A Fever of the Blood

by Oscar de Muriel

  ‘Oh, how inconvenient. Well … what do you want with me?’

  ‘Help us find the bastard,’ McGray answered, his fists now clenched.

  ‘Do you want me to deploy some of my men and search for this man?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘A Scottish gentleman?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Who has committed murder … in Scotland?’

  McGray made to stand up and I had to seize his shoulder. ‘That is correct. Can you help us? We will participate in the search and provide all the information you require, of course. You must understand this man is very dangerous and the murder he committed was a most ghastly affair …’ We were far away from Campbell and Lady Anne’s grip, so I went on to freely describe Miss Greenwood’s awful death: her convulsions, her vomiting and her horribly bent spine.

  Chief Constable Massey put his feet down, sat straight and interlaced his hands on the desk. ‘That’s all very sad, but I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do. This is a Scottish affair. If you want us to cooperate, we need a formal request from Edinburgh’s CID.’

  ‘Are ye crazy?’ McGray shouted, jumping to his feet.

  ‘McGray –’

  ‘Every fuckin’ minute counts, and yer asking us to fetch ye some bloody paperwork?’

  The chief constable had barely moved, as calm as if he were sitting down to a picnic. ‘It’s like I told you. Scottish crimes are out of my jurisdiction. Unless a crime takes place on English soil, I can’t intervene.’

  McGray was leaning in to grab him by the collar (as he’d once done Campbell), but fortunately I managed to pull him back. ‘Hold on!’ I hissed. ‘He may be a sad-looking waste of space, but he can still imprison you for assaulting an officer.’

  Nine-Nails took a deep breath, his homicidal fit scarcely contained. ‘Frey, help me here. I need ye to give this shitty pile of snot some o’ yer michty arse’s Chancery Lane legal slavers.’

  I sighed in frustration. ‘I am afraid he is right. If he decides to be the most insufferable, uncooperative, by-the-book sack of dead weight, we cannot force him otherwise – unless, of course, we persuade Campbell to instigate a formal request, but that could take weeks to come through.’

  ‘That’s if the bastard’s willing,’ McGray said. ‘Things as they are, I don’t think he’ll even consider it.’

  Chief Constable Massey leaned forwards. ‘Oh? Why is that?’

  McGray jumped in. ‘Sorry, unless ye ask the question on Scottish soil I’m only allowed to tell ye to stick the longest object ye can find in yer darkest cranny.’ He pointed at Massey, the stump of his lost finger sticking out oddly. ‘If anything happens, or if this laddie gets away, ye’ll be the one to blame.’

  And he stormed out of the office.

  Massey had gone white.

  ‘Can you believe the man?’ he cried as I retrieved Joel’s photograph.

  ‘Usually not,’ I said, ‘and when I do it affrights me. Can you at least give us directions to a respectable inn?’ I asked before Massey had time to reflect on my words. ‘I doubt we can do much more at this hour.’

  ‘There’s always rooms at the King’s Arms, down on King Street.’

  ‘What an imaginative name,’ I said, and then followed in McGray’s footsteps. I found him just around the corner, kicking a poor postbox until the steel bent.

  ‘Better that than a chief constable’s face,’ I granted. ‘Or mine.’ I let him kick it a few more times before speaking again. ‘Very well, you have had your amusement. We should find some lodgings and have a rest.’

  McGray shook his head. ‘Nae. Ye go have some sleep, ye still look shaken. I’ll go on.’

  ‘What do you plan to do? March through Lancaster looking in every house and alley?’

  ‘If I have to …’

  ‘Fine. In the meantime I will drop a shilling into the River Lune and try to fish it back. It is likely to do as much good.’

  McGray rubbed his forehead with his maimed hand, his eyes flickering.

  ‘I cannae sleep if he’s out there.’

  ‘I understand,’ I told him, looking as sincere as I could, ‘but you must realize how unlikely it is you will achieve anything. Even if we both spent all night searching.’ I saw a hint of understanding in his face, coming with an equal measure of frustration. ‘Save your energy, McGray; that is the best you can do for everyone right now.’

  He deliberated for a moment. Finally he inhaled deeply and looked down, which I took as acceptance, and we moved on.

  I counted the few notes left in my wallet and growled. I’d have to have money wired from one of my personal accounts in London. We passed the telegraph office, but it was already closed.

  ‘At least we know where to come tomorrow,’ I sighed.

  The King’s Arms was not too far, and in fact it was a very respectable-looking place, one of those very successful inns that had flourished along with the railways, which brought a constant flock of passengers needing a bed and a roof.

  With a recently restored facade and a thick stone arch above its main door, it could well have stood proud next to the hotels around St Pancras or King’s Cross.

  A middle-aged man, chubby, bald and red-nosed, greeted us.

  ‘Evening, gentlemen. How can I help you?’ His Lancashire accent made me think of Joan and the hearty dinner she would have been cooking if we had stayed in Edinburgh.

  ‘Two rooms, please,’ I said. ‘And we might need them for several days.’

  He looked at his books and whistled.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m so sorry, I only have one room left. T’other one went not fifteen minutes ago. But it has two beds – you’ll be quite comfortable.’

  I could not help sneering at McGray. ‘Thank you, but I’d rather go and try my luck at the port’s inns.’

  ‘By all means, sir, but them two ladies that came right before you said they’d been looking for rooms all day. Town’s full.’

  ‘Give us the room,’ McGray said. ‘I’m not walking any more. If his majesty wants his own privy, he can sleep by the river.’

  ‘Said by the man whom I had to force to have a rest!’

  McGray ignored me. ‘Can ye arrange some food too? And good portions, don’t ye get stingy with me.’

  The innkeeper assured us he would send us a wholesome dinner and then showed us the way upstairs.

  I sighed with relief when I saw the room. It was not big but at least the linen looked clean, and a small hearth kept it at a very comfortable temperature.

  The walls, unfortunately, were very thin, and we could hear the muffled voices of some women arguing in the next room.

  McGray hammered on the wall so hard some of the old plaster fell off. ‘Och, shut it!’

  Instant result.

  Not a few minutes later a young maid knocked on our door, bringing a large tray. I feared she’d offer us tripe boiled in milk, or some other equally charming Lancashire delicacy, but fortunately it was only stewed mutton, boiled potatoes, tea and plenty of bread.

  The girl wrinkled her nose as I tipped her. ‘Would ya like me to wash them clothes?’

  As she said it I smelled the trace of vomit that still came from my coat and jacket. ‘Will they be ready in the morning? We will set off very early.’

  ‘Course, sir.’

  I gave her the garments. Before leaving she pointed at McGray’s ancient overcoat, which he’d tossed on a chair. ‘That one too?’

  McGray was already devouring his meal loudly, so I simply mouthed: ‘It does need a wash.’

  ‘Och, wait!’ Nine-Nails said, seeing that the coats were being taken away. ‘Ye have Lord Bampot’s picture with ye?’

  ‘Of course I do,’ I retorted. ‘Do you honestly believe I am so stupid I would send the one portrait we have to the laundry?’

  Nine-Nails shrugged, and as soon as he had turned back to his plate I discreetly retrieved the photograph and other papers from my jacket’s pocket. The mai
d bundled it together with McGray’s rags, then curtsied and left.

  I went to the little table and looked at the food. My stomach was still a little upset, but I forced myself to swallow some bread and a few swigs of tea. After that I remember only resting my head on the soft pillow, for I instantly dozed off, still in my clothes on top of the blankets – I was so tired I could have slept on a timber board in a fishermen’s alehouse. It was a deep, refreshing slumber, which was sadly interrupted by loud banging on our door.

  I opened one eye, croaking. It was still dark, but with the winter weather it could have been any time of the day. I reached for the side table and looked at my pocket watch: it was early morning, only a few minutes past five.

  McGray was already up. He’d probably slept his usual one or two hours, yet he seemed completely unaffected as he opened the door. I sat up and saw the innkeeper, and next to him a grubby, red-eyed police officer.

  ‘What?’ Nine-Nails burst out in a hoarse morning voice.

  ‘Sergeant Thatcher, sir,’ the officer said. ‘I have an urgent message from the chief constable.’

  He handed us a note, which McGray snatched and unfolded. He let out a wrathful groan.

  ‘Och, the bastard did it again!’

  I stood up and swayed towards him. ‘What is it?’

  I was aghast yet not entirely surprised when I read over McGray’s shoulder:

  Murder in the castle. Terrible. Need your help.

  C. C. Massey

  18

  I was still yawning as we dashed downstairs. The young maid was waiting for us with our overcoats, now clean and neatly folded.

  ‘My, did ye sleep at all, hen?’ McGray asked as I wrapped myself up.

  The girl blushed, looking a little afraid as she gave Nine-Nails his tattered overcoat, which looked only a tad less scruffy. ‘I’m so sorry, sir. Your coat’s really old and the lining got torn when I tried to rub them grease stains out.’

  I laughed with spirit. ‘Unavoidably!’

  ‘But I stitched it all back!’ the girl promptly added.

  ‘It’s all right,’ McGray said. ‘Better than running round town in shirtsleeves.’

  As we walked out of the inn we all shivered. The temperature had plummeted and even my warm coat, which the maid had surely left to dry by a fire, did not feel thick enough.

  Fortunately we did not have to walk too far: we were at the castle within minutes. The yew was still covered in black birds, but they were a little livelier now, fluttering and pecking around for food.

  We passed through the imposing gates and I saw that the castle was in fact an uneven collection of buildings, walls and towers built one after the other across the centuries. One could see mismatching stones and tell the newer from the medieval ones.

  Thatcher guided us across the main yard to one of the oldest-looking areas. The sandstone bricks were weathered and blackened, the walls cut by very few narrow windows. Just as I thought how ominous and depressing the place looked, the caw of a large raven startled me. I looked up, but the sky was still too dark to spot the bird.

  ‘Witches’ tower.’

  At first I thought the words had come from my own head, but they’d actually been uttered by the sergeant.

  ‘E-excuse me?’

  ‘That’s the witches’ tower. Haven’t you heard about t’Lancashire trials?’

  McGray’s eyes widened. ‘D’ye mean the 1612 trials?’

  ‘Aye, and not only those. They brought witches here for prosecution all the time back then. There were dozens of trials, some more famous than others; my granddad told me all them old tales when I was little. Th’old hags usually stayed in this tower for months before trial. Down there.’

  He was looking at a boarded-up gate, framed by a stone arch that seemed rather sinister to me. However, that was a very mild prelude to what we were about to see.

  We followed Thatcher into the depths of the castle, to a dingy block of cells. The main corridor was dimly lit by yellow gas lamps. It was not the first prison I had visited, but it was one of the most depressing: the place stank of all manner of human filth, the plaster on the walls was crumbling and the floors were peppered with grime.

  There must have been at least a dozen gaolers posted between the barred doors, and I could see they kept order with an iron fist: the only movement was a lonely rat running around a heap of rubbish, and the only noise was a dull murmur coming from one of the furthest cells, where a small group of guards clustered. I saw only a couple of convicts, but they were both crouching in the corners, perhaps not allowed even to glance at us.

  ‘The inspectors are here,’ Thatcher announced as we reached an open cell, and all faces turned to us.

  Chief Constable Massey was there, not a trace of indolence in his face now. He was deathly pale.

  ‘Has it happened on English soil?’ McGray asked, unable to contain his bitterness.

  Massey nodded meekly and pointed into the cell, where a photographer was installing a bulky tripod. As he moved aside we saw a white sheet on the floor, almost glowing under the light from the guards’ lanterns, covering an eerily familiar hump.

  McGray kneeled down and lifted the cloth, revealing the gruesome face of a rough man in his forties. There was froth at the corners of his mouth, his lips were purple and his eyes were still wide open with the most disturbing expression.

  As McGray pulled away the sheet we saw the full extent of the tragedy. The man’s back was bent in an even more horrifying way than Greenwood’s: he rested on both shoulders, but then his body twisted both upwards and sideways, forming an arch that ended at his right hip. His inmate’s uniform was stained with vomit and bile, and despite his broken position it was evident that he had been a tall, muscular man – had he been alive he could have passed for another gaoler.

  ‘This seems to have been a more severe poisoning,’ I murmured.

  The chief constable stepped forwards. ‘I recognized the symptoms you mentioned last night, and it couldn’t be a coincidence to see them only a few hours later. I wasn’t sure you’d be at the inn I recommended; it was very lucky to find you.’

  ‘Not lucky enough for him,’ Nine-Nails said, gesturing at the crime scene. ‘Ye’ll have a lot to answer for, Messy.’

  The chief constable cleared his throat. ‘It’s Massey.’

  ‘Don’t ye correct me, ye messy sack of –’

  I jumped in before Nine-Nails began beating anyone up. ‘Do not mind Inspector McGray. We need you to tell us everything you know.’

  ‘His name was Harry Pimblett,’ Massey said. ‘He’d been locked up here for the past five years.’

  ‘What for?’ McGray asked.

  ‘He attacked a customs officer, and after that it transpired he’d been running some smuggling at St George’s Quay.’

  ‘I want to see his full file,’ I told him, and one of the guards went off to fetch it.

  ‘How did it happen?’ McGray asked. ‘I doubt the poison fell accidentally into his porridge.’

  Massey swallowed. ‘Well, he had a visitor last evening.’

  ‘Let me guess,’ said Nine-Nails. ‘A very fine gentleman? Around fifty? Lean face?’

  Massey could not look at him in the eye. ‘No need to describe him. He gave the guards his name: Joel Ardglass.’

  ‘That was bold,’ I said.

  ‘It was well past visiting time. The gaoler allowed him in only because he claimed himself a lord – and he had the gold to bribe his way in.’

  ‘I suppose the genius who let him pass is here?’

  ‘T’was me, sir,’ said one of the guards, blushing.

  ‘Do you usually grant access to whomever tosses sterling at you?’

  ‘No, sir. Course not! I mean, the gentleman did tip me, but he seemed honest.’

  McGray clicked his tongue. ‘Honest?’

  ‘Yes. He said Pimblett had been his butler long ago. I knew the lad; he’d told me once about this Ardglass family he used to serve.’

>   I certainly took note of that.

  ‘Did Lord Ardglass say why he was visiting?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, when he was trying to convince me to let him in. He said he was about to go on a long trip, wouldn’t be back for years, and wanted to thank Pimblett for his services. He brought him a bottle of one of them foreign wines …’ I raised a hand to my mouth. ‘It looked very expensive, sir. With a golden label and all. How was I s’posed to know it would be poison?’

  I turned to Massey, rolling my eyes. ‘See that this man is properly disciplined.’

  ‘But sir –’

  ‘Shut yer sauce box!’ McGray snapped. ‘Messy, ye’ve shat on yer career badly enough already. If ye don’t want us to make it far worse, ye’ll do as we say. Ye heard me?’ He did not wait for the chief constable to reply. ‘Gather as many peelers as ye can. Youse are going to start the search we wanted last night.’

  ‘And arrange for an urgent post-mortem,’ I added. ‘Your best physician.’

  ‘Och, and Messy,’ McGray said just before the chief constable left, ‘be a good boy and fetch me a cup o’ tea. Nae sugar.’

  Twenty-five constables were lined up in front of the castle’s chapel, and McGray walked slowly to and fro, showing them Joel Ardglass’s picture.

  ‘This is the man we’re looking for. Last time he was seen – by one o’ yer most pathetic colleagues – he was wearing an expensive black coat and carrying a leather bag. Memorize his face. He might have gone to the quays – youse three check there – or the train station – youse three check there. The rest of youse spread out evenly across town. Remember this bastard is dangerous and armed.’

  I evaluated them while McGray spoke. Massey had put together a very heterogeneous group: some of the constables seemed fit and sharp, but a few others (many more than I would have liked) were undeniable, blatant slobs. A couple of them had swollen beer bellies and I could swear I saw one of the younger ones actually drooling.

  ‘I would not expect much,’ I told McGray as soon as he had dispatched them. ‘Although I have seen worse cavemen guarding the House of Commons.’

  ‘Did ye find anything new from the other guards?’ McGray asked.