A Fever of the Blood

by Oscar de Muriel

  Madame Katerina’s fat clerk met us at the entrance to the brewery, where he was tending to three very drunk livestock farmers.

  ‘Jesus, it is not even ten in the morning,’ I mumbled, as the clerk led us upstairs, to what the portly man insisted was the ‘world-famous’ divination chamber.

  I sighed in resignation, for I knew what awaited us behind that door.

  The small room stank of incense, mixed with sickly herbs and spices. The tatty tapestries that covered the walls had absorbed those ghastly smells for years. I suspected that Katerina’s intention was to make her customers slightly ill and thus more malleable.

  She was already waiting for us, seated at a small round table where a collection of multi-coloured candles burned with flickering flames.

  The woman was as outlandish as her surroundings. Short and of medium build, she liked to clad herself in absurdly colourful cloaks and veils, which she then covered with all manner of chains, adornments and charms, so that she jingled like a Christmas sleigh with every move she made. Her features, chiselled and angular, were another collection of trinkets: her eyebrows, ears and aquiline nose were all pierced with either rings or pendants.

  However, all this was overshadowed – not at all metaphorically – by the largest, most vulgarly hoisted breasts in the city, which she liked to show off with an indecent, plunging neckline.

  She spread her hands on the table, drumming her alarmingly long black-painted nails. With her overdone make-up and sardonic smile, she looked like a stout Cheshire cat.

  ‘Oi, Adolphus!’ she said in a rather strange hybrid of Glaswegian and Eastern European accents. ‘What can I do for you, my boy? I can see a horrid shadow over you; something’s troubling you.’

  McGray and I sat in front of her. Despite my best efforts to toughen up, I had to produce my handkerchief and press it against my nose. ‘Something is definitely troubling me.’

  McGray smacked the back of my head. ‘Ignore the dandy. He’s been whinging non-stop since his lass left him for his brother.’

  I could not repress a gasp. ‘How on earth do you know about that?’

  Madame Katerina was laughing, a low snuffle which was far more scornful than a candid cackle.

  ‘Indeedy, hen, we’ve just come from –’

  ‘Stop there,’ she said, a claw-like hand held up high. ‘That shadow I see …’ she leaned forwards, studying McGray’s face. ‘It’s so dark. So, so dark. My poor boy.’

  I chuckled. McGray’s stubble was fuller than usual, the skin around his eyes was puffy and darkened. A child could tell something was wrong with him.

  ‘I’ll deal with you later,’ Katerina told me, her undivided attention on McGray. ‘This is about dear Pansy, isn’t it?’

  McGray assented. ‘Partly.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. I can see this gloom around you …’ Her eyes flickered in my direction. ‘Around both of you.’

  Katerina stood up and came nearer, her protruding breasts thankfully just avoiding rubbing against me. She examined my face so closely I could see every clot of mascara around her eyes. ‘Milk of magnesia,’ she said. ‘You should get some. Soon.’

  ‘I am not ill,’ I said, but she went back to her seat and did not mention the matter again.

  ‘I see there’s a pressing question in your mind, Adolphus. Do you have something for me to read? I can feel you do.’

  Again I chuckled. ‘Of course he has something for you. Yours is not a place I’d come simply for a cup of tea and a chat.’

  McGray was pulling Lord Ardglass’s portrait out of his pocket. ‘Aye, I want ye to tell me everything ye can from this. Everything, and if the English numbskull makes fun o’ ye, I’ll hold him and look away while ye punch him. And if he goes crying to our bosses, I’ll tell them he tripped.’

  Madame Katerina extended an arm, opening and closing her fingers as if she were warming up the muscles. She held the photograph, but as she drew it closer to her face she closed her eyelids, showing the thick layer of bright purple make-up on them. I thought I saw the candle flames flicker, but I prefer to believe I imagined it.

  Katerina inhaled, paused, then inhaled again, and as she breathed out she slowly opened her eyes. She stared at the photograph as if suddenly frozen.

  It took her a while to react. I was going to say something but McGray elbowed me in the ribs. Finally, Katerina did move, but in a way I had not expected.

  She bit her lip, and slowly a frown etched its way across her face. It was not an angry frown though; it was pure sorrow. She was not blinking, and tears began to pool in her eyes. She gulped, and when she finally blinked, tears rolled copiously down her face. She wiped them with a quivering hand, smearing her thick mascara.

  ‘Ye all right?’ McGray asked, as dumbfounded as me.

  ‘This has never happened before,’ she said, looking slightly embarrassed by her crying. ‘What a sad man. All around him is sadness … and despair.’

  My first thought was how closely that matched Lord Ardglass’s clinical records.

  ‘Do you know who that man is?’ I asked. I was looking at the back of the photograph, making sure it was not labelled in any way.

  Katerina shook her head. ‘Never seen him. I can tell he’s well off.’

  ‘Can ye tell us anything else about the lad?’

  Again, Katerina looked embarrassed, and the tears kept flowing. ‘No, I’m so sorry. There is a very strong imprint here … but it’s very old. It’s a pain that has lingered and lingered. And guilt and …’

  Katerina had to lay the photograph on the table, and without saying another word she left the room, through a back door concealed by a heavy tapestry.

  McGray’s eyes were wide open. ‘I’ve never seen her like that!’

  ‘I thought she was as hard as nails,’ I added. ‘Should we … go?’

  McGray shook his head and we waited. Katerina came back a few minutes later, her face freshly washed, only the thickest lumps of mascara still clinging on. Even though she’d managed to control her tears, her eyes were as red as before. She regarded the photograph as if it were a poisonous spider.

  ‘I’m sorry, Adolphus. I can’t tell you much about him. That grief overpowers everything else. Please don’t ask me to try again.’

  McGray nodded and reached out for the picture, which Katerina would not touch again. He gave me the photograph and I put it in my breast pocket.

  ‘We have two other things for ye to see. I hope yer all right to do so?’

  Katerina assented, but she continued to take deep deliberate breaths. McGray showed her the leather bag, with a few live ants still crawling inside, and pulled out the dry onion and the sugar.

  The gipsy woman started, her bosoms bouncing like undercooked puddings.

  ‘I’ve not seen one o’ those in years!’

  ‘Witchcraft?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh yes.’

  There was a glimmer of hope in McGray’s eyes. ‘I’ve been looking at my books. Cannae tell what this is for.’

  ‘I’m sure you did. These are dual charms, Adolphus, as you probably know already. Can be used for good or evil. I could only tell you which if I’d been around when they were cast.’

  ‘Why, an ambiguous response,’ I said, rolling my eyes. ‘How unexpected, from you.’

  Katerina’s eyelashes seem to stand on end. ‘If you found a scalpel dripping blood in the street, could you tell if it had been used to slit someone’s throat or to cut a baby’s cord?’

  I smirked. ‘No, but I thought your eyes could see … beyond!’

  McGray slapped the back of my head again. ‘Ignore the bastard, hen. I was expecting you to say that, but thought ye might see something I’d not.’

  Katerina was looking at the pins, counting them. Then she pulled one out and examined its slightly rusted tip. ‘You use new, shiny metal for self-protection, and rusty nails for spreading curses.’

  I rolled my eyes. ‘What difference does that make?’ I asked, and Kat
erina mistook my sarcasm for actual interest.

  ‘Metals are noble, magical substances,’ she said, her eyes wide, ‘each with a particular blessing to offer. Iron is strength, command, a ward against ghosts and dark powers. If you use it as a talisman, it’s like a well that catches any evil coming your way. But evil is like everything else around us; it doesn’t disappear, it only turns into something else, and when it sinks into a talisman our eyes see it as rust. Witches collect dark energy that way, twisting the kind properties of iron, and then project all that accumulated wickedness against someone or something. That’s how they curse you.’

  I shook my head at that absolute nonsense.

  Nine-Nails arched a brow. ‘Those pins could have been rusty to begin with … or been rusted by the onion’s juices.’

  I took a deep breath, my patience thinner by the minute. ‘Do put that blasted vegetable away; it looks like it will take us nowhere.’ I crushed a stray ant on the tablecloth. ‘If you are finished discussing your accursed trinkets, I suggest we go.’

  McGray did shove the onion back into the bag, but then tossed the bundle on to my legs, spilling a few alarmed bugs on to my clothes for his own puerile amusement.

  ‘Show her the writing,’ McGray said, rather gravely.

  I took my time to brush the blasted ants off, then produced my notepad and opened it at the page with Pansy’s scribble.

  ‘D’ye have any idea what that could be?’ Nine-Nails asked as I passed it to Katerina.

  She hesitated. ‘Does it belong to you?’

  ‘Aye,’ McGray answered for me. ‘It’s the scribble we’re interested in.’

  Katerina took the notebook by a corner, only touching it with her black fingernails. She used two of those claws to pin it down on the table, and then, very carefully, ran a fingertip along Amy’s squiggly lines. She never allowed her skin to touch any of my writing.

  ‘I sense witches all over this,’ she said very soon, very assuredly. ‘They’re like rotting flesh, impregnating everything around them with their stench.’

  McGray could not have looked more confused. ‘My sister wrote that!’

  Katerina did not seem to hear that. She was mumbling nonsense. ‘Witches like to come out of their lairs in the darkest of nights. They like it that way; it shrouds their dirty jobs.’

  I thought of Cassandra Smith talking about those figures in the asylum, only seen on new moon nights.

  Madame Katerina continued. Her voice had gradually become deeper, her Eastern European inflections smoothed out until she did not sound like herself any more.

  ‘Beware of the witches. They’re dangerous folk. Very dangerous. They say they can curse you simply with their eyes; one glare and you’re lost. The most powerful of them can turn into animals, birds and balls of fire. And they hide in every nook and cranny, everywhere in the land. Beware of them, my dear.’

  Then she lifted her head, blinking and taking deep breaths. It was as though she’d been sleepwalking, and then awakened in an unexpected location.

  ‘Somebody died?’ she asked, and before I could mock her divination skills McGray replied, ‘Aye. A Miss Greenwood, a young nurse.’

  Katerina nodded, now running her fingers along the pages. Her eyes moved from side to side, as if hearing something and trying to pinpoint where the noise came from.

  ‘Find out more about her, Adolphus,’ she said. ‘Listen to her story … That will answer questions you two don’t even know you should be asking.’

  12

  We immediately thought of Miss Oakley. She was our best chance to learn more about the late Miss Greenwood.

  She lived in the south-west part of Edinburgh, near the Union Canal. It was further from the main roads than I would have expected, but within a reasonable distance of the lunatic asylum.

  It was in fact a very nice cottage. Its two storeys overlooked a long front garden, which in the milder months must be a vegetable patch. When we arrived, however, the ground was totally covered in white, and there were very few traces of vegetation: only some frozen stalks of tall, withered foxgloves.

  I tripped over a spade and shears, and the rattle must have been quite loud, for a young woman came out immediately. She was not handsome, her features a little rodent-like, but her lean face was quiet and self-controlled.

  ‘May I help you, gentlemen?’ she asked, wrapping herself tightly in a shawl. Her voice surprised me: it was a pleasant, well-modulated speech that could only come from an educated girl. She was – to both my relief and my delight – not Scottish.

  McGray showed his credentials. ‘Inspectors McGray and Frey from the CID. Are ye Miss Jane Oakley?’

  ‘Indeed I am,’ she replied with raised eyebrows. ‘Are you … the Mr McGray? Miss McGray’s brother?’

  Nine-Nails chuckled bitterly. ‘Aye. I can tell ye’ve not been at the asylum very long. Can we ask ye a few wee questions?’

  She placed a hand on her chest. ‘Is it regarding … ?’

  McGray nodded sombrely. ‘Aye, yer friend Miss Greenwood. I’m so sorry.’

  Miss Oakley could barely respond. She took a deep breath and I thought she would burst into tears. She managed only to wave us in, leading us into her small parlour.

  The room was unostentatious yet immaculate. A small fire crackled in front of a very old but perfectly polished table, and in the air I perceived the slight aromas of apple and sage.

  What a pleasant change from Katerina’s dreadful lodgings. McGray looked at the quilted cushions and the embroidered fire screen with slight discomfort.

  ‘Does the lack of grime insult you?’ I asked in a whisper.

  ‘Do be seated, sirs,’ said Miss Oakley. Despite her polished diction she could not hide a hint of Lancashire inflection – I was well trained, having listened to Joan for seven years.

  McGray and I took the two chairs by the tiny table, and Miss Oakley pulled up an old rocking chair for herself. After she was seated I took a moment to discreetly inspect her. Her eyes were rather sunken from lack of sleep, and the tendons of her slender neck looked tense. Her hands were roughened by work, but not nearly as much as those of Miss Smith or Joan; the girl had been working for only a short while.

  She was the first one to speak.

  ‘Was it painful?’ she asked with a splutter. ‘Did she suffer much?’

  I had a flashing memory of the vomiting, the broken spine and the anguished screaming.

  ‘It was not an easy passing,’ I said in the end.

  Miss Oakley’s chest began to heave. She looked away as the first tear rolled down her cheek, and I saw her anxious hands squeezing her apron.

  ‘Ye all right?’

  She gulped, nodding, but we could tell how distressed she was.

  ‘We understand you two were very good friends,’ I said. ‘We are very sorry indeed.’

  McGray leaned forwards. ‘I guess it was all too sudden, wasn’t it?’

  It seemed a harmless, almost empty question – but Miss Oakley’s eyebrow twitched. It was an almost imperceptible movement, yet undoubtedly there.

  ‘Were you expecting anything bad to happen?’ I asked. The silence dragged on, so I had to speak again. ‘Did Miss Greenwood have any quarrels with her patients?’

  ‘Not quarrels as such. She just … Well, neither of us liked working there. It is a ghastly place.’ She instantly looked at Nine-Nails. ‘No offence, sir.’

  ‘None taken, hen,’ he lied.

  ‘Some days were terrible, with all the screaming and the inmates throwing their food at us and calling us names …’

  What followed was rather haphazard: I brought out my notepad, and as I flicked through the pages to find a blank one I went past Amy’s scribble. I saw McGray looking at it and I knew that something was brewing in his head.

  ‘Lass, does the word marigold mean anything to ye?’

  Her eyes opened so wide I feared they’d fall off her face.

  ‘Marigold?’ she repeated. ‘Do you mean – the flower?�
�

  There was a trace of a smile in McGray’s expression. ‘I’m not sure what I mean, lass. Ye might be able to explain to us.’

  She blinked. ‘Excuse me, why do you ask me that?’

  McGray did not reply, and I waited, my pencil ready to take notes.

  ‘Well, sir … I’m afraid I don’t understand you.’ She looked around, now a bundle of nerves. ‘Oh God, where are my manners? I shall bring some tea.’

  ‘Ye don’t have to, lassie,’ McGray said. ‘We won’t be here much longer.’

  ‘Oh, please, do accept it,’ she insisted. ‘It’s bitterly cold outside and you must have ridden a long way,’ and she hurried to the kitchen before we could refuse again.

  McGray whispered as soon as the door had shut. ‘Looks like marigold does mean something.’

  ‘I am not sure.’

  ‘Yer not – Did ye nae see her face? What are the chances the word Pansy wrote would upset this lass?’

  ‘I did, McGray, but you must admit it was a very random question.’

  His face began to colour. ‘Ye condescending turd!’

  ‘Before you upset her with rose and gladioli questions,’ I said hastily, ‘please let me ask her about Miss Greenwood.’

  ‘Ask all the shite ye want. Then I’ll follow.’

  It was not long before Miss Oakley came back with the tea set and some shortbread. She seemed a little more composed, and even attempted a smile as she poured the brew.

  ‘I wanted to ask you,’ I said, ‘about one patient in particular. Were you familiar with the patient they call Lord Bampot?’

  ‘He did it, didn’t he?’ she said quickly, almost startling us.

  ‘So ye’ve heard o’ him?’

  ‘Everyone who’s worked there has. The man was quite a character, and nobody was allowed to ask questions.’

  ‘How did ye ken we suspect him?’ McGray asked.

  ‘Miss Smith came to visit last night and she told me what had happened. She didn’t mention the details – I was very distressed, as you can imagine – but she did say it all happened in Lord Bampot’s room and that he was nowhere to be found. She also said I must not tell anyone, but you, gentlemen, I assume are aware of it all.’