A Fever of the Blood

by Oscar de Muriel

  ‘Honest? What about –’

  ‘Nine-Nails, allow me to finish my breakfast before you boast all the vulgarity I know you are capable of.’

  McGray devoured a meal even vaster than mine, and I was glad I’d risen earlier, for seeing him wolf down half a dozen fried eggs, with yolk dripping from the corners of his mouth, was so abominably off-putting I would rather share the table with a dung-splattering piglet.

  I may have told him as much, not that anything would put me off those delicious scones, but his mind was on more pressing matters.

  ‘We need to go back to the warehouse,’ he said, smacking his lips. ‘Search it properly.’

  ‘There are constables taking care of that. I told them to wake us up if they found anything relevant; if they had, we would know by now.’

  ‘I want to check myself. Those laddies could overlook something.’

  I nodded. ‘Indeed. You are the witchcraft-nonsense expert.’ I pushed my cutlery away, a little reluctant to mention the last ordeal of the night, but I had no choice. ‘In the priory … What do you think we saw? And don’t tell me –’

  ‘She turned into a raven.’

  I shook my head, then sighed. ‘Why, of course. Because there is no other feasible explanation.’

  ‘Some o’ the Lancashire witches admitted in court they had the power to turn into animals. Crows and cats and dogs.’

  ‘Where did you read that? In the latest penny dreadful?’

  ‘Actual court proceedings,’ McGray retorted. ‘They’ve been published. Some o’ those women honestly claimed they were witches and could harm people just by looking at them.’

  ‘Let us discuss that later,’ I said, too impatient to listen to such folktales. ‘The woman we saw, do you think she was Redfern?’

  ‘Aye, she must have been, erasing the tracks o’ that giant bastard who must be her minion, just like Pimblett was. They must need muscle to run their business.’

  ‘Indeed. An ageing woman would not be able to run that warehouse by herself. How many more people are we going to end up chasing?’

  McGray looked stern. ‘The only one I need to catch is Lord Joel Ardglass. Alive.’

  I sighed. ‘Is that really all you can think about?’

  ‘What d’ye care?’

  I became exasperated. ‘Nine-Nails, we are on the verge of uncovering a potentially dangerous gang. These people have very dubious intentions that we do not fully understand, and their reach seems to extend from here to Scotland. Does that not worry you?’

  He went on eating, deaf to my words.

  ‘And all you think about is your reckless personal crusade. Your sister scribbled some nonsense and may – may – have spoken a couple of words, but that does not mean that Joel can help her case or will even tell us anything. Even if we do manage to –’

  McGray banged his knife and fork on the table, his face red and his nostrils swelling like a bull’s. He glared at me and I thought he might stab me with his cutlery, but then something strange happened. His snorting gradually subsided into suspicious sniffing and the wrath in his eyes gave way to a puzzled stare.

  ‘Do ye smell that?’

  I had just perceived it. ‘Something is burning. What could –’

  Right then a thunderous scream came: ‘Fire! Everybody out!’

  The dining hall’s door opened with a thud, letting in a billow of black smoke, and the innkeeper came barging in, his face pale.

  ‘For goodness’ sake,’ I mumbled wearily, gathering two more scones as I stood up. The other guests and staff screamed and ran frantically, pushing and shoving me a couple of times. ‘All we need now is a little cloud of rain following us around.’

  McGray was not yet as weary as I. He ran to the innkeeper. ‘Is it serious? We can help youse.’

  ‘ ’Tis the main staircase, but I don’t think –’

  McGray rushed there and I followed. Those were the steps that led to our chambers, the carpet and the oak handrail roaring in flames.

  ‘At least this one looks normal,’ I remarked.

  McGray was already running to the main entrance. ‘Bring snow!’ he shouted, and then pointed at two strong-looking guests. ‘You and you,’ and then he looked at me, ‘and Frey, don’t just stand there like Marie Antoinette eating cake.’

  He knocked the scones out of my hand, and I could well have shot him for that, but the people’s screams were becoming ever louder.

  We ran out to the street and the cold air hit me without mercy, for I’d left my overcoat in the room. People were shouting and alarmed guests and maids were still storming out, as we gathered snow from the ground with our bare hands.

  Other guests, passers-by and a policeman came to aid us, and we ran in and out, carrying snowballs and throwing them into the fire. The cook also joined us, bringing buckets of water from the kitchen.

  ‘Is anybody trapped up there?’ I asked the innkeeper, but he shrugged with a terrified scowl.

  Very soon I felt the sweat dripping from my temples, yet my hands were so cold I no longer felt my fingers.

  With the welcome help it must have taken us less than ten minutes to extinguish the fire, but it felt like an eternity. As I ran back with a last load of snow I found McGray and another two men trampling on the dying flames.

  The innkeeper came up, red and sweaty, and almost crying at the sight.

  I stopped him. ‘Excuse me, Mr … ?’

  ‘Jones.’

  ‘Did you see how it started?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know what happened, sir,’ he whimpered. ‘I passed them stairs and they looked fine, then I walked back ’cos I’d forgot a key, and they were like this!’

  McGray rushed upstairs, each stride spanning three steps. ‘Could it be …’

  I ran behind him, and heard his angered swearing as we found the door to our room wide open.

  McGray had barely crossed the threshold when he let out the angriest cry. ‘Och, sons of bitches!’

  I peered in as he shouted, and the sight of the place left me aghast: somebody had broken in, the linen had been tossed about, the wardrobe and all the drawers were open, and I found my coat crumpled on the floor. All the contents of my pockets – the letter, the telegram, even my wallet – were scattered around it.

  ‘They searched ye well,’ McGray said as we both kneeled down. ‘Did they take anything?’

  I picked up my wallet and found it still full of large notes. ‘It was not money they were after.’ I looked through the other articles, and very soon we understood the cause of it all.

  Joel’s photograph was gone.

  22

  ‘Another bloody search,’ I moaned, exhausted, after we had gone through every bedroom, corridor and hall. We’d also questioned a couple of people, but soon realized it would be impossible to find the culprit.

  ‘What a perfect plan,’ McGray said as we took one last look at the disordered bedroom. ‘Set the fire as a distraction, take everyone out o’ the inn, do yer business without worry and then run away hidden in the hubbub.’

  ‘Do you think it could have been Joel?’ I asked. ‘He is the only one who’d not want that picture seen.’

  McGray pondered. ‘Aye, but if that’s the case, how did he find out we had it?’

  We heard a throat clearing. It was the innkeeper, coming in with a sheepish look. ‘Sirs, may I have a word?’

  ‘Only if it is urgent,’ I said, but then the chubby man hesitated.

  ‘Well?’ McGray snapped.

  The innkeeper started. ‘Oh, well, I sort of forgot to tell you that there was this other guest, a young lady … She came to me yesterday and asked me if you two were policemen.’

  McGray grabbed him by the collar, too violently even for him. ‘What! How could ye forget to tell us that?’

  Mr Jones gulped. ‘I didn’t think it was important, and then you two were away all day …’

  ‘What did she look like?’ I asked, although I could have uttered the answer myself:r />
  ‘Short girl, slim, brown hair … very well mannered. She came here with her grandmother.’

  ‘What did you tell her?’

  ‘The truth. That I didn’t know for sure. I assumed she’d seen the policemen who came to fetch you in the morning. The ladies took a room not long before you did, the one right next to yours.’

  McGray and I exchanged worried looks.

  I remembered what the filthy woman at Shambles Street had told us; she’d seen Oakley and Redfern going out with packed bags. Then I recalled our first night at the inn, when we’d heard two women arguing.

  ‘McGray, you asked them to be quiet,’ I said. ‘Banged on the wall …’

  ‘Aye, Oakley must have recognized my voice.’

  ‘And then we both mentioned Joel’s portrait before sending the coats to the laundry …’ I looked at the innkeeper. ‘We need to inspect their room right now.’

  We rushed to the reception, grabbed the appropriate key and the innkeeper led the way back upstairs. He knocked very gently.

  No reply. McGray then hammered the wood with his fist. ‘Open up, bitches!’ He waited seconds before snatching the key and unlocking the door himself. He kicked it open and stormed in. He roared, ‘Damn it!’

  The place was empty. Neat, but empty.

  On the made-up bed lay a bundle of sterling notes and a handwritten message, which McGray seized and read aloud:

  ‘ “Dear Mr Jones, sorry about the fire. We have left enough money to cover the cost of any damage, as well as the comfortable rooms provided …” ’ He looked up. ‘No signature.’

  ‘Let me see,’ I said. The hand was rather elegant, although the smudged ink told how hastily it had been written. I arched an eyebrow. ‘Why do they say rooms?’

  Mr Jones was already counting the notes. ‘Oh, they were travelling with a male servant. A mighty feller, taller than you and with a back wider than them door frames.’

  I rubbed a hand over my face, my stomach burning with frustration. ‘I know this will be an utter waste of time, but did they give you names and addresses?’

  ‘It’ll be in the log,’ the chubby Mr Jones said. ‘I’ll fetch the book.’

  While we waited I cast a tired look over the neat room, shaking my head.

  ‘Ye all right, Frey?’

  ‘It escapes me … Why would they not want us to find Joel? Why, if he is trying to kill them? And this is a desperate act.’

  McGray sighed, at a loss. The innkeeper returned with the tatty guest log and showed us the relevant line. The women had signed in as Mary and Jane Smith. Hardly believable.

  Nine-Nails snorted. ‘Clean this room for me, Mr Jones. I’ll take it for the night.’ He strode out, I grabbed my overcoat and we made our way back to the priory.

  ‘I like the irony of it,’ McGray was saying as we walked up the icy street. ‘Tonight I’ll be sleeping in the bed of the very witch we’re looking for.’

  In fact – he would not.

  I felt rather dizzy, standing at the edge of the belfry in the daylight.

  McGray was stretching out the map he’d ripped out of a book from the castle’s library.

  ‘Would ye say it was east-south-east?’

  I was holding a small compass I’d snatched from Massey’s office. ‘Possibly. I was not precisely focused on the cardinal points last night.’

  The evening wind had cleared the air, giving us an unblemished view of the horizon in all directions. We would have to make haste though, as there were black, threatening clouds coming from the east.

  ‘It must have come from that hill,’ I said, indicating a smooth mount a few miles beyond the edge of Lancaster.

  McGray checked the map. ‘That’s called Black Fell. There’s nothing round there. Not even farms. What about the other wee light?’

  I took a few steps to my right.

  ‘That one was more towards the south.’ I squinted, trying to see the outline of a distant hill. I could just make it out, but only as a pale shadow, barely darker than the grey of the sky. ‘There.’

  McGray frowned. ‘Cannae see. Are ye sure?’

  ‘That is the direction,’ I said, a little surprised; McGray had very good eyesight.

  He ran his fingers to the edge of the map. ‘That could be Winfold Fell. Although I must say …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Pendle Hill’s that way.’

  I cackled. ‘Pendle Hill! Do you mean … the Pendle Witches’ Pendle Hill?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘That is ridiculous! You cannot possibly see that far from here.’

  ‘Course not. Pendle Hill’s thirty, maybe thirty-five miles away, but look at the map. Ye’ve just pointed directly to it … well, to some mount that’s halfway there.’

  ‘Mere speculation.’

  ‘Aye, but even ye should admit it makes sense.’

  I did not answer – but he was right. Those women had left undeniable traces of witchcraft. Now they were lighting mysterious fires that got closer and closer to a town famous for its ancient witches. Even I could not call that a coincidence. I watched McGray scrutinizing the horizon, and the yearning in his eyes scared me.

  ‘We are not going there,’ I said as firmly as I could. ‘I would not go even if we had strong evidence that Ardglass was heading that way. We have already done much more than we should.’

  McGray inhaled, readying himself for a heated argument, but Thatcher came up to interrupt him. ‘Sirs, we found something in the crypts. You must see it.’

  The young sergeant had his arm held in a sling, his shoulder wrapped in bulky bandages.

  ‘Ye should have a rest, laddie,’ McGray told him as we descended from the tower.

  ‘ ’Tis all right, sir. Bone’s broken but I’m fit enough for searching. Kenny is the one suffering, terrible blow to his head.’

  ‘Will he recover?’ I asked.

  ‘Aye. The doc said he’ll be fine, but he won’t be able to work for a few days.’

  We entered the nave and then descended further down. Some narrow stone steps led us to the underground crypts reserved for the higher priests.

  The stones around us were centuries old, and the damp air, loaded with dust, was a torture for the lungs. We followed the white glow of a lantern and found a couple of young officers, as well as the chubby abbot, looking at a pile of stones smashed on the floor. The rubble had fallen off a wide niche, leaving the cavity completely exposed. The carved plaque, though eroded by time, still read Lord William Ambrose.

  ‘We found them stones like that,’ the older officer said. ‘We tried to put them back but they all crumble in our hands.’

  I picked up a piece of rubble; to my astonishment it felt really light. It was porous too, and it crumbled between my fingers with very little pressure.

  ‘This is not granite or sandstone,’ I said, crushing it a little harder. ‘This is pumice.’

  The abbot was scandalized, fanning himself with both hands.

  ‘This is desecration –’ he began to say, but McGray pushed him aside, snatched the lantern and shed light into the niche. As he began to rummage through the dusty contents the abbot shrieked. ‘Inspector, this is a sacrosanct place! We come here only to inter our most saintly brothers.’

  ‘Well, there are witchcraft artefacts in yer sacrosanct place,’ said McGray. He pulled out a green glass bottle and held it close to the light. Clearly another witch bottle: inside it I could see the shadows of bent nails and rotten herbs.

  McGray was about to crack the cork but I managed to stop him. ‘Do not open that damned thing in a confined space!’

  Again the abbot cried, ‘Upon my honour, show some respect! This is the resting place of some of the most devout souls of the Anglican Church.’

  I raised an eyebrow. ‘That tomb is for a lord, not a cleric.’

  The abbot defended it with pride. ‘Lord Ambrose was one of our most earnest benefactors during the early days of the Reformation, when Lancashire was still full of Catholi
c heathens. He deserved his place here.’

  ‘In other words,’ I added, ‘he was one of those who buy their way into heaven.’

  ‘He might not be resting that peacefully,’ McGray said, looking back at the open tomb. His shoulder was blocking my view, and when he moved aside I felt yet another shudder.

  Lord Ambrose’s skull had been ripped off the skeleton, and now rested upside down. Yet what really upset me was that the eye sockets and the spinal cavity were stuffed with rusty needles, thorny sprigs and dead flowers, like a vase from the underworld.

  I plucked up a petal, brown and brittle, and upon inspecting it I could not repress a tired groan. ‘Oh Lord …’

  ‘What is it?’

  Very soon I would wish I’d lied.

  ‘I think these are marigolds.’

  23

  McGray was all astonishment. ‘Are ye serious?’

  ‘They might be dead,’ I went on, ‘but these flowers are definitely not ancient. Someone must have placed them there rather recently … within the past few months, for certain.’

  That only fuelled McGray’s agitation, and to the abbot’s dismay he plunged half his torso into the alcove. The alarmed priest yelled and tried to pull McGray’s arms; Nine-Nails did move away, but only in order to backhand the man’s face so hard it wobbled.

  ‘Nine-Nails!’ I shouted, catching the fat abbot before he collapsed. ‘You just attacked a citizen!’

  He was already back in the niche. ‘If ye care so much, go rub his cheeks with almond oil. Ye’ll need a couple o’ flasks for each cheek.’

  We heard the clatter of bones being thrown about, then Nine-Nails let out a repulsed cry. He jumped back out, and I saw his hand was covered in a black, slimy substance.

  ‘What’s this shite?’

  I approached, wrinkling my nose in disgust as I smelled the mysterious oil. ‘You’d better wash your hand …’

  ‘Why? Is this poison?’

  Before I could answer, a very tall officer with a grating voice came up to us. ‘Sirs, Thick Crispin wants to talk to you. Says it’s very important.’

  ‘Thick Crispin?’ I asked, before McGray reminded me that was the name of Judge Spotson’s grandson.