A Fever of the Blood

by Oscar de Muriel

‘I’ve found a carbon duplicate of Lord – Lord Bampot’s file,’ he said, handing me a thick folder. ‘You may keep it for as long as you need.’

  McGray was still rather agitated, so I took the papers. ‘Excellent, Doctor. We appreciate it.’

  ‘We were going to see Pansy,’ McGray jumped in.

  ‘Oh, so Miss Smith has told you?’

  ‘Aye. Was she …’ McGray lowered his voice. ‘Was she scared?’

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ Clouston said, looking down. ‘I checked on her, right before I sent for you. She was crouching in a corner of the room, covering her ears. I had to ask one of the nurses to give her something to make her sleep. A very mild dose, of course.’

  McGray nodded. ‘Thanks, Doctor.’

  ‘She should be all right by now,’ said Miss Smith, dextrously holding the tray with one hand and unlocking the room’s door with the other. ‘I’ll stir her so you can visit her.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, stepping forwards, but Nine-Nails instantly turned to me and pressed his hand against the door frame, his thick arm blocking my way.

  ‘I’m sorry, Frey. This is private.’

  Had things been different, I would not have even attempted to step into the room. I knew the full extent of the McGrays’ tragedy, and after the dreadful night the girl must have had, I actually wished I could let Nine-Nails have some time with her. However, there was much more at stake.

  ‘I wish it were private,’ I said as gently as possible – I knew he’d not hesitate to beat my face to a pulp if I confronted him, ‘but your sister may be a crucial witness. I need to be present.’

  He glared at me, though the rest of his features seemed unaffected. I do not understand how it happens: those eyes of his can turn from playful to bloodshot within a blink.

  ‘Please yerself,’ he spat out in the end. ‘But let her have some dignity. Let Miss Smith get her out o’ bed.’

  I took a small step back. ‘That I cannot deny her.’

  McGray, Clouston and I waited in a moody silence. A few minutes later, Miss Smith said we could enter. I saw she had lit the oil lamp, for the winter morning was still as dark as the middle of the night.

  The room felt a touch warmer than the corridor, and it smelled of lavender. Somehow those little details made me feel awkward, as if I were truly invading, and the feeling worsened as soon as I caught a glimpse of Nine-Nails’ sister. I had seen her before, but I felt a pang of commiseration as painful as that dreadful first time. I wondered if McGray experienced it every time he visited.

  Miss Smith was helping Pansy to sit at a little table by the window. She’d wrapped the girl’s thin body in a soft dressing gown, and had also refreshed her face and carefully netted her dark hair into a chignon.

  She was a very pretty thing to behold, with alabaster skin, soft features and delicate lips, and there was a certain … lightness about her, as if she were for ever floating in a limbo unreachable to anybody else.

  I knew that she was in her early twenties, and it hurt me to think that she ought to be out in town, going to dances, giggling with other young women and making men sigh. Instead, she was wasting away her youth in that institution.

  Her wide eyes, as I remembered, were strikingly similar to her brother’s, only that instead of blue, hers were dark like obsidian, and they stared at everything with an intensity that was rather disturbing, seeing but not seeing. Right then they were gazing at the breakfast tray.

  ‘You have some visitors, miss,’ said the nurse, after laying a napkin on the girl’s lap. As ever, there was no reaction, and I had the instant feeling that our efforts would be wasted there.

  I purposely stood at a distance, produced my little writing pad and pencil, and let McGray take charge. This was his arena.

  He kneeled on one knee before his sister, and his premature winkles softened immediately. He took one of her small, pale hands with a gentleness no one would have expected from him.

  ‘Pan? Pansy, it’s me.’

  I noticed a slight tremble in Amy’s hand, which McGray must have felt.

  ‘Are ye all right?’

  Amy blinked, but that was all.

  ‘It must’ve been michty scary, all that noise in the other room. I want to make sure yer all right.’

  Again, no reaction. McGray took a deep breath, then spoke most carefully, as if treading over broken glass. ‘I have to tell ye – a young lass died behind that wall.’

  All our eyes were on her, trying to detect any twitch or shiver, but nothing happened. I could tell that all her muscles were tense, particularly her slender neck.

  McGray softly squeezed her hand.

  ‘Yer friend, that Lord Bampot … we think he did it.’

  Initially nothing happened, but a few seconds later, finally, we saw some movement.

  Pansy’s chest began to swell. She inhaled and inhaled, slowly, making the faintest hiss, until her lungs were full. She held the air in, and then my eyes fell on Dr Clouston. The man looked horrified, his eyes wide open, his hands clenched tight, and his lips quivered as if he were mouthing words to himself. Could he be expecting Pansy to have another fit of violence?

  A moment later she breathed out, much to the doctor’s relief.

  At least she seems somewhat aware of what has been said, I wrote, the rubbing of my pencil sounding terribly loud in the sepulchral silence. When I looked up I nearly gasped, for Amy’s head had tilted towards me.

  She was not looking at my eyes but at my chest, perhaps at the notepad and the source of the noise. Her face, though, was as impassive as usual.

  ‘We think Lord Bampot did it,’ McGray reiterated. ‘Nae, we’re almost certain, Pan. No one else could’ve done it.’

  The girl’s eyes remained fixed in my direction, however unfocused.

  ‘Miss Smith tells me he used to read for ye. All the time. Is that true?’ Again, no reply. ‘Pansy, if ye ken anything, ye must tell us …’

  Even a sane girl would have felt daunted, I thought, with the inquisitive eyes of her brother, a nurse, a doctor and the brooding, visibly intelligent stranger fixed on her. What could we expect from such a frail creature who had spoken only once in five years?

  McGray was growing impatient. ‘Pansy, he has killed. That lass had a horrible, horrible death. We saw it happen and I can tell ye, nobody deserves that. Now that man’s out there and we’ve no idea what he could be up to. Can ye help us?’

  I almost winced at the futility of the question – and McGray’s eyes, full of useless expectation.

  ‘We need to find him. If there’s anything ye ken …’ McGray looked down, rubbed his forehead in despair. When he lifted his face his eyes glimmered with pooling tears and a dark, ominous rage he could barely contain. ‘Ye talked to him. Why won’t ye talk to me?’

  The longing note in that phrase made me feel terribly sorry. For both of them. That little scene might have been frustrating to me, but I knew I could not possibly imagine McGray’s anguish, after spending the last five years yearning for a response.

  I started to make another note, but then there was a sudden rustle. I looked up to see that Pansy had drawn her hands away and was now grasping the green velvet of the chair’s arms. In a spasm she pushed herself upwards, rising from the seat and making Miss Smith squeal. McGray and Clouston were so shocked they could not move; all they did was follow Amy with perplexed eyes.

  She came to me, her soft steps barely making a sound, her dark eyes fixed on the pad. Once more I had the impression of her floating like a phantom.

  I stirred a little, unsure whether or not to move, but then McGray and Clouston raised their hands in an almost identical gesture, bidding me to stay still.

  Very slowly, as if it were immensely heavy, she lifted her arm. I suddenly realized how small she was; her eyes were level with my chest, and she had to bring her hand high to reach the pencil. She pulled gently and I let her have it.

  I thought she would also take the pad out of my hands; instead, she wielded
the pencil, holding it as if it were a dagger, and drew shaky squiggles while I held the paper. Her hand obscured whether she was tracing shapes, words or anything meaningful at all.

  Then, accidentally, the back of her hand touched my fingertips. It was the briefest of contacts, but enough for me to feel how cold her skin was.

  We both started. She let go of the pencil, which fell between us, and then dropped her arm as if it had become lifeless.

  Nobody moved, blinked or breathed for a seemingly endless moment, none of us sure quite what had just transpired. McGray’s jaw had dropped, and Clouston’s face had never been graver.

  We still held on after the initial shock passed, waiting to see if she would move again, but it did not happen. Miss Smith was the first to react. She went to Amy and tenderly led her back to the armchair.

  ‘There, there,’ she said. ‘I’m going to give you some breakfast now.’

  Miss Smith tried to put the spoon in Pansy’s hand, expecting her to hold it as she had the pencil, but the girl’s fingers would not grip.

  If anything, she looked more lost, more absent than ever. An empty vessel once again.

  As soon as we left the room I took a deep, soothing breath.

  I was expecting Nine-Nails to look utterly drained, but I was mistaken. He snatched my notebook and scoured it as if his life depended on it.

  Clouston came up behind him and peeped over McGray’s shoulder.

  ‘How extraordinary,’ he muttered.

  ‘What did she do?’ I asked, for I’d not had a chance to look at the scribble myself. McGray showed me the pad.

  Over my regular hand there was a mess of meandering lines, as if scribbled by a toddler. Nevertheless, the pencil undeniably spelled a twisted word:

  Marigold

  Our faces hovered over the page, all frowning in incomprehension. When I looked up I found McGray leering at the writing, his face so unsettled I feared – no, I knew – he was about to drag us into very dark waters.

  ‘All the words in the language,’ he whispered, an eerie tremor in his voice, ‘and she chooses this one. Why? What can she mean?’

  ‘If anything at all,’ I added, shattering the mysticism of the moment, and he cast me a bitter look.

  Clouston was about to say something but a young nurse came up, panting and babbling about a patient having a fit.

  ‘You’ll have to excuse me,’ he said, and disappeared swiftly down the corridor.

  I welcomed the brief privacy and whispered to McGray, who was assessing every curve and smudge on the paper with a rather manic expression, ‘McGray, are you absolutely certain you want to take on this case?’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘What d’ye mean?’

  ‘You might regret it,’ I said, rather prophetically. ‘You are far too involved, personally involved with all of these people. An inspector must have all his faculties at his disposal or else –’

  ‘Don’t get so twitchy, Frey.’

  ‘Twitch– How can you assure me you will make sensible decisions?’

  ‘I don’t need to assure ye of shite, Frey. I’m the commanding officer.’

  ‘Please, leave this case to me! I give you my word, I will do everything …’

  ‘Leave this case to ye! Do yer black-pudding brains seriously think I’ll step aside right now? She’s spoken, Frey! Spoken! And ye see this writing? This is the most promising thing she’s done in years!’

  ‘I rest my case,’ I said. ‘You are not thinking straight already.’

  ‘And what d’ye expect me to do? Take up knitting?’

  ‘Do you not still have that case of the old woman frightened out of her wits in her cellar? Or those will-o’-the-wisps you wanted to investigate before the weather is too warm?’

  McGray snorted. ‘Do not mock me now, Frey.’

  ‘I am not mocking. I simply think that you should take your mind off this case. It will not do any good to anybody that –’

  I did not manage to finish, for somebody at the end of the corridor called our names.

  It was Constable McNair, who’d gone back to the City Chambers after summoning us early that morning. Now he was pallid, breathless and shaking, and his hair and shoulders were covered in snow. To my astonishment, the young officer I had sent to Campbell with a message came running up behind him, equally agitated and snow-dusted.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I snapped. ‘I told you to deliver my message immediately!’

  ‘And I did, sir,’ he cried, ‘but –’

  ‘The superintendent sent us back,’ McNair interrupted. ‘He needs youse in New Town.’

  ‘What – right now?’

  ‘Aye. There’s been an attack …’

  ‘We’re still working on the last one, laddie!’ Nine-Nails shouted.

  McNair himself looked utterly puzzled.

  ‘I know, sir, but the superintendent said youse would understand. He said youse must know that the victim was that stuck-up auld woman – Lady Anne Ardglass.’

  7

  We galloped in a mad race across the city, our backs and faces lashed by the growing snowstorm.

  Despite the darkness and dismal weather, Edinburgh was slowly coming to life. As we crossed the slums of the Royal Mile merchants, fishermen and factory workers descended from the towering tenements that flanked both sides of the street, ready to start their long working days. Some of them would labour in crowded factories well into the night, earning but pennies for their efforts.

  I knew well where we were heading – I’d had the misfortune of meeting Lady Anne the previous November, when she had most unceremoniously offered me the hand of her granddaughter Caroline. Despite the dreadful news of the attack and the million thoughts about the asylum murder revolving in my head, a part of me was silly enough to fear an awkward encounter with the feisty young woman.

  Nine-Nails would not be too pleased to see the Ardglass clan either. Their troubled history with the McGrays – as far as I understood it – ran a fair way back.

  Soon we arrived at the elegant end of Dublin Street, which Lady Anne owned in its entirety. The corner house – the one with the widest, most lavish Georgian facade – was her main residence; the other four or five adjacent properties she’d let to aristocratic families for a small fortune.

  All the mansion’s windows glowed from within, large chandeliers visible through fine lace curtains, and there was an impressively stiff butler waiting for us at the entrance, standing stoically despite the blizzard, snow melting on his face. He bowed when he saw us and called a footman to take care of our horses. Not wasting a second, he let us in.

  I’d visited the house before, for a formal ball, when all the halls had been bustling with guests, chatter and music. That morning, however, it looked like an entirely different place, its ample rooms barren, our voices and steps echoing beneath the high ceilings. Even though there were a dozen fires well distributed throughout the property, they were barely enough to keep the enormous corridors at a comfortable temperature in this weather.

  A short, plump maid with silver hair appeared, carrying a cut-glass decanter. She had large, gentle eyes but a deep fold had long ago set in her brow. She looked rather shaken, as if she’d not slept in days, yet still managed to smile warmly at us.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ she said, ‘thank youse for coming so soon!’ She looked at the butler. ‘Forster, I can lead them now.’

  ‘Is that the police?’ asked another female voice, coming from one of the back rooms.

  Caroline Ardglass herself.

  She was an attractive creature, I must admit, with full lips, pointy nose and chin, and dark eyes with a spark I can only define as cunning. Her elegant, hourglass figure was wrapped in a perfectly fitting black velvet dress, and she walked with total poise.

  When she saw me her eyes opened wide. It was only for an instant, and then she hid her surprise with sourness.

  ‘Why, my future husband!’

  McGray’s perplexed eyes went from her to me.
‘Future what?’

  I rolled my eyes. ‘God, I do not have the patience to go through –’

  ‘Och, lassie,’ McGray told her with a cackle, ‘ye don’t wannae touch this giddy goose with a bargepole! He’ll be a greater pain than one o’ those whimsy poodles ye have to keep grooming all the bloody time.’

  Caroline looked at my fur-trimmed collar. ‘We’d certainly fight over wardrobe space.’

  I cleared my throat, surprised by how quickly they’d teamed up against me.

  ‘We have come to investigate the attack on your grandmother,’ I said before the conversation became even more twisted. ‘Is she well enough to talk?’

  ‘I will take it from here, Bertha,’ Caroline whispered, taking the decanter out of the maid’s hands.

  ‘Are ye sure, miss?’

  ‘Yes. Bring me some breakfast, please. And the gentlemen may want tea.’

  The woman retreated reluctantly, not without squeezing Caroline’s arm with affection. It was one of those gestures that reveal a person’s entire character; Bertha must love Caroline like she would her own child.

  ‘Follow me, please,’ Miss Ardglass said, walking towards the staircase. ‘My grandmother is a little disturbed, but I’m sure she will answer your questions once she’s had her morning drink.’

  She seemed overly calm, all things considered. Whether it was genuine detachment or calculated concealment, I would soon be able to tell.

  ‘Miss, did ye see or hear anything?’ McGray asked.

  Caroline chuckled. ‘You might say so, sir. I saw it all, but it is probably better that you question my grandmother first.’

  She led us to the master bedroom and knocked on the door. ‘Grandmama? The police are here.’

  It was an old man’s voice that replied. ‘Do come in, Miss Ardglass.’

  So we did, and as soon as the door was open we were hit by the scents of Earl Grey mixed with a heavy hint of wine and spirits. These were the chambers of a heavy drinker.

  Lady Anne was prostrated on a velvet chaise longue, but as we walked in all I could see were the embroidered folds of her skirts and a bony arm, stretched out and holding a squat brandy glass that waited to be filled.