portentous throne, oversized for the slender creature who sat there.

  I gasped when I saw him.

  Poor Eddie Grenville was so pale, his face glowed in the half-light, the red rims around his eyes like open wounds. He was wearing a grey woollen jacket, matching trousers and a tiny ascot tie, like a miniature gentleman. And just like such, his hands grasped the carved ends of the chair’s arms.

  ‘Is he all right?’ I demanded, advancing in huge strides.

  ‘Course he’s all right!’ McGray snapped. ‘D’ye think I’m a monster?’

  I growled, ready to strangle him. ‘Monsters would spit in my face if I called you that! You kidna—’ I pressed my eyelids, my voice going high-pitched, ‘you kidnapped a child, McGray! You kidnapped a child!’

  I felt I was sinking, and I believe it was Joan who dragged a chair so I could sit.

  ‘And not just any child,’ I went on, ‘but a child who just lost his parents! You have excelled yourself, Nine-Nails! Look at the poor thing! This will be the end of you!’

  ‘Och, stop whingeing, I’m goin’ to take ’im back! And if the laddie looks scared it’s ’cause—’

  ‘You will be prosecuted for this even if you do take him back!’ I jumped to my feet as I howled, spitting with every consonant.

  Eddie startled, apparently more scared by my rant than by his situation.

  Larry, Joan’s servant boy, emerged from the shadows. He brought a large glass of milk, and he helped Eddie drink from it.

  ‘It’s all good, master,’ he told me. ‘We’re good friends. I told him Master Nine-Nails won’t hurt him.’

  They were around the same age, yet Larry could not have looked more different in his third-hand clothes, his weathered face and his hands still scarred from his chimney-sweep days. And he must be at least three inches shorter than Eddie, who had clearly never suffered hunger. However, there was an air of complicity between the two boys, a glint of mischief in their eyes, as one offered drink to the other. It was that instant, unprejudiced friendship that can only occur in childhood.

  And that made me all the more indignant.

  ‘I am taking him back right now,’ I said, rushing towards the boy.

  I had barely touched his wrist when McGray pushed me back and planted himself between us.

  ‘Ye’ll have to get past me for that, Frey.’

  He stared at me as menacing as his dogs, and I felt outrage consuming me from within.

  ‘Oh, you blithering idiot! We must act quickly if we want to mitigate the consequences of your mammoth imbecility. Who did you have to beat when you kidnapped him?’

  ‘Och, d’ye think I’m that stupid? Why beat someone when ye can just lift a child in the park when the nanny isnae watching?’

  ‘How can you talk so calmly? If they saw you take him—’

  ‘I didnae snatch him myself. We sent one o’ Katerina’s men.’

  I covered my brow. ‘We? Oh, good Lord … Let me guess. This is all her idea.’

  McGray made a so-so gesture with his hand. ‘Half hers, half mine. We were discussing our options for days. Couldnae really tell who came up with it first.’

  I sighed, and foolishly attempted to reason with him. ‘McGray, listen to me. I found new evidence. Katerina may still be proven
innocent, but you will shatter all her chances if you keep—’

  ‘Och, shut it, Percy! I tried to follow yer soddin’ advice and see where that took us. I’m doing things my way now.’

  ‘At least listen to what I have to—!’

  ‘We’re wasting time! The séance has to be tonight. The moon is almost at the same phase it was on the thirteenth. Ideally it should’ve been yesterday, but the rascal I hired—’

  ‘Oh, Jesus bloody Christ, listen to yourself! You want to force a child to talk to the dead! This is why the entire world thinks you are as mad as a bag of ferrets!’

  He grabbed me by the collar, ready to punch me in the face, and Joan and George rushed to him with pleading cries. Tucker and Mackenzie came in then, encircling us and barking like demons.

  Amidst the mayhem there came a small voice, shouting once, twice, becoming louder until we heard the words.

  ‘I want to do it!’

  All our eyes went to Eddie, the dogs suddenly silent. His lips trembled and there was a twinkle of tears pooling in his eyes, but the boy stared at us with a determination beyond his years.

  I took the chance to pull away from McGray.

  ‘You, little man,’ I said, ‘are still too young to—’

  ‘Let me do it!’ he screamed, and his tone surprised me. It was a firm, commanding voice, yet melded perfectly with the insistence of a capricious child. ‘Let me do it and I won’t tell anyone who brought me here.’

  McGray arched an eyebrow. ‘This might work even better than I thought …’

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ I insisted, and with my quickest movement I seized Eddie, but the boy writhed and kicked about as if I were about to dip him in hot oil.

  ‘No! No!’ he roared, crying and clinging to the chair with a desperation I have seldom seen. ‘Leave me alone! I want to talk to mother!’

  I had to carry him by the waist as if he were a small barrel. His shouting echoed throughout the house.

  ‘Who’s torturing the laddie now?’ McGray said.

  ‘Do you think this is a joke, Nine-Nails?’ I growled, walking to the door and receiving the best beating the boy could give me. ‘See what you have done! You should be ashamed of yourself, making this child believe he can see his mother here!’