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

by Oscar de Muriel

  ‘Of course I would.’

  I could not see a hint of nervousness, or guilt, or anything that betrayed his statements, yet I felt I could not trust him; he was after all one of the most gifted actors of our time.

  ‘Do you also admit,’ I asked, ‘that a mysterious banshee announcing death in cryptic verses is something very hard to swallow?’

  ‘Of course. I’m as confused as you are. This whole affair is very alarming.’

  ‘Yet you had no hesitation to use it in your favour! You certainly deserve to be dragged to jail, at least for a couple of days.’

  Stoker jumped in like an angry housewife. ‘Mr Irving hasn’t done anything illegal. It’s no crime to give information to a respectable newspaper, and his report was neither false nor libellous.’

  He uttered those words as if memorized from a solicitor’s guidelines, and I remembered the man had worked in public service. This was probably not the first time he had aided Irving out of legal trouble.

  ‘I’d only be committing a crime,’ Irving added, ‘if I failed to tell you the truth. I have done so now. I should be free to go.’

  I snorted bitterly, glaring alternatively at Irving and Stoker. ‘At least you are well advised.’ I looked at McGray, who had been suspiciously quiet, stroking his prickly stubble. ‘Anything you would like to ask?’ I wondered.

  His eyes, I then saw, showed that impish spark that usually unnerves me. Tonight, however, I was not his target. He was looking straight at Henry Irving.

  ‘What can ye tell us about yer wife?’

  Irving seemed to lose his balance. He looked at McGray with blazing eyes, dropping his gloves, and slowly closing his bony fingers into tight fists.

  ‘That doesn’t concern you!’

  McGray chuckled. ‘We’re CID, lad. If I think it concerns us, it bloody well does.’

  Stoker tried to place a hand on Irving’s shoulder, which the actor pushed away in an angry move.

  ‘She was at your London theatre when that first banshee appeared,’ I reminded him.

  ‘You are very well informed,’ Irving said.

  McGray said something I had not at all considered until then. ‘Would yer wife be interested in sabotaging yer wee play?’

  Irving’s brow arched with eerie plasticity.

  ‘She would not dare …’ he whispered. ‘She …’

  ‘Likes her theatre money far too much,’ concluded McGray.

  ‘Crudely put,’ Irving mumbled bitterly, ‘but accurate. Besides, my two sons –’ Irving stopped himself. His dark pupils looked sideways. ‘Their education depends on me. And they are Florence’s darlings. She would die before doing anything to their detriment.’

  I studied his face carefully, and Stoker’s. To my frustration, the situation made perfect sense: if Irving was not behind the apparitions, he was indeed doing the sensible thing now by confessing to his opportunism.

  ‘Very well,’ said McGray. ‘We’ll take our leave.’

  ‘I must … beg you to keep this strictly between us,’ said Irving, making McGray laugh earnestly.

  ‘Why should we do that? We’ll tell if we want to tell. Och, and by the way, we might need to question youse again as things develop …’ McGray approached Irving boasting his most insolent face. ‘And if we ask ye to talk, ye talk to us, no matter which sodding tights ye happen to be wearing or which bloody declamation youse are rehearsing. And if ye do another silly runner like today’s, we’ll not warn ye again; we’ll just send the peelers to get ye to a cell.’

  Stoker jumped in. ‘That’s preposterous! You cannot arrest a man without charges.’

  ‘I am afraid that is not entirely true,’ I said. ‘We can hold anyone for as long as we want if that suits our investigation. There is no law limiting our powers in that respect.’

  ‘Your superintendent would not allow it,’ said Stoker.

  ‘Perhaps not, but we can make sure it takes at least a few hours before he finds out and orders a release.’

  McGray was smiling. ‘What d’youse reckon even a few hours in the dump would do to the reputation of the famed Irving? And we’ve just met a savvy reporter of flexible morals who’d love to write the exclusive.’

  Irving was going to interject but Stoker spoke in time. ‘That shan’t be necessary.’

  And he grasped Irving’s shoulder, whispering something in his ear. Whatever it was, Irving picked up his gloves, wrapped himself tightly in his black cape, and retreated. His eyes were fixed on us one second too long, and I felt an inexplicable shudder. Irving was a man used to having his way, to feeling powerful and revered, and we were acknowledging neither his talents nor his fame. The ultimate insult.

  Bram Stoker’s Journal

  Fragments collected by Inspector I. P. Frey.

  11 July, 2 a.m. – Can barely keep myself awake, after the ghastly ordeals I have witnessed tonight. A much needed measure of single malt sits next to me and has much relieved my overworked senses; I could easily doze off into a blissful slumber, but I must register all this before the memory fails or – worse still – twists the facts.

  […]

  Finally found Irving in [Obscured in the original] Needless to say how distressed he was. He told me everything.

  I was convinced the good Irving would smack me when I suggested he confessed his involvement with the newspaper. It was the best choice, the only choice for him, so I insisted. Don’t mind taking his rage this time.

  […]

  The inspectors are as suspicious as expected but I’m proud of my intervention. At least Irving is now covered.

  After we left them the cab returned us to the Palace – but the trip was not peaceful.

  To avoid prying eyes I instructed the driver to go through some patches of wilderness that grow on the south-eastern side of the hill, then turn west.

  There, at the foot of the mound, the horse became agitated, refused to tread on, even after a good lashing from the coachman. The cab jerked and Irving swore.

  The coachman shouted there was something on the road. I stuck my head out the window but in the commotion only managed a fleeting glance.

  A willowy figure in a glimmering shroud.

  I turned to Irving but when he looked out the vision was gone. I’ve been trying all this long to recollect what my eyes glimpsed. I must have imagined it, but can’t take it out of my memory: the sight of that pair of red eyes, and then the glint of –

  Side note by I. P. Frey:

  Another paragraph must have followed, but the rest of the page was deliberately flooded with ink.

  Mr Stoker wrote those final lines applying a lot of pressure. From the marks on the back of the paper I only could make out the words enormous dog and my doom.

  18

  I only managed to have a very light sleep, so when Layton came to open my curtains I received him with a savage grunt.

  ‘A note for you, sir,’ he said, handing me a neat envelope. ‘From Lady Anne; your fine landlady.’

  ‘Oh dear Lord,’ I sighed, ‘I do not want to know …’

  I read it as I got dressed, hearing Lady Glass’s arrogant chimes in every sentence. Though quite drawn-out, her message could be summarized in four sentences:

  All my more respectable tenants on Great King Street are complaining of the hellish noise, the dubious characters and the jezebels that invaded my house last night […] You are not turning my property into a house of ill repute! […] I shall promptly send a clerk to inspect, and bill you for any wreckage caused.

  And she concluded with the charming:

  If all you want is a brothel, I suggest you move to St Julia’s Close!

  I hurried to the breakfast room and tossed the note next to Elgie’s fried eggs.

  ‘See what you have done, you little imp!’

  Elgie struggled to swallow his buttered toast. He had but to read the first couple of lines to know what it was all about.

  ‘I am sure you had entirely forgotten the charms of the Ardglass family
,’ I said.

  ‘Of course not! You forced me to dance with Lady Anne’s horrible granddaughter.’

  Quite bizarrely, Elgie describing Caroline Ardglass as horrible made me feel a twinge of irritation.

  ‘I would not call her that,’ I said. ‘That girl has been through … very hard times …’ I cleared my throat, casting those thoughts away. ‘I have a lot to do today, so you will have to see that the house is fit to receive the all-mighty Mr and Mrs Frey. Coordinate everything with Layton.’

  ‘What? But I need to go to rehearsals!’

  ‘I do not give a damn, Elgie! I have an investigation pending. The last thing on my mind right now is cleaning up your mess. You wrecked this place, now you shall help fix it. And see that we have a decent dinner too. Good spirits for father. And no Scottish food.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Elgie, somewhat crestfallen. He tried to lighten the mood. ‘I cannot imagine Mama even looking at those Scottish black puddings … sausages … what do you call them?’

  I massaged my temples, my patience absolutely spent. ‘You are thinking of haggis. Black puddings are an English abomi–’

  Then, as if a heavenly beam of understanding descended upon me, I stood up.

  ‘I just had an epiphany …’ I mumbled, walking out of the breakfast room as if floating in a cloud – or so I was later told by Elgie, for I did not hear a single word from anyone as I set off.

  I soon made it to 27 Moray Place, McGray’s home.

  ‘Och, the master’s not in,’ barked George, Nine-Nails’ old butler, as soon as he opened the door. I had forgotten how wrinkled and – well, how Scottish he was. ‘Went to his office in the wee hours.’

  ‘I am not here to see McGray,’ I said, making my way in. ‘I have come to see Joan.’

  ‘Whah! Yer nae taking the lass away, ye smug Soothron!’

  I had to compose myself, for George was the very reason Joan no longer worked for me (my retinae were still scarred from the sight of those two … frolicking in a wardrobe).

  ‘That is not my intention, good man,’ I assured him. ‘For both our sakes, please tell her I am here to see her. The sooner I speak to her, the sooner I can leave.’

  I was left in the corridor and had a good look round. This had been the house where I’d first stayed in Edinburgh, but it had looked quite different back then. McGray had not paid much attention to the state of his abode since the death of his parents, and given the eerie tales that still surrounded him, and – let’s face it – his garish, intimidating appearance and manners, he never received visitors.

  It had been left to Joan to set things right, and she’d done so astonishingly quickly. Now they had new rugs, the furnishings were polished, the walls repainted, and there were even fresh flowers displayed in vases that had probably been gathering dust in the cellars for years, or used only as drinking vessels by McGray. I thought that even I would be quite comfortable living there now.

  I could not suppress my curiosity and distractedly took a few steps towards the entrance to McGray’s library, the door being ajar. Tucker, his golden retriever, was sleeping peacefully by the fireplace. I was not surprised to see that Joan’s storm of cleanliness had not reached that large room. It was still crammed with towers of books and queer artefacts (the formaldehyde specimens, it appeared, were reserved for the office). It was in stark contrast to the entrance hall, which now boasted its polished wood panelling and a chandelier I’d never thought could be so shiny.

  When I saw Joan emerge I felt the warmth reserved only for good friends. She was as stout as ever, and with her double chin, her ample bosom and wide hips, she was the very image of plenty. The tray of tea and biscuits she brought only added to that impression.

  ‘Master!’ Joan said in her loud Lancashire accent. ‘How very good to see you. Do come into the small parlour and have a nibble.’

  I followed her to a side room that I vaguely remembered being used to store trinkets. Now it was freshly painted, and it had a dainty rosewood table adorned with more fresh flowers.

  I sat and saw Joan make my tea strong and with just a drop of milk – exactly as I liked it. I would only have time for a few swigs, though.

  ‘Joan, I have a seemingly strange question for you. It is related to my work.’

  ‘Indeed, sir. Ask away, if you think I can help.’

  I put my cup down. ‘Joan, is it possible to buy … blood from the butcher’s?’

  She seemed puzzled, but replied at once. ‘Oh, of course, sir. My mam used to make the best black puddings in all Burnley. She got the blood from Mr Swift, our butcher … I’d say at least once a month. She said it was good for people who caught tuberculosis. Oh, and she also used it to thicken them beef stews.’

  I felt my stomach churn. ‘I am sure you thoroughly enjoyed such delicacies. Joan, how much blood would your mother usually buy at one time?’

  ‘Well, pints, sir. We were a big family.’

  ‘I see … so, if I went to a butcher’s and ordered, say – half a gallon of blood, nobody would think me odd.’

  ‘Oh well, if it was you, sir, with your bowler hat and your leather gloves and your starched collars …’

  ‘Joan!’

  ‘I know, I know what you mean, sir. Yes, it would be perfectly natural.’ She started squeezing her apron, as she used to do when she wanted to ask me something I might consider impertinent. ‘If I may, sir, why do you need to know this? Anything to do with them apparitions I read about in t’papers?’

  There was no point in lying. ‘Yes, but you are not to say a word. Do you understand?’

  Joan assented, although I was sure she’d be talking in a matter of minutes. She led me to the door, and as I passed the pristine corridor I wondered what miracles she could work in Lady Glass’s house.

  ‘Joan, can you possibly spare any time today? My young brother got himself into something of a pickle yesterday …’

  And I was indescribably relieved when I saw her grin.

  Joan can definitely haggle, but in all fairness I would have gladly paid her twice the first amount she requested.

  Happy to have struck two birds with one stone, I went straight to the City Chambers. I found McNair there, so I sent him, with a couple of officers, to make inquiries at all the butchers that served New Town. I also told them to inquire at the cattle market. Perhaps someone would remember a suspicious-looking customer buying pints of blood. It might be a lost cause, but I should at least try. Once that was sorted, I’d go through that cast list and – I sighed – start a brand new list of suspects.

  Little did I know then that McGray was having a very interesting conversation with Bram Stoker.

  Bram Stoker’s Journal

  11 July, afternoon – Can hardly focus on duties at the theatre. While I ate breakfast, the waiter told the most extraordinary stories regarding Inspector McGray.

  [Mr Stoker has narrated McGray’s past in a most disgustingly sentimental manner. He definitely has a talent for melodrama. I am also editing out his lengthy description of our office at the City Chambers, which he decided to visit whilst I met Joan. Stoker transcribed his dialogue with McGray with astonishing detail – if this is at all accurate. – I. P. Frey.]

  BS: I’m sorry to disturb you …

  McG: What you want?

  BS: May I sit?

  McG: Aye, but there’s just that old chair I keep to torture the London dandy.

  BS: Jesus! How can anyone …? Inspector, I wanted to give you some additional information. Something I’m afraid I have been keeping to myself.

  McG: Oh? Well, I’m listening.

  BS: Before I do, I must confess that – you’ll excuse my intrusion – I’ve heard certain facts about your past.

  McG: (Laughing) Hadn’t you noticed this? (Raises his mutilated hand)

  BS: I had. But it’s not something one comments on. Given your profession, I just assumed …

  McG: Aye, aye. A fair assumption. Go on.

  BS: Well, I have been
told that you have a deep interest in the … supernatural.

  McG: Och, if you’re going to mock me, you can —— off!

  BS: No, no! On the contrary. I have to tell you that I … (whispering) share that interest.

  [Lengthy nonsense, mostly from McGray]

  BS: I see that you, unlike your colleague, do contemplate the possibility of a real threat, possibly a future death.

  McG: You sound like you have something very interesting to tell me. If someone in Scotland will take you seriously, that’s me. Believe me.

  BS: Thank you, I thought so. There are two things I wanted to tell you when I came here yesterday, but I was afraid you and your colleague would ridicule me. See, I have read extensively about banshees … and the undead. Not from academic books, that is, but the kind of references that you keep in this very room. The kind of references other people would deem ridiculous.

  McG: Continue.

  BS: You mentioned yesterday how banshees seem to announce only the death of certain illustrious Irish families. Remember?

  McG: Aye.

  BS: Well, there are two people who I’m sure share that ancestry. The first one is Miss Terry.

  McG: You’re joking!

  BS: I’ve sketched her family tree. See for yourself.

  [I suppose Mr Stoker showed McGray such sketch. Unfortunately, the document was not reproduced in his journal]

  McG: O’Grady on one side and Cavanagh on the other. How do you know her family history in so much detail?

  BS: I came across her story by mere accident. We are all good friends with Oscar Wilde, the playwright. He’s written some very pretty sonnets for Irving and Miss Terry. A good while ago we were toasting on a particularly good review. It was for Faust, I believe, so four years ago. Miss Terry must have made some sort of joke, which only Mr Wilde and I laughed at. Mr Wilde – well, you don’t know him, but he certainly has his share of wit – he remarked that it was our Irishness coming to the fore. He made Miss Terry tell us the story of her family in detail. Her grandfather, one Benjamin Terry, was an innkeeper in Portsmouth; I believe his tavern was called the Fortune of War. He claimed to have a glorious ancestry, which declined slowly but steadily for centuries, until they ended up ploughing their own vegetables. That grandfather of hers sold whatever land they had left, and then moved to England. Miss Terry assumes he was escaping huge family debts.