The Strings of Murder

by Oscar de Muriel

  ‘Oh, Mr Frey from London! O’ course! We didnae expect ye so early, sir. I’m afraid Mr McGray isn’t at home now.’

  ‘I suppose I can find him at the City Chambers?’

  The man shook his head. ‘No, no, I’m afraid. Mr McGray must be at the lunatic asylum as we speak.’

  I lifted my eyebrows in surprise. ‘Oh! Well, I really cannot say that it surprises me. Do you know whether he is receiving proper care?’

  Now I thank Heaven that the butler’s eyes were not daggers. ‘Mr McGray doesn’t go as a patient! He’s visiting someone.’

  The driver let out a muffled giggle. All I could do was clear my throat and change the subject quickly. ‘I understand that I am supposed to be accommodated here.’

  ‘To whah?’ The butler frowned in incomprehension.

  ‘To be accommo – Jesus, I’ll be staying here.’

  ‘Oh! Aye sir! Do gimme yer bags. D’ye wantae wash yer face or something?’

  It was tempting to bathe and change clothes, but I thought that it would be better to report my arrival to the CID as soon as possible.

  ‘I’d like to but I cannot. Do you know whether Inspector McGray will be at the City Chambers at all during the day?’

  ‘Aye, I think so. Mr McGray told me he needed to sort out two or three wee things for ye. Bring some papers for ye to sign, I think.’

  ‘Fine. Perhaps I will meet him while I am there.’

  Saying no more, I jumped back into the cart, followed by the driver. ‘Take me to the City Chambers.’

  His eyes glowed at the promise of more of my money. ‘Aye, to High Street, master.’

  We headed south, towards Princes Street and the main railway terminus, which effectively cut Edinburgh in two: the opulent New Town and Calton Hill to the north, and the cluttered slums of the Old Town and the castle to the south.

  An offensive stench hit my nose as soon as we entered the bustling High Street. This looked more like the image of Edinburgh I’d had in mind: precarious buildings of many storeys with brown, smoked walls. Some of those lodgings had more than ten levels, cramming entire families in each room.

  Such overcrowded slums make me loathe our industrial age. Manufacturing has done little else than snatch people from our countryside, locking them in claustrophobic little factories, making them breathe foul smoke and forcing them to live all hugger-mugger with less space to move than pigs in a slaughterhouse … all for a few more pennies a week. It strips their dignity, I believe, and I wonder what this insatiable hunger for profit will make of our world.

  Projected above the tall constructions I saw the steeple of St Giles Cathedral, looking like a blackened crown, and not far from there was the Royal Exchange, the building occupied by the City Chambers.

  An arcade of grey stone gave way to a small courtyard, where carriages plied to and fro throughout the day. When we arrived there were another four carriages in line, so we had to queue for a few minutes. Meanwhile, I saw that on the other side of the road, right in front of the chambers, was the ancient Mercat Cross. Centuries ago that elevated spire would have been used for public executions, where the convicts would not only be hanged, but also burned, impaled, skinned, mutilated and disembowelled in ways that would make Jack the Ripper’s work look like that of a novice.

  Once I managed to descend from the cart and pay the toothless driver, I inquired after Inspector McGray.

  ‘He’s not in the building,’ a young officer told me, ‘but he’s expected today.’

  ‘What time does he usually arrive?’ I asked, and the chap whistled.

  ‘Well, ye never know with that laddie. Some days he’s here before dawn, some days he doesn’t appear ’til supper time.’

  I cursed inwardly and thought of leaving, but it would not be a bad idea to report my presence to the chief, whose name I had learned from Warren’s file. ‘Can you take me to Superintendent Campbell, then?’

  ‘Uh, I dunno. Mr Campbell’s always busy.’

  ‘I am certain he will be willing to have a word with me,’ I assured him, and gave him my name. He led me two storeys upstairs and then to the west side of the building, where Campbell’s office was. The officer announced me to the superintendent’s assistant, who only dared enter the office after my sharp insistence.

  To the men’s astonishment, Campbell bade me to enter without delay.

  The office had a wide window with a privileged view of the highest towers of the castle, but the weather was so bad the room needed four oil lamps burning in order to be properly lit. Behind a wide oak desk, settled back with the tips of his fingers resting on the polished wood, was Superintendent George Campbell.

  He was around sixty, or so I had heard, but for his age and rank he looked rather … wild. With his whitish hair fluffed up, a thick moustache and the corners of his grey eyes slightly tilted upwards, Campbell seemed very leonine to me.

  ‘You are early,’ he said in a deep voice with a very smooth accent. I could tell he had studied in the south.

  ‘Yes. Inspector Ian Frey, at your service, sir.’

  As I spoke I offered my hand to shake, but Campbell ignored it. ‘I know who you are,’ he replied sternly, while searching through his piles of papers.

  I swiftly pulled my hand back and adopted the same stern tone. I have never been one to beg for sympathy. ‘I thought it proper to report my presence to you.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Campbell muttered as he drew some sheets and scanned them with his cat-like eyes. ‘I see you used to have a very good reputation …’ He emphasized the used to.

  I refused to reply and simply planted myself on the floor with firm feet. After reading the documents Campbell proceeded to scan me. His stare was penetrating.

  ‘So, Mr Frey, I suppose that you know what this is really about. Am I correct?’

  So he did not even dare to mention the matter out loud …

  ‘I do,’ was my dry answer.

  ‘Good. Good.’ Campbell nodded slowly, still examining me, not even blinking. ‘Now, before you start, let me make something clear: I am not happy with your presence. At all. I have a list of first-class inspectors who’d already be working on the scene, had London trusted my judgement; however, they think they know better than us poor provincial folk, and sent me you – a frivolous-looking chap whose only good reference is that press-overblown frippery of Good Mary White –’

  ‘Brown.’

  ‘Whichever bloody colour she was! We need results and we need them soon, no excuses. And we also need someone to compensate for the unconventional nature of your new department. I will not trust you until you bring me proper results. Do you understand?’

  I was grinding my teeth. ‘Yes, sir. If may add –’

  ‘You may add all the gibberish you want after you bring me the culprit. Now go, and do not disappoint Her Majesty’s realm, Inspector Frey.’

  I did not bother to say another word and walked out, my heart rapping furiously.

  Before leaving I approached the officers and inquired after McGray one more time, but the man had not arrived yet.

  I blew out my cheeks. There was nothing else I could do but return to Moray Place and wait for the elusive McGray there. Having to wait when such an important case lay on my shoulders! It was frustrating, but at least I would have a chance to wash and change.

  I was about to seize a cab when I heard the young officer shouting at me. ‘Sir! Look, sir! There’s Nine-Nai – Ah … I mean, Inspector McGray!’

  I turned quickly and saw a rider halting in the middle of the courtyard.

  As he dismounted, I had my first glimpse of Adolphus ‘Nine-Nails’ McGray.

  7

  I first noticed his horse. It was a splendid animal with a chestnut coat, muscled legs and a solid back. I thought that it was either an Arabian or an Anglo-Arabian breed, for it had a long sloping neck and a deep chest. A long, strong hand patted the horse’s head. That hand was missing a finger.

  ‘Nine-Nails …’ I whispered, remem
bering the words from the toothless driver and almost uttered by the officer a second ago.

  Then I looked at the man himself. He was a little taller than me, so his head stuck out quite a few inches above the crowd. His shoulders were very broad, his limbs long and brawny.

  ‘Inspector McGray!’ the young officer called. ‘This gentleman’s been looking for ye!’

  McGray approached with firm steps and I had time to study his face. His square jaw and wide blue eyes suggested that he had once been a handsome Scot, but somehow had become haggard: he had dark rings and premature wrinkles around his eyes, the most unkempt stubble and grey speckles peppering his dark hair. Despite his receding hairline he had an abundant mane, which apparently he seldom combed.

  However, the most striking feature – besides his lacking a finger, of course – were his clothes. McGray wore tartan from head to toe: brown tartan trousers and green tartan waistcoat. His only garments without a pattern were his creased shirt and ragged overcoat; the latter looked as though moths had been feasting on it for years.

  The man was soaking wet, his hair and clothes dripping copiously, as if he had ridden through half of Edinburgh under the heavy rain. He stretched out his right hand – the four-fingered one – in a sudden movement that spattered huge drops all over my chest. I brushed the water off my coat and took off a glove before saluting.

  ‘Inspector Ian Frey,’ I said, consciously avoiding the words ‘at your service’.

  He shook my hand mightily and I felt (as well as heard) a couple of phalanges cracking. Despite my best efforts, my face betrayed my discomfort.

  McGray chuckled and then spoke with a rich, rough voice, as Scottish as his dreadful garments. ‘Oi! They sent me a soft southern dandy!’ He turned to the young officer. ‘See, McNair! How long d’ye think he’ll last?’

  McNair looked at me awkwardly but was wise enough to remain silent.

  ‘Tucker! Come here!’ McGray yelled.

  Tucker turned out to be a playful golden retriever that came running from the road. The dog was quite rangy for its kind and had an unusually bright fur of a creamy colour. The animal approached me to sniff my clothes, and all of a sudden it rose on its hind legs, trying to lick my face.

  I stepped back, seeing with appalled eyes how its muddy forepaws smeared my jacket, shirt and silk tie with Scottish filth.

  ‘Oh, Christ Jesus!’ I cried, but Tucker took my screeching as an invitation to play and kept jumping up and pushing merrily at my chest.

  McGray was laughing loudly, his mouth open at maximum, and within seconds everyone in the Royal Mile stared at my disgrace. McGray at last showed some compassion. ‘All right, Tucker! Leave the London lassie alone!’

  The dog did retreat, but so brusquely that its paws got snagged on my clothes and I heard my tie and jacket tear.

  ‘Bloody hell! ’ I howled before having a chance to think.

  Tucker paced around its master, dragging pieces of French silk that still hung from its feet. Its tongue hanging out, the animal’s muzzle looked like a mocking smile to me.

  I produced my handkerchief again and stoically wiped the mud off my clothes. ‘I would appreciate it if you refrained from calling me a “London lassie” in the future.’

  He laughed. ‘Aye, yer right. Ye wouldn’t last five minutes against some lassies I ken.’

  ‘Sorry, some of the lasses you …?’

  ‘Ken.’

  ‘Ken?’

  ‘Ken. Know! Och, I forgot you Londoners cannae speak without three marbles in yer gobs. Talking of gobs, c’mon, I need to get a bite to eat. We can have a chat over a pint.’

  ‘I did not travel all this way for pints,’ I said, my expression stiff. ‘I would rather get started on the work as soon as pos–’

  He silenced me with a vigorous thump on the back that took me momentarily out of balance. ‘Nae. I need some food before that. Dunno about ye, but I’m starving.’

  By then he was already crossing the courtyard with huge strides. I snorted in frustration and could only follow him at a pathetic trot. Only then did I realize how hungry I felt. After all, I had not eaten anything except for a meagre breakfast while still on the boat.

  ‘I was told that this case of the violinist is extremely urgent,’ I said briskly as we walked down the road. ‘I read in the preliminary report that the body is currently at the morgue. We should look at it before anything else.’

  ‘Aye, we’ll get there today.’ McGray cast me a sardonic grin. ‘Although promise ye’ll not puke all over our Dr Reed. I’ve read how soft the Southrons’ stomachs can be.’

  ‘I’ll have you know I began a degree in medicine, which –’

  ‘Which ye didn’t finish for bein’ a squeamish brat.’ McGray winked at me. ‘I’ve also had some preliminary reports to read, y’see.’

  I rolled my eyes, begging Heaven for some mercy.

  I was not expecting to eat at a decent place, so I was not too surprised when McGray led me to a mucky tavern in the west end of High Street. The board hanging over the road read Ensign Ewart.

  ‘What d’ye reckon?’ McGray asked as we crossed the threshold.

  Immediately I saw that we were entering one of those ancient public houses that have stood on their ground for centuries, and are likely to go on like that for ever.

  The interior was quite dark. It could have been because it was a horrible day outside, but the small windows with diamond leading told me that the pub would be in shadows even during the brightest summer noon. Cracked, moth-eaten furniture was crammed all around, making the room look even smaller. Barrels of beer were piled by the opposite wall, right next to the bar, behind which sat enormous containers with pickled eggs and onions, and countless bottles of spirits.

  ‘What a picturesque slum,’ was all I could say. There was a group of scoundrels gathered around a long table, and as soon as I spoke, the filthiest of them jumped from his chair. It will never cease to amaze me how human beings can degrade themselves. I know I should be more compassionate, but that man would have challenged the serenity of the Virgin Mary: his hair and face looked greasy, with a repugnant beard covered in crumbs and tiny shreds of meat, and he wore the most ragged clothes. The man lurched towards us and I perceived his foul stench, a mixture of sweat and stale beer.

  He grunted in the most indistinguishable dialect. ‘Michty me! See who’s here! Nein-Neil McGree!’ The drunken men burst into laughter, one of them banging his head on the table and spilling a jug of ale.

  ‘What an enchanting place for a meal,’ I sighed.

  McGray’s expression did not show anger but weariness. ‘Aye,’ he replied, showing the man his hand and the small stump where his ring finger had been. ‘See, ’tis not grown back yet. Will youse let us eat in peace?’

  ‘Och! Won’t ye fiddle a bit for us?’ The men cackled so loudly that I thought the walls had shaken. Tucker growled and barked furiously, showing a set of long fangs.

  ‘Ye must be drunk to dare teasing me.’ McGray did not say that in a threatening tone, but rather matter-of-factly.

  ‘Och, Nein-Neil McGree’s gonna call his spooks and they’ll drag me to Hell to Auld Nick! Abody ken he’s as nuts as his lil’ sist–’

  McGray moved so fiercely we were all startled. In a long stride he reached the drunkard, seized him by the neck and slammed his head against the nearest table, pinning him down with one hand – the very hand they had just mocked. A splash of blood stained the old wood.

  The laughter stopped immediately and the three other men stood up on wobbly legs. I dropped my umbrella, ready for a fight, as one of the drunkards hurled himself upon me. He was so intoxicated it was easy to strike him in the face with a neat punch. The man fell flat on his back, his nose bleeding.

  ‘Oh, dear Lord …’ I sighed, seeing that his blood had smeared my leather glove. I produced my handkerchief and wiped it off meticulously.

  ‘Aye, yer very drunk,’ McGray repeated, squeezing the man’s neck with terrible stren
gth. His voice had become a nasty, vicious hiss.

  The drunkard thrashed his arms desperately, but then McGray clenched one and twisted it until I heard the joint crack. Tucker was barking madly.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ I screamed in horror, but McGray would not listen.

  He leaned over the man and whispered in his ear: ‘Ye ken the rules, laddie. Speak all the shite ye want about me, but don’t ever, ever slander my kin.’ The drunkard snarled in pain. ‘Now, I don’t think Mary likes chaps o’ yer type in her pub. Ye better tell yer mates to go.’

  The smallest of the men jumped forward. I thought he was going to attack me too, but the tiny man just ran out of the tavern. The last scoundrel grabbed his fallen pal by the wrists and dragged him to the street.

  ‘Look at that!’ McGray cried, squeezing the man’s neck a bit tighter. ‘Ye didn’t even have to tell ’em to go!’ Then he lifted the man by the neck and threw him out of the pub, onto the muddy road. There was a roar of laughter from the people passing by.

  ‘Sorry ye had to see that,’ McGray said, walking back as if he’d squashed a fly on the table. The other few customers watched us for a second, but then turned and continued their chatter as if nothing had happened. McGray seemed equally unconcerned: he lounged at a large table close to the fire, wiping his bloody hand on the edge of his coat. ‘I didn’t expect ye’d have that in ye, Frey! That’s one stout punch for a Londoner!’

  I was still appalled: ‘Y-y … you broke that man’s arm!’

  Nine-Nails shrugged. ‘It was just a wee splinter; those dunghills heal overnight. I do feel sorry about it …’ He could not have looked more nonchalant. ‘Fancy a pint?’

  An incomprehensible mumble was all I could utter.

  ‘Och, Adolphus!’ a thick voice cried. When I turned round I saw a plump young woman approaching with a mop and a bucket. She was wearing a stained apron tied up tightly around her broad waist. Her ginger hair was an explosion of orange curls that brought out the freckles all across her round face. ‘Ah’m sorry about the lads. I cannae control ’em!’