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

by Oscar de Muriel

  I pondered on those words. Even for the rational mind, someone cleaning up blood is never a good omen.

  ‘I would have thought she was just a beggar, but then I saw she had written those lines on the road … and then she let out her cry.’

  ‘Which you recognized, since you have heard a banshee’s cry before,’ I said, attempting to sound more sympathetic. Unsuccessfully.

  Mr Wheatstone arranged his spectacles. ‘Inspector, I’m a man of science. I trust my eyes and my ears and my nose. I know what I heard and I’m not the only one.’

  He looked at McNair, who took a step forward.

  ‘Quite a few people from along the street have come to us, Inspector Frey,’ he said, ‘to ask what that scream was. They all described the same thing. Some o’ them saw her too, from their windows.’

  I nodded. ‘So all we know for certain is that there was a shrieking female under the bridge.’

  ‘It didnae sound natural,’ the woman said from a corner of the room. She was rocking her daughter rather spasmodically, as if trying to calm herself rather than the child.

  ‘How so?’ I asked, seeing the tension grow in her.

  ‘It was drilling in our ears, sir. My poor Josephine was terrified. I’ve heard wolves’ cries, I’ve heard …’ she shuddered, ‘I’ve heard folk bein’ murdered down these alleys … But I’ve never heard anything like this.’

  Mr Wheatstone nodded slowly, casting a dark stare at the sleepy child. Despite their clearly different backgrounds, he and the penniless mother had one thing in common: their intelligent, watchful eyes, glimmering with the same spark of fear.

  ‘Very well, I believe you saw and heard something untoward,’ I said, trying to sound as reassuring as possible, ‘and it shall be investigated. Mr Wheatstone, can you remember what was written on the road?’

  ‘I scribbled it down when it began to rain again,’ he said, producing a small notebook from his inner pocket. He truly must be a man of science, for the small pages were filled with tiny writing and all manner of diagrams. He tore one out. ‘Here.’

  I folded it neatly and shoved it into my pocket, noticing that Mr Stoker’s message from Superintendent Campbell was still there.

  ‘Will you not read it?’ asked Mr Wheatstone.

  ‘I have poor eyesight,’ I lied, ‘but I would like to ask you one more thing before I leave – I need to fetch our specialist on this sort of matter.’ I could already see the enthusiasm in McGray’s eyes. If anything could bring him out of his depression, it would be this.

  ‘You mentioned this is not the first time you have heard a banshee,’ I said. ‘Can you elaborate?’

  Mr Wheatstone cleared his throat. He explained that he’d worked as an effects expert in the London theatres for the past twenty years, and then told me everything that had happened in the capital but a few days ago, in as much detail as I could take in.

  I could not believe my ears.

  Showing my full astonishment, I jotted down Mr Wheatstone’s contact details – he was lodging at the Palace Hotel with the rest of the theatre company – and then rushed back to my cab. As my feet splashed in the puddles, I pulled out Campbell’s note, which was now very badly crumpled. Fearing that the rain would make it illegible, I tore the envelope open only once I was in my sheltered seat.

  ‘McGray is going to revel in this …’ I said out loud.

  McNair had trotted behind me, rather befuddled. ‘Inspector Frey, are ye all right?’ he asked, his bony hand resting on the cab’s door.

  ‘Indeed,’ I replied, stepping out again. The rain was still hard, and I realized that in my haste I had not opened my umbrella. Doing so, I headed back to the lines of blood, now a mere smudge on the road.

  ‘That blood came from somewhere,’ I told the officers. ‘Try to find any source in the vicinity.’

  ‘D’ye want someone to stay round here?’ one of them asked. ‘To preserve the writing?’

  ‘No. There is nothing you can do about that any more.’ I turned on my heels, McNair following my every step. ‘Take some statements from the neighbours,’ I told him, ‘the ones who appear more sensible to you. And if those chaps find anything of use, either bring it to the City Chambers or fetch me from Great King Street.’

  ‘Aye, sir. May I ask … where are ye heading?’

  I hopped on to the cab as I spoke. ‘To find Inspector McGray, I know exactly where he will be.’

  3

  The Ensign Ewart was a dire public house, a few hundred yards from Castle Rock.

  The rain was lashing its weatherworn sign, the wind flapping it violently as my carriage approached. Despite the hour – now well past midnight – the place was a lively hive: all its windows lit up, the shadows of many merry customers visible through the steamed-up glass, loud music and roaring laughter coming from within.

  ‘Shall I wait for ye, master?’ the driver asked me.

  ‘Yes, please, and not too far away,’ I replied as I stepped in, eager to escape the downpour.

  As soon as I opened the door a blast of damp heat and human stench hit me, almost as solid as a wall. The frantic notes of a flat fiddle and a bagpipe led the steps of a dozen drunken dancers, while a chubby woman, as ginger as a ripened carrot, passed around refilling their tankards.

  ‘Madam!’ I called, forced to shout amongst the music and cheering. ‘Madam! Is Mr McGray here?’

  ‘Eh?’

  I repeated my question.

  ‘Och, aye! But I wouldnae trouble him tonight, if I were ye!’

  ‘I shall take my chances.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Never mind.’

  I had to elbow my way forwards, the dancers hitting me as they dashed about in their clumsy dosey-does. A drunken man tripped and spilled half a pint on my chest.

  ‘What an appalling display of debauchery,’ I grumbled, wiping the drink away with my gloved hands.

  I found McGray rather easily, for it was not a large establishment. He was sitting in a corner, away from the crowd, his boots up on the small table and his fingers interlaced, in deep thought. In that pose the stump of his missing finger was all too evident.

  There was a large bottle of whisky on the table, some of it poured into a greasy glass, but from its level I judged McGray had not taken more than a few swigs.

  He’d always been a far from immaculate gentleman: his jaw was ever shadowed with unkempt stubble, his dark hair was messy and peppered with premature grey strands, and I could devote many a paragraph to his tasteless choice of tartan clothing. His broad shoulders and thick wrists were a warning of his fiery temper; if he rose to his full height and spoke at his full volume, he could be genuinely frightening.

  Tonight, however, he showed none of that spirit. His blue eyes were lost, looking at nothing, with an empty stare that very much reminded me of the eternal expression on his sister’s face. He seemed utterly broken, completely out of faith, and it affected me far more than I expected.

  I cleared my throat.

  ‘How now, Nine-Nails.’

  He barely moved his pupils, studying me for a moment, and when he spoke his lips barely moved. ‘Sod off.’

  ‘May I have a word?’

  ‘I said sod off.’

  Another drunken lowlife crashed against me, but instead of apologizing he put his sticky arm around my shoulders in the most disgustingly familiar fashion. As he raised his limb an overpowering waft of body odour nearly brought tears to my eyes.

  ‘Och, don’t ye upset Nine-Nails McGree!’ he cried, spitting with every consonant.

  ‘Move your slimy tentacle away,’ I snapped. ‘I am CID.’

  ‘He works fer ye?’ he asked McGray, who did not even attempt a reply. ‘Helps ye hunt spooks?’

  The drunkard stumbled towards Nine-Nails, the contents of his pint glass slopping on the table. Had he been a slightly less annoying man, I would have warned him he was stepping on to a hornet’s nest; tonight I was only sorry I had no cigars to enjoy the spectacle. And
I was not the only one who thought so; some of the less intoxicated dancers were already craning their necks to have a peek.

  ‘Oi, are ye deaf today?’ the brown-toothed man asked after McGray’s silence, but nobody in his senses would think his impertinence had gone unheard. Nine-Nails was glaring at him, his eyes burning with uncontainable rage.

  ‘Another mute McGree!’ the drunkard cried. ‘Och, what d’we have to do to make a crazy McGree speak?’

  In a startling move, as swift as a chameleon’s tongue, McGray thrust forth his hand and grabbed the man by the face. His four nails – he was using his maimed hand – dug into the wretch’s skin so deeply I thought he’d puncture it. The man howled in dread as if all the alcohol had suddenly deserted his blood, his pint smashing on the floor.

  There was a general cry, the fiddler stopped and the dancers halted; all their eyes on McGray. A dying note from the bagpipe was all that could be heard, as the instrument slowly deflated in the hands of the embarrassed player.

  ‘Say yer sorry, laddie,’ said McGray.

  The man’s yelping had not stopped, and he was throwing blows about. McGray shook him, as one shakes a matchbox to hear if it is empty.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, sounding rather bored. ‘Just say yer sorry.’

  If anything, the drunk grunted something that sounded like ‘lemme go’. McGray sighed with the resignation of a grandfather disturbed by little children, and stood up, never letting go of the man’s skull.

  ‘To beat or not to beat ye,’ he said as he dragged him across the pub, ‘that is the fucking question.’

  People scurried out of Nine-Nails’ way, and someone even opened the main door for him to throw the drunkard out.

  A few people clapped and cheered – the rascal must have been annoying more than one – but when McGray turned his head back everyone went silent. His heavy steps resounded amidst the tense hush, until he sat back at the exact same spot I’d found him. Not really regarding anybody around him, he interlaced his hands once more.

  The strident, even more off-key notes of the fiddle broke the silence, making some people jump, and in a moment most of the customers were dancing as merrily as if nothing had happened.

  There was a chair near McGray’s table, all splattered with ale. I wiped it thoroughly with a handkerchief which I then threw away – I seemed to do that every time I set foot in that pub – and as I sat down, the ginger landlady came around.

  ‘Adolphus, I’m so sorry ye had to –’

  McGray waved a hand dismissively, sparing a rather affectionate glance at the plump woman.

  ‘Here, share a dram with yer friend.’ And she banged another greasy tumbler on the table. I picked it up, touching it with only the very tips of my fingers, and then produced a second handkerchief to wipe the glass methodically.

  ‘The ethanol will sterilize it, I suppose,’ I mumbled to myself, thinking I’d rather boil the thing.

  ‘What the hell brings ye here?’ McGray asked. ‘I s’pose yer not here for the drams – or for the pleasure o’ my company.’

  ‘Of course not,’ I replied, sniffing suspiciously at the whisky. ‘I have not yet forgiven you for that incident in the Forest of Bowland …’

  As I said that I felt the bridge of my nose – it had looked slightly crooked since that ghastly January in Lancashire. I shook my head, casting those thoughts aside, and had a cautious sip. ‘Mmm! This is not bad … Not bad at all.’

  ‘Course it’s bloody damn good. It’s from one o’ my auld man’s distilleries.’

  Knowing the tragic fate of his late father, the unabashed pride in McGray’s voice was poignant to say the least.

  I relished the notes of oak and vanilla, and the fiery warmth as I swallowed the drink. I was now ready for business.

  ‘Ironic that you should misquote Hamlet tonight,’ I said. ‘Campbell has some Shakespearean work for us. He has called specifically for you and your … singular talents.’

  ‘Campbell can sod off too.’

  ‘This appears to be a rather fanciful assignment; one I am sure you will enjoy. And you could definitely use some distraction.’

  McGray said nothing, which I took as invitation enough to continue.

  ‘As it turns out, a …’ I bit my lip, hearing my next words in my head and then saying them with as much conviction as possible. ‘A banshee has been spotted under Regent Bridge.’

  For a brief moment there was no reaction, and I could not tell whether my words had been lost under the raucous music.

  Very, very sluggishly, McGray’s pupils moved in my direction. He would not speak, but again his silence was the only cue I needed.

  ‘Apparently, everyone along Calton Road heard her, and a few claim to have seen her. All their statements match. However, that is by no means the most intriguing part.’

  I consciously stopped there, attempting to tease his curiosity. The racket of the dancers was beginning to wear my patience thin.

  ‘I’m listening,’ he said after a moment, a shadow of his former self beginning to alight in his stare. I had to dig my nails into my thigh to repress a triumphant grin.

  ‘Another banshee was allegedly heard in a London theatre about a week ago,’ I went on, ‘under similar circumstances: many people heard the cry and they all agreed on its “eerie” nature. Tonight, unlike last week, there are eyewitnesses who claim it was a woman in white, crying the same sort of lament. And these banshees left threatening messages, both written in blood.’

  I finally had McGray’s undivided attention.

  ‘What sort o’ messages?’ he slowly reached for his drink.

  I did not repress my sly smile any more, as I produced the two notes and flung them across the table. ‘Something very fitting for the play on stage.’

  McGray stretched his arm so suddenly I flinched, thinking he was going to punch me, but he simply seized the sheets. I could see his eyes devouring the words I had already memorized, his pupils running from side to side as quick as the reeling notes of the violin.

  ‘Interested?’

  He raised his gaze, and I could tell that at least part of him was back.

  ‘Very.’

  Original note handed over by William A. Wheatstone

  Filed by I. P. Frey.

  29 JUNE OMEN

  Added by the eyewitness at my request All hail! These tragic marks await Macbeth

  All hail! The Scottish stage shall see your death

  9 JULY OMEN

  On the night the blood runs thick and freely

  Some fiend here comes, replete with too much rage

  Announcing death and doom and infamy

  Like a poor player, sentenced on the stage

  4

  Defying all reasonable odds, all expectations and all common sense – Edinburgh was sunny the following morning.

  It instantly improved my mood, and I may even have whistled a Mozart’s minuet while putting on my cufflinks.

  The delicious aroma of coffee welcomed me into the small breakfast parlour, where Elgie was already helping himself to jam and toast. I consciously avoided mentioning the banshees and the threatening notes linked to the very play for which he was rehearsing, although I knew I could not protect him for long; by now people would be talking of nothing else.

  ‘Would you like to see today’s papers, sir?’ Layton asked.

  I was about to say no, for I had to make my way to the City Chambers as soon as possible. As I turned to him, however, I saw the newspapers already in his hand, and The Scotsman’s garish headline screaming:

  MACBETH’S CURSE ON HENRY IRVING!!!

  Cryptic Prophecies Loom over his Lavish Production

  My jaw dropped and I did not even register what Layton said next. I must have read the long article in a flash, my eyes widening as the paper described the previous night’s events in striking detail.

  ‘How could they know all of this?’ I looked up, my eyes fixed on the blue sky as the events arranged themselves in my head.
Then I smirked. ‘Of course! I should have known better!’ I rose to my feet swiftly. ‘Layton, my coat.’

  ‘Right away, sir.’

  As I readied myself I thought I would probably have the whole matter sorted before lunchtime. McGray was going to be so disappointed.

  Philippa, my snow-white Bavarian mare, seemed to rejoice in the sunny morning as I rode towards the Old Town. Princes Street Gardens were a carpet of bright green grass and leafy chestnuts, their gentle canopies bordering the craggy drops of Castle Rock.

  Unfortunately, the joy did not last. As soon as I approached the narrow, crowded Royal Mile, the stench of a myriad puddles and sewers, gone septic under the full sun, hit my sensitive nostrils.

  In what has become a tradition, I dodged the contents of a few chamber pots being emptied on to the road, their nasty contents jettisoned from the tall tenements on either side of the street. This was, of course, illegal, but it was impossible to enforce the law: with fourteen-storey buildings, where everyone blamed everyone else, it was impossible to track the source of each discharge of filth.

  I spurred Philippa on and thankfully she took me to the City Chambers in no time at all.

  As if trying to outdo the messy road, our so-called office was one of the most depressing spots in the police headquarters. An old cellar, deep underneath the Royal Mile, was the only space the CID was willing to spare for McGray’s hokum. It was a moth-infested, damp-plagued pit, which I endearingly called ‘the dumping ground’, thinking of what my present post was doing to my career.

  To make the place even grimmer, McGray had recently told me that our office might be just a wall apart from the buried remains of Mary King’s Close. Centuries ago people infected with the bubonic plague were thrown there and walled up alive in order to contain the outbreak. Legends about their ghosts abounded, particularly amongst the officers who had to do night shifts. I had once caught McGray listening at the walls with a stethoscope.