A Mask of Shadows: Frey & McGray Book 3 (A Case for Frey & McGray)

by Oscar de Muriel

  Act I

  * * *

  MACBETH

  Cure her of that:

  Canst thou not minister to a mind diseas’d;

  Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow;

  Raze out the written troubles of the brain;

  And with some sweet oblivious antidote

  Cleanse the stuff’d bosom of that perilous stuff

  Which weighs upon the heart?

  DOCTOR

  Therein the patient

  Must minister to himself

  Bram Stoker’s Journal

  Filed by Inspector Ian P. Frey

  9 July. Edinburgh – Left London at ten o’clock on the Scotch Express. Service left punctually from King’s Cross, but we were in very real danger of missing it. As soon as I opened my cab’s door, a hive of reporters huddled around and I had to elbow my way to the platform.

  They all shouted, even the ones standing right by my ears. ‘Is it true, Mr Stoker? Is the play truly cursed?’

  Miss Terry wisely used me as a decoy. Her carriage had been waiting around the corner, and she sneaked through while the journalists stalked me. I cannot imagine how persistently those men would have pursued her.

  Glad all sets, wardrobe and equipment left three days ago; we couldn’t have possibly managed the logistics with all the press in the way. The good Mr Howard and Mr Wyndham sent me a very opportune telegram, telling me that all the props arrived safely. Some beetle wings in Miss Terry’s dress were crushed on the journey, but fortunately I heard in good time. Mrs Harwood managed to source enough material, cannot tell where from, and she has been working on it. Assured me the dress shall be ready before the first performance. Must admit she is still in a sorry state, and I think she welcomes the meticulous work; it must keep her mind from such a terrible memory.

  Unfortunately, Irving has not managed to find solace. He is hugely distressed, and not only because of that horrible prophecy – the unexpected presence of his Florence left its mark on him.

  Upon our arrival he urged me to seek aid from the police, thinking that perhaps the Scottish authorities would see our plights with more sympathetic eyes than their London counterparts.

  I was exhausted from the eight-hour journey and the sleepless nights that preceded it, but Irving is so troubled I could not refuse. I had his luggage, as well as Miss Terry’s and mine, sent to the Palace Hotel, and immediately inquired for the police.

  The station officers recognized Miss Terry – her open carriage was leaving, and she blew a kiss to the besotted sergeants. At once they told me I should see a certain Superintendent Campbell. One of them kindly guided me to their headquarters.

  I was received by that very man, whom I found extremely disagreeable.

  He seemed about to leave, and whilst he listened to my statement his eye kept checking the time on his mantelpiece clock. I told him everything, showed him the London papers, pleaded for their protection – and the man sneered! He then had the audacity to request two box tickets for the opening night, and suggested that the investigations might be carried out more quickly if he got hold of a programme dedicated to him by Miss Terry. To these requests I had no other choice but to agree.

  He had ‘just the man’ to deal with this sort of matter, he said. Puzzling statement. I was further intrigued when he scribbled the address of one Inspector McGray and said that, should I become lost, I had but to inquire any passer-by for the abode of ‘Nine-Nails McGray’.

  He gave me an envelope with a note for said man, allegedly instructing him to take full care of our case – he sealed it before I could read a word. He then dismissed me swiftly, all too eager to go home and have his tea.

  One of the officers was kind enough to summon a cab, which swiftly deposited me on the northern side of Edinburgh. I had but to mention the name McGray and the driver at once knew my destination.

  I have been to this city several times, mostly on Irving’s tours, but never explored much. The cab took me through a sumptuous neighbourhood, beautiful Georgian mansions on both sides of the road, and then to a crescent, the elegant façades surrounding a very well-kept garden. We halted at number 27.

  A rather coarse, wrinkled butler attended. He informed me that I had called at the correct residence, and pronounced rather warmly the name McGray, but to my frustration the man himself was not at home.

  Told him I must see him right away. The old servant was reluctant to tell me the whereabouts of his master, and only obliged after I mentioned that I brought word from the superintendent, regarding urgent police business.

  He gave hasty directions to my driver, and upon hopping back in I asked the young chap whether he’d understood the instructions.

  ‘Aye, master,’ he replied. ‘The auld man sent us to the lunatic asylum.’

  Off we went, crossing back and further south. By the time we reached the infamous institution the very long summer day was coming to a close. However, the sky still glowed, for the Scottish nights in this season are rather a permanent dusk, so the driver and I had a fair view of the asylum’s front lawns.

  It was the worst possible moment to arrive: the place was in uproar. A black stagecoach was riding away, driven by a strongly built orderly. Passed so close to my cab I thought we would clash. Caught a glimpse of a young lady travelling in the back seat, dressed all in white, and even though I saw her less than a second, the soft outline of her pale face will stay fixed in my memory. A middle-aged man accompanied her, but of him I glimpsed little more than a dark, bushy beard.

  My cab slowed upon approaching the building’s main entrance, where stood a scrawny policeman, a pair of nurses and two tall gentlemen embroiled in a heated argument.

  They were the most contrasting sight I had yet encountered. One wore a black, very elegant overcoat, a bowler hat and a bright white shirt; the other, the taller of the pair, I can only describe as gaudy, wearing mismatched tartan trousers and waistcoat, and a baggy raincoat of cheap material.

  That man sounded wild. His Scottish accent resounded throughout the grounds. He looked at my cab with a fierce face, shouted a very clear curse at the other gentleman and then strode away, closely followed by a pale golden retriever I had not noticed before.

  As soon as I alighted the policeman and the nurses intercepted me.

  A middle-aged woman (confident gait and manners; she must be the head nurse) asked me if she could be of any help.

  I told them briefly what my business was: I must talk to Inspector McGray.

  Their faces lost what little colour they still had. The nurses looked fearfully towards the eccentric Scotsman, who now stood on his own by the far end of the lawns, looking up at the sky, back turned to us. More than twenty yards separated me from him, but I could nonetheless see his shoulders rise and fall in deep frenzied breaths. Put me in mind of a caged circus lion.

  The young officer was just as uneasy. Advised me to speak to Inspector Frey instead, but in a tone that suggested I should expect very little.

  He led me towards the thin, narrow-shouldered fellow with the bowler hat. The man turned to me and I had a clear view of his lean face. He had an angular jaw, brown eyes that looked at everything with suspicion, and a deep fold right in the middle of his brow.

  He had heard my accent, for he cast me a severe stare and barked an even harsher remark.

  ‘Jesus Christ, get rid of the bloody Fenian.’

  The words caught me by surprise and I could not say a word. It was the young officer who answered. Tried to say my business was important, but the arrogant man interrupted.

  ‘McNair, do you not know the nightmare we are going through?’

  ‘Aye, Inspector, but this lad says he was sent by Campbell. With instructions for Inspector McGray.’

  If everyone around was tense, this Inspector Frey appeared to be carrying the weight of the world. He snorted irascibly and then rubbed the bridge of his nose, forcing himself into patience.

  Then he looked at me with proper attention for the f
irst time. Inspector Frey was somewhat shorter than I, and much thinner. I would have easily beaten him in a fist fight.

  ‘What is your name?’ he asked me.

  ‘Stoker. Bram Stoker, Inspector.’

  He stared at me for another moment, his brow quizzical. ‘I believe I know your name …’

  ‘Perhaps from Henry Irving’s Theatre –’

  ‘Never mind,’ he interrupted. ‘What are these instructions you bring?’

  Given his curt manner, I thought it better to present his superior’s words first.

  ‘They’re in this note,’ and I produced the sealed envelope. ‘Mr Campbell said quite clearly that Inspector McGray was just the man to look at my request.’

  My last remark had the entirely opposite effect I expected. Inspector Frey let out a mocking chuckle, and then looked at the taller man; that Scottish chap who, with his outlandish clothes and frantic breathing, could have easily passed for an inmate. The Londoner sighed wearily before looking back at me.

  ‘I am afraid that Inspector McGray’s brains are – otherwise engaged at the moment. I am his next in command, however. You can give me that note and I shall attend to it at my earliest convenience.’

  Inspector Frey extended me a gloved hand, but I refused to put the message in it.

  ‘Sir, you don’t understand,’ I protested. ‘This is a matter of life or death!’

  Inspector Frey laughed most insolently. ‘We have had plenty of such matters of late. You can have my word; I will look into your case.’

  ‘Excuse me, this is urgent.’

  ‘Is anybody injured or dead?’

  ‘Why, no, but …’

  The shadow of Inspector McGray was too temptingly close to give up. I made the foolish attempt to walk past the infuriatingly conceited Englishman and deliver the note myself.

  Inspector Frey took a firm hold of my arm. His grip was much stronger than his thin frame suggested.

  ‘You do not want to talk to him right now,’ he hissed. ‘Not if you wish to maintain your skull intact.’

  His tone was fittingly dark; not a warning, but actual concern.

  ‘Give me that note if you want it seen at all,’ he added. I would not call that a request, for he was pulling the paper from my hand as he spoke. I had to release my grip else the message would have ripped. ‘Leave your card with McNair and I will contact you as soon as possible. Now get away.’

  He released my arm and shoved the note in his breast pocket. I believe I looked miserable, for Inspector Frey cast me a final stare, in which there was a brief hint of empathy.

  He said, ‘It is a murky day for us all.’

  Side note by I. P. Frey:

  I have only a faint memory of the conversation – I certainly do not remember having called him a bloody Fenian, though it does sound like something I would say. I may have behaved harshly, but Mr Stoker could not have arrived at a more fraught moment.

  Nine-Nails McGray had just seen his young sister, a patient at the asylum, being removed from Edinburgh – a necessity he has not yet come to accept.

  1

  It displeases me to begin this narrative by trumpeting the most tragic and intimate affairs of a colleague. However, I believe I must explain the sad background of the McGray family, and the sooner the better, before I move on to the nightmare brought upon us by Mr Stoker.

  Inspector McGray is the son of a self-made … wait, what did his late father do? I believe the man owned some farmland, and I am sure he ran at least a few distilleries in and around Dundee; whichever the case, the McGrays were once new money moving into Edinburgh, and unsurprisingly not very well regarded by the upper classes – who in turn would not be very well regarded in my own London circles, if I may say, but I digress.

  Their disgrace befell them quite suddenly, on the summer solstice of 1883, while they holidayed in their country house near Dundee. Miss Amy McGray, then a girl of sixteen, lost her wits quite inexplicably and just as suddenly. On that night she butchered her mother and father with a fire poker and a kitchen cleaver; and then, as her brother tried to restrain her, she severed the ring finger on his right hand. People almost instantly began calling him ‘Nine-Nails’ McGray.

  Amy, nicknamed Pansy by her parents, was deemed a dangerous mad person and locked in Edinburgh’s Royal Lunatic Asylum. It was a roaring scandal. Before the terrible episode she’d been a beautiful, vivacious girl, with very good chances of stealing the hearts of the Scottish well-to-do. But that was not all.

  From the last words she uttered (because, with one nasty exception, she has never spoken again) she hinted at – well, having been possessed by the Devil.

  The entire affair was shrouded in mystery, and is likely to remain for ever so. The only witnesses were the late Mr and Mrs McGray, and their daughter, but her ever speaking again does not appear to be on the cards.

  Naturally, the tragedy of the McGrays caught people’s imagination, exaggerated and embellished with each telling. It has become part of local lore, undoubtedly told around Edinburgh’s bonfires, and Inspector McGray has unwittingly kept the interest alive.

  He became obsessed with anything related to the Devil, the occult and the supernatural. He has gathered an encyclopaedic knowledge of the field, and ultimately instigated the creation of a police department devoted to investigating such nonsense: the – take a deep breath, Ian – Commission for the Elucidation of Unsolved Cases Presumably Related to the Odd and Ghostly (in due course I shall recount the curious circumstances that threw me into serving such a preposterous subdivision).

  Six years have passed, but McGray’s determination has not faded. He still harbours the irrational hope of bringing Pansy back to sanity. Everything he does is for her, the only family he has left.

  A part of me understands him and his clinging despair. Another side of me, the more rational, fears and resents the recklessness of his drive, which has dragged many – myself included – into the most dangerous and distressing situations.

  It was rather late, well past ten o’clock; however, the thin strip of sky that was free from clouds still glowed in a blueish twilight. It reminded me how far away from London I was: Edinburgh was so far north that on these midsummer nights the sky never went completely dark.

  The air felt oppressive, unmistakably announcing a heavy storm. Indeed, the skies broke as the carriage took me back to Edinburgh’s New Town, and I congratulated myself for having called a cab instead of riding.

  I had recently leased new lodgings on the very fine Great King Street. Sumptuous and comfortable as my Georgian townhouse was, I could not yet look at it without wincing a little, for I had been forced to rent it from one of the most despicable characters in the city: Lady Anne Ardglass, appropriately nicknamed ‘Lady Glass’ because of her notorious drinking.

  I stepped down from the cab, swiftly opening my umbrella. The rain glimmered around the golden light from the street lamps, lashing my face as I saw a single light coming from one of the first-floor windows. My young brother was still waiting for me. I would delude myself thinking he’d be worried; I knew he wanted all the gossip.

  ‘Mr Frey!’ Layton cried from the door. ‘Do walk out of that wretched rain!’

  He was already at the entrance, bidding me in and taking my drenched umbrella, coat and hat as soon as he shut the door.

  ‘My, that is a downright tempest out there,’ he said with his stiff Kentish voice.

  Layton was my new valet. Forty-eight, his body long and bony, and with an aquiline nose, he always reminded me of an overgrown fire poker. The man had served my uncle Maurice for more than ten years, and before then he’d served some of the finest households in London. Now, much like me, he detested his new situation in Scotland. Unfortunately for him, I was so pleased with his presence I would not let him go any time soon: he was efficient, well mannered and mindful of the etiquette (most importantly, he knew exactly how I liked my clothes and my morning coffee). With his refined training, he was entirely the oppos
ite of my former housekeeper, Joan, whom I had recently lost to … McGray’s blasted butler.

  ‘I hope the affair did not trouble you exceedingly,’ he said, as I changed into more comfortable footwear.

  ‘Exceedingly is not descriptive enough.’

  ‘Why, I am sorry to hear – oh, sir, would you like to keep this?’ He was showing me the now crumpled envelope handed in by Mr Stoker.

  ‘I would not, but I must,’ I replied, taking it from him.

  ‘You may have already seen that Master Elgie is waiting for you in the smoking room. Shall I bring you some supper?’

  ‘Indeed. Something hearty. I am famished.’

  I climbed the mahogany stairs, relishing the slight scents of leather and bergamot I’d come to associate with that house. For the past few months I had learned to embrace the little pleasures of refined life: the warmth of the fire on a rainy day, the scent of a good glass of brandy, my brother playing his violin on Sunday afternoons …

  As I stepped into the little smoking room I regarded it as one of the most civilized spots in Edin-bloody-burgh (as my father calls it) with its dark oak panelling, a small marble fireplace, a fine bearskin rug and three leather armchairs set around a mahogany table that was usually overladen with books, cut-glass tumblers, violin strings and stacks of sheet music.

  Elgie, the youngest of the four Frey brothers, was lounging in the chair farthest from the fire, perusing the pages of a shabby tome by Harrison Ainsworth. He was a slender chap about to turn nineteen, although his wide blue eyes and blond curls made him look younger, and everyone in the family seemed to treat him accordingly. Elgie’s mother – my father’s trollop of a wife – had been appalled when her baby son announced he wished to move to Edinburgh, where he would play first violin at the Royal Lyceum Theatre in the upcoming production of Macbeth.

  Our father had said he’d rather Elgie played third triangle in the bloody Whitechapel parish. I believe the only reason they allowed him to come was my being already here, although at the time I was staying at – it still makes me shudder – Nine-Nails’ house.