‘Madam, tell me, and please tell me the truth …’ I looked intently at her feline eyes, neither of us blinking. ‘How do you do it?’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘How do I do what?’
‘You know what I mean. Your divination tricks.’
She chuckled. ‘I have no tricks. I have the eye.’
‘Please, madam, Detective McGray is not here, nor are any of your gullible clients. You and I know better. You have told us, Nine-Nails and me, things you could not possibly have known. How do you do it? I can tell that you have a means to elucidate secrets, for certain, but I do not believe it has anything to do with your – inner eye.’
There was a long silence, a motionless duel of stares, lit only by the dim flame of the candle.
‘Please, madam, I am a gentleman. I give you my word of honour, not a single soul shall ever know what you tell me.’
I replenished her glass before she had the need to ask. She enveloped the drink with both hands, reclined in her chair and gazed at the shifting shadows on the ceiling.
‘Do I sometimes lie?’ she shrugged. ‘Yes, of course, I’m a businesswoman.’
‘Now we are being sincere.’
‘Do I sometimes observe and guess correctly?’ she went on. ‘Again, of course, and very often! Most people come here with glaring problems, Inspector, and not everyone is as cryptic as you or me; we all wear our masks, true, but most are very easy to lift. And I do have a “special eye” for that. One look at a simple person and you can tell most of what’s wrong with them. Then ask them a careful question and they’ll reveal more than they think … or want.’ A derisive chuckle. ‘Although most of the times they want you to know. They want you to guess correctly and tell them what to do. They don’t realize it themselves, but the stronger their wishes and their longings are, the easier for me to spot them.’
‘And you take advantage of that?’
‘Of course. I told you, I’m a businesswoman. But don’t think I’m a monster. I never charge a pauper more than they can afford, and I never tell them anything that does them harm. A widow comes, I tell her her husband’s in heaven and wants her to move on; a drunk comes asking if he’ll ever be rich, I tell him the bottle stands in the way. I speak common sense to them, but they find it enlightening.’
‘And what do you do when – Adolphus McGray comes to you?’
‘Oh, that boy is an entirely different business. He has a good heart.’
‘But you still lie to him.’
Katerina leaned forward, swigging once more, her eyes ever fixed on mine. ‘No. I don’t.’
‘But you just said –’
‘I said I sometimes lie.’
‘And then you said that you make an exception for McGray, which I think is simply one of your lies.’
‘Adolphus has read his books. He sometimes knows more than I do. I couldn’t fool him if I wanted to!’
‘So, only for McGray, you do use your – supernatural powers.’
‘Mock me as much as you want, boy,’ she retorted, helping herself to more wine, ‘but don’t ask the questions if you won’t like the answers.’
‘Where does that inner eye come from?’
‘My grandmother had the gift. My ma didn’t. It usually skips a generation. I can’t tell you why.’ She saw my sceptical smirk. ‘Doubt all you want, but there are things nobody can prove. Not in the way you want.’
‘If that is your answer …’
‘It is.’
‘Very well,’ I granted. ‘I was not expecting to uncover all the mysteries of your trade in one evening.’ In fact, she had told me more than I thought she ever would. She might have tried to convince me of her powers, but she’d achieved the complete opposite. I was now certain there was some kind of trickery underneath; secrets that Katerina would, of course, not volunteer so casually. ‘Now I can ask you these other questions with a little more confidence.’
‘More questions? You should bring two bottles next time.’
I smiled. ‘We had another message left by the alleged banshee: Chase not the voices and the spells they write, For only death and blood your hand shall spread; One falls on the stage, maybe one tonight, If you hunt whispers that concern the dead.’
‘I heard of those. It may not have been in the newspapers, but the gossip travels fast.’
I produced my notebook and looked for the lines I’d jotted down whilst reading Stoker’s journal.
‘You also told McGray and this Irish gentleman that – at least one will die tomorrow, and there’s nothing we can do about it … Now …’ – I closed the notebook with a flap – ‘I do not like the sound of those two omens together.’
‘I don’t like them either, but that’s what I saw. You two won’t win this time.’
I grunted and rubbed my face. ‘Let’s assume, just for argument’s sake, that I believe you. Have your … visions been wrong in the past?’
‘No. Well – yes. But not when the feeling is this strong.’
‘Can you tell me anything, anything, no matter how trivial, that you might think you have foreseen?’
‘Oh, yes. I can see you’ll blame yourself if you fail. Don’t. You’re already doing your best.’
‘Who is going to die?’ I snapped, banging a fist on the table. ‘Stop the cryptic games. Tell me!’
Madame Katerina smiled, but not the sardonic, horrible smirk she usually had for me. She understood my desperation, and the woman had enough grace not to mock me for it. She put her hands on the table and pushed herself up, then walked into the shadows and produced a little sprig of lavender, which she ignited with the candle’s flame.
A trail of white smoke danced and spiralled as she moved the twig from left to right, her green eyes following it. She traced some fleeting figures in the air, and waited until the aromatic smoke had dissipated.
‘Not an innocent one,’ she whispered.
‘Pardon?’
‘You asked me who is going to die. I’m telling you: not an innocent one.’
I chuckled. ‘That hardly narrows it down!’
Before I said more Katerina clasped my head, her nails pressing against my scalp and my forehead, and I felt a tingle, as if a cold draught had come from nowhere to chill my blood.
Her words came then, low and sombre, almost as if uttered by someone in the rooms below.
‘All the pieces are set. Like a game of chess. Move your queen and your rooks and your knights, but it is all set: the ones you’ll save … but also the ones you’ll have to let go.’
41
The skies broke again as I rode back to New Town. I realized too late the sheer stupidity of venturing into the streets of Edinburgh without an umbrella. By the time I reached Great King Street I was soaked to the marrow, my clothes stuck to my back and the brim of my hat dripping copiously. Layton welcomed me with a towel and received my drenched overcoat, hat and gloves.
‘Where is everybody else?’ I asked, drying my hair vigorously.
‘Mr Elgie and your good parents are dining out. They were invited to the Palace Hotel, where your eldest brother is staying. They asked me to inform you.’
I grunted. ‘At least the weasels did not have the audacity to show up in my house …’
As it usually occurs in Scotland, the rain stopped as soon as I was properly settled at home.
I changed into sleeping clothes, and Layton poured me a glass of the good brandy, which he brought to my bedroom along with some biscuits. The old butler knew me very well already.
He left swiftly, but the house and streets were so silent I could hear his steps echoing across the staircase.
I thought I would welcome the solitude, but instead I found myself longing for some company, wishing I could pour someone a brandy, or offer them one of those excellent butter biscuits – or even Joan, chattering some useless gossip. My evenings would become this quiet as soon as Elgie left for London, so I’d better get used to my own company.
My spirits had plummeted
since the incident with Mrs Harwood. I could not help feeling so terribly sorry for her, and even worse for her children. What a difficult, gloomy life awaited them. Frederick I could only call the true monster. I still shuddered at his words for Susy; I could not believe that so much poison could come from the mouth of such a youth.
And his poor sister … cast as a ghoul. My stomach went on fire thinking how Irving used Susy’s scarred face to enhance the drama in his witches’ scene. How little he must care what that would do to the girl’s psyche, or to Mr Wheatstone – who had already been driven to alcoholism out of sheer guilt – having to see the girl every day, and even helping set the scene to make her appear more like a soul in purgatory.
All for the glory of Irving’s art. Or rather his own glory. He used everyone around him, he played them all to his own benefit, and he did it with such mastery: even Superintendent Campbell had been made to forfeit his duty and was now reduced to a pathetic admirer. I also wondered if Miss Terry’s affair with Irving – though now clearly over – had had anything to do with her first joining his theatre company.
The saddest case, however, was Bram Stoker. That portrait of Irving, which apparently he always carried in his journal, had shown me the true source of his loyalty, and I could not help feeling a particularly strong pang of sorrow for him. I remembered the scene at the hospital: the spark in Stoker’s eyes when Irving showed the smallest drop of concern for him. Even through the laudanum – or perhaps enhanced by it – Stoker had shown his true feelings. Irving knew this, and he knew it too well. He fed Stoker with crumbs of appreciation; hardly any, but just enough to keep him within his grasp, like a hungry puppy longing for more. And he used that power like a leech, sucking all of Stoker’s energy, both physically and emotionally.
I’d seen that happen before – to me. Eugenia Ferrars, the young woman with whom my father and brothers must be dining and cheering right now, had once treated me like that. The petite girl, blonde, fair and wide-eyed, needed but to stamp a foot and I’d move mountains for her; and I had been too blind to see it back then. Perhaps her ending our engagement had been a blessing in disguise. Not that something like that could happen to Stoker; as long as he was useful to the theatre, Irving would not let him go. A real shame, for Bram seemed bright, diligent and talented … but he devoted it all to somebody else.
I sighed and silently raised my glass for poor Bram, hoping he would someday manage to free himself from the shackles of Henry Irving.
I then thought of Ellen Terry. The woman seemed to have it all – comfort, a career she adored, talented children with promising futures, the love and admiration of her colleagues and the entire nation – yet she felt compelled to lurk in the darkness, like a pitiable street woman, when she thought an impossible lover messaged her. Stoker, indeed a smart fellow, had put it plainly: How desperately we crave what we cannot have.
What a collection of misery we all were, I thought. McGray and I too.
I raised my glass again, this time for all our trials and tribulations. It was depressing to think of us all, at once feeling so lost, so cut off and so alone; all of us terrified in our own ways. What a cruel, desolate place the world could be. I gave myself nightmares with those thoughts.
I dozed off in my chair, and suddenly found myself in one of the royal boxes at the Lyceum Theatre. I knew I was dreaming, but I was as frightened by what I saw as if I had been awake.
The theatre was empty, except for Irving’s two sons and me – and the pit of the orchestra, which was full of dark demons playing only violins.
The shrilling notes rose, just as bright flames climbed high on the stage, burning the fake trees and the wooden castles and the velvet curtains. Henry Irving stood there, amidst the fire, not in Macbeth’s attire, but swathed in his black cape, reciting lines from the play’s final act.
And as he uttered ‘she should have died hereafter’, his skull cracked open like an eggshell, pierced from the inside by the glistening legs of a black scorpion. As the fissure grew wider more insects followed: hundreds, then thousands of creatures with iridescent shells, crawling and swarming across Irving’s face and body and on to the stage floor, as the man continued, impassive, his dark soliloquy on the futility of life. ‘Tomorrow …’ he said, ‘and tomorrow …
‘And tomorrow …’
Act V
* * *
LADY MACBETH
Come, thick night,
And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell,
That my keen knife see not the wound it makes,
Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark,
To cry ‘Hold, hold!’
From The Scotsman, 13 July 1889
A CALTON HILL MYSTERY
The neighbourhoods surrounding Calton Hill are just at present exercised with an event which seems to run on lines parallel to the mysterious hauntings around Henry Irving’s production of Macbeth.
Yesterday night, under the midsummer full moon, several unconnected individuals concurrently reported the sight of what was referred to as a ‘bloofer lady’, wandering around the columns of the National Monument.
Depictions as to the looks of the lady are as varied as there are witnesses – our correspondent naively says that even Ellen Terry could not be so winningly attractive – but the general agreement is that the female was of singular height, slender waist and white attire, as if dressed in the cerements of the grave.
There is an even stronger agreement as to the ghostly figure’s voice, for the most piercing, desolate wails were said to have been heard all across the east end of New Town, and as far as the outermost houses of Regent Terrace.
The lady was seen strolling across and in between the columns for a number of minutes, as if in deep distress. According to a keen observer, the lady never ceased to raise up her hands, tear her hair and beat her chest, until she finally stood at the northern edge of the monument, where her final agonized cry curdled the blood of countless residents. That sound rose even the heaviest of sleepers, and was said to be terrible enough to drive any man insane.
A pair of very brave tradesmen ventured to the top of Calton Hill, where they found no trace of the tormented lady.
The police of the division have been instructed to keep a sharp look. Whether this sighting is in any way connected to the portentous happenings reported three days past under the nearby Regent Bridge, it remains to be seen. Nevertheless, the mystery might well be clarified tonight, at the grand opening of the most lavish rendering of The Scottish Play the world has seen to date.
42
I tossed and turned in bed for hours, the snoring of my father in the adjacent room as annoying as a constant drip in a Chinese torture chamber.
It was a quarter past six when I peeped through the thick curtains, only to find the sun already high in the grey sky. My day, for all practical purposes, had begun. And a hellishly long one it would be.
I had a wholesome breakfast by myself. The rest of the Frey family would be either too tired or hungover from last night, and I thanked Providence for that. I could not have endured Catherine remarking on how pretty Eugenia looked, or how excellent Laurence’s venison had been. It was bad enough that I might see the blasted couple tonight at the theatre.
Layton came by rather gingerly, clearing his throat so nervously I thought he’d expectorate something on to the carpet.
‘Layton?’ I said. ‘What is it?’
He leaned over. ‘Sir …’ he said as if about to tread on red-hot coal. ‘You might be interested in reading the paper.’
And he unrolled a copy of The Scotsman in front of me.
The monstrous Peruvian carving startled me again as I stormed into the cluttered office. I was so angry I kicked it aside, bringing down yet another tower of moth-eaten witchcraft books.
McGray was already there, which I was truly not expecting, given his apathetic looks last night.
I held the crumpled newspaper high. ‘Have you seen this?’
‘Seen it! McNair knocked at my door last night ’n’ we went there to investigate.’
‘And?’ I felt a rush of anticipation. ‘Was that another banshee apparition? Did she leave the last part of the sonnet? We are only missing four lines now.’
‘That’s what we first thought, but there was not a bloody, manky, buggin’ trace o’ blood. The grass around the National Monument was as clean and pristine as yer bed sheets.’
‘What do you mean by –’
‘However, we found these.’ McGray was spreading a few half-charred pages on his desk. ‘The Scotsman doesnae say it, but the woman fled when a reckless young lad came close. She had a wee bonfire going on. When we arrived it was still burning. Looks like she was trying to get rid o’ these. What ye see is all we could salvage, but there must’ve been much more; there was a big pile of ashes around.’
I perused the sheets swiftly. ‘These are all undated and unsigned … Are you sure they are linked to the theatre at all?’
‘Must be. This one mentions a dog …’ McGray said, tapping the central sheet. ‘How seeing a dog can foretell death.’
I picked it up and read it. ‘Indeed, but …’ My eyes combed the other texts. ‘This prose makes little sense. Necklaces made out of teeth … Coffins full of “lies” … And look at these scrawls, as if written by a mad pers–’ I looked up instantly. ‘Is Mrs Harwood –’
‘Still at the asylum? Aye. I sent a laddie to check. As far as we can tell she was there all night. It’s very unlikely she’d escape only to lock herself back.’
‘If Mrs Harwood was accounted for …’ I felt a twinge. ‘Lord, could it have been Miss Terry, trying to get rid of her “Lewis Carroll” correspondence?’
‘I thought o’ that too, but this hand doesnae match his.’
‘Could she have been communicating with someone else, and just using the Lewis Carroll story as an excuse – in case she was ever discovered?’
A Mask of Shadows: Frey & McGray Book 3 (A Case for Frey & McGray) Page 28
