The Strings of Murder

by Oscar de Muriel

  Scattered around were some small shreds of dry flesh (whoever had removed the body to the morgue had done so with great haste). I recognized the whitish colour of intestine tissue and the revolting yellow of body fat. The smell of decay suddenly seemed more evident, as if accentuated by the eerie image.

  ‘I didn’t expect this,’ McGray muttered anxiously, unable to wrest his stare from the drawing. ‘I was expectin’ a pentagram or a goat’s head or some stupidity like that … This is serious, Frey; very serious.’

  ‘What do you mean? I have never seen this scribble before.’

  McGray’s eyes showed that a million thoughts were storming in his brain. ‘Exactly … few have seen it.’

  Next to the symbol there was a single, huge bloodstain of an even darker red. McGray patted it slowly.

  ‘The man was attacked while he played,’ he pointed at the empty stand; tiny drops of blood splattered on the upper corner. ‘He fell and was dismembered on this spot, where most of his blood dripped …’

  The big stain was right next to the desk, under which I saw Fontaine’s missing instrument: a very fine violin half hidden in the shadows. McGray stretched his arm and lifted it carefully. The wood was varnished in a rich, reddish tone that reflected the scant light on its curved surface. It looked really old, like one of those violins from the seventeenth century that Elgie had sometimes borrowed.

  The most striking feature, however, was that it did not have a scroll, as regular violins do at the end of the fingerboard; instead, this one had the carved head of a lion, with two blue eyes made of blown glass.

  ‘Pretty thing,’ McGray said, turning it around to examine it. The back of the violin was made of maple, the winding stripes of the wood looking almost like the skin of a tiger; it also had an unusual chinrest made of polished, pristine rosewood. The front of the instrument was dotted with thick drops of blood, only a bit darker than the reddish varnish. McGray laid it carefully on the desk.

  ‘So they butchered Fontaine and then used him to play their little satanic act,’ I summarized, as speaking out loud usually helps me think better. ‘He was standing right here, with the violin …’

  I stood in front of the stand and tried to imagine what it would have been like to be Fontaine … how he would have felt at that precise moment. ‘Look, what is this?’ I whispered.

  ‘What’s what?’

  ‘Of course! The stand is empty! Look at this.’

  Then McGray saw what I had found: a small semicircle of blood, its left-hand side perfectly straight.

  ‘Someone took his music away after killing him,’ McGray realized immediately. ‘The missin’ half of that drop fell on the page and then it was taken away.’

  We quickly looked for the score on the floor and among the papers on the desk, but none of those sheets was stained with blood.

  ‘It makes no sense,’ I said. ‘Why take only a stack of paper when … can you hand me the violin? I want to look into the f-hole.’

  Nine-Nails laughed childishly. ‘The f-hole!’

  I snorted, snatching the violin from his hand. ‘How puerile.’

  I then looked into the violin’s body. The inner wood looked extremely old, yet I found a faint marking that was not hard to decipher. ‘This instrument was made by one N. Amati … the name sounds familiar … in 1629! This violin must be worth hundreds if not thousands of pounds! And those hanging on the wall surely are precious too. Why not take any of them instead?’

  ‘Well, I don’t need to see the violins to know that robbery was not the goal. Ye can tell just from seeing that,’ McGray pointed at the eyes drawn on the floor.

  ‘Then why would they take the score?’

  ‘We can always come back to speculate on that,’ McGray said. ‘Right now we should see how the killer got in.’

  ‘Why, I thought that your main theory would be an evil leprechaun passing through the wall.’

  McGray ignored my comment. ‘I was told that Fon-teen locked himself in to practise. After the murder the housekeeper had to call the police and they had to break in through the window …’

  ‘Through the window! We’re two floors up! Why didn’t they just break down the door?’

  McGray smiled bitterly. ‘Fon-teen had a mean landlady – a right penny-pinching auld hag!’

  ‘Oh. Do you know her?’

  ‘Everybody in town does. She didn’t want any major damage to the property, and that door is expensive oak.’ I saw a hint of distaste in McGray’s face. ‘Anyways, the officers found both keys on this desk and they were confiscated by Campbell’s request. The only other person in the house was that old woman, and she doesn’t look like the sort of person to disembowel her boss.’

  ‘I would not discard her so lightly. Remember what I told you about Good Mary Brown. Perhaps she had a third key that nobody knew about.’

  ‘We’ll interrogate the housekeeper in a moment,’ McGray agreed, ‘If it wasn’t her, then the killer must’ve come in through …’ He stepped closer to the smashed window as he spoke. ‘The photographer told us this window had a padlock when the officers broke in. It could’ve only been locked from the inside,’ he turned around and found me in deep thought. ‘Are ye having a brilliant idea?’

  ‘Unfortunately, I am thinking of another question. If nobody could get in, there is also the issue of getting out.’

  I had McGray’s full attention. ‘Explain?’

  ‘The post-mortem mentioned missing organs – intestines, heart and liver – yet, look at the carpet. There are no stains besides the main pool; no trickle of blood; nothing to show us where those organs were taken.’

  ‘Well spotted, dandy.’ McGray looked intently at the floor, and then pointed at the fireplace. ‘Could they have burned them?’

  ‘In that narrow thing? I do not think so.’

  We both leaned over the hearth and inspected the pile of ashes. There was nothing unusual about it.

  ‘I reckon they could have had room to burn the heart and the liver,’ I said, ‘but not yards of intestines – at least not without leaving a mighty mess around. No, they must have been taken away.’

  We looked around, utterly puzzled. In my experience, the crime scene nearly always screams out the events; this was one of those extremely rare times when a first inspection in fact created more questions. I sighed, thinking this was going to be much harder than I’d expected.

  ‘I don’t think we’ll achieve much standing here,’ McGray said at last.

  ‘Very well, then. Shall we go and talk to the housekeeper?’

  ‘Sure, but before we go …’ Nine-Nails grabbed a half-burned log from the fireplace and rubbed it hard on the carpet, obscuring the five eerie eyes. He kept rubbing fervidly until there was nothing left but a wide, black stain of charcoal. He then let out a weary sigh and I locked the room again.

  The kitchen was kept neat and clean, and the housekeeper served us tea so diligently that I could not help but feel a hint of sympathy. Yet I was trained to look at everyone with suspicion.

  ‘Ah’m sorry I cannae offer youse a seat in the parlour. All the furnishings are already wrapped and piled up.’

  ‘No problem, ma’am,’ McGray said, grabbing his tea. The cup looked tiny in his thick, four-fingered hand. ‘What’s yer name?’

  ‘Hill, sir. Abody calls me Goodwife Hill.’ The woman was standing in front of the table, her wrinkly hands squeezing a piece of cloth.

  ‘Do sit down,’ McGray offered, but the woman shook her head.

  ‘Thanks, sir, but it wouldn’t be fitting.’

  ‘Please,’ McGray said, pulling a chair for her, and the woman obliged, visibly flattered. Rough as he seemed, McGray did know how to earn a witness’s trust from the very start. ‘So ye’ve worked for Mr Fon-teen for a long while, haven’t ye, Hill?’

  ‘Aye, sir. Since he came to Edinburgh … erm … more than twenty years ago … My Lord, almost thirty years, I think!’

  ‘Was he a good master?’

&nb
sp; ‘Och, the best master in the world! I never had a cross word from him. He was always so polite and so concerned about his servants. When my husband died, Mr Fontaine couldn’t have done more. He took care of everything. Everything.’ Her eyes watered and she had to use the cloth to wipe her tears. ‘Ye’ll excuse me. It was all too sudden …’

  ‘Why did he lock himself in that room?’ I said, once she seemed more composed.

  ‘He used to lock himself in whenever he had to practise. It was my fault. He would play for hours and hours without resting; without even eating. I would sneak in and leave a tray for him, even if he protested. He didn’t like my interrupting and was too good to scold me, so in the end he just locked the room. He even took the spare key and never let me make a copy.’

  ‘Did he lock himself in often?’ I asked.

  ‘Aye, he’d lock himself in several hours almost every day, especially when there were concerts comin’ up.’

  I nodded, remembering the worn key. She was telling the truth – it is those small, seemingly trivial details that confirm or give the lie to a person’s veracity. Still, there was something that was at odds with Mr Fontaine’s background.

  ‘Was your master a good musician?’

  ‘Of course, sir! A genius on the stage.’

  I arched an eyebrow. ‘Then how come he practised so much? As far as I understand, it is students and young musicians who need the long hours.’

  Goodwife Hill meditated for a moment.

  ‘Well, sir, my master needed the practice. It might’ve been his age, but the in last two–three years he kind of lost some o’ his skill.’

  ‘Was he getting properly bad?’ McGray asked.

  ‘Och, it isn’t right for me to say so, but sometimes he played awful. There was this odd spell, a few years ago, that he sounded like he was scratchin’ barbed wires again. It was then that he began to practise more and more. He slowly but surely came back to his auld standards, but he never managed to stay there without playing so much.’

  I remembered my brother’s comments. Elgie said that the violin was not a noble instrument at all; the tremulous, expressive sound violins are famous for can only be achieved after years and years of practice, and even short periods of idleness could take a toll on someone’s skills.

  ‘What did Mr Fontaine do earlier on the day of his death?’ I said. ‘Do you remember?’

  ‘Course I remember!’ She seemed upset at the mere insinuation of a fading memory. ‘In the morning he went to the music school, like any other day. He came back after visiting the luthier – he brought a fiddle the lad had been repairing. Then he had dinner and locked himself away to play.’

  ‘Did you see or hear anything odd?’

  ‘No, sir, and I’ve been trying hard to remember!’ She sounded truly mortified. ‘I was in the kitchen the whole time. When I went to bed Mr Fontaine was still playing.’

  ‘So ye were asleep when … it happened,’ McGray said.

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  ‘Where is your room?’ I asked.

  ‘Behind that door, sir.’ She pointed at a small door at the back of the kitchen. It all made sense; a servant’s room would be far from the master’s study, so she would not have heard anything.

  ‘Did anything … abnormal happen that day at all?’

  Hill opened her mouth but no sound came out. She was definitely holding something back. I was about to say so but McGray spoke first: ‘Somethin’ ye don’t feel like telling us?’

  The old woman shook her head. ‘Ye’ll think I’m a crazy hag.’

  McGray leaned towards her and spoke gently. ‘We won’t judge ye, hen. And whatever ye say may help us catch the bastard that did this. Tell us, do it for yer master’s memory.’

  Hill swallowed painfully, still wiping tears away. ‘That night my master was playin’ this … horrible tune.’

  McGray frowned. ‘Horrible? Like those times when ye said he was scratching wires?’

  ‘Nae, sir. I didn’t say he played badly. I wanna say … it was horrible music … made my skin crawl.’

  McGray’s eyes flickered in interest. ‘Tell us more. What did it sound like?’

  ‘I dunno how to explain it,’ Hill scratched her grey hair. ‘I could tell it was one o’ those difficult pieces he liked to play … but it made my spine chill. It sounded like … like poking knives … and then it was as if the violin was trembling. I thought fear itself must sound like that …’

  ‘Would ye recognize that piece of music if ye heard it again?’ McGray asked.

  ‘Course, sir! I cannae forget that sound! I wish I could.’

  ‘Is that what ye were afraid to tell us?’

  I could tell in her eyes that it was not all.

  ‘Nae, sir … It was such a scary sound but that’s not the weirdest part. I would swear it sounded like … like there were many violins playin’ in the room, though it was just him there –’

  Hill bit her lip and said no more. Her nervous eyes were waiting for our reaction.

  ‘Ye absolutely sure?’ McGray asked, patiently.

  ‘Told ye. Now ye think I’m mad. But that’s what I heard. I would’ve sworn there were three or four fiddlers in the room that night. And I ken what I’m saying; I’ve been to many ceilidhs since I was a lass.’

  ‘Well, I believe ye,’ McGray said and then gulped down the rest of the tea. ‘I’m done. D’ye have any more questions, lassie?’

  I hissed at the epithet before replying. ‘Only one. What is the name of that luthier you mentioned?’

  ‘Dunno. Abody calls him Joe Fiddler.’

  ‘Can’t you Scots call anyone by their given name?’ I grunted.

  ‘It’s better than calling everything “Victoria”,’ Nine-Nails said. ‘Even yer blasted cakes got the fatty’s V on them!’

  I ignored him. ‘Do you know where he can be found?’

  ‘Nae, sir, sorry. But ye can ask at the music school. They all send their fiddles to him for repairs.’

  ‘Very good, that should be all.’

  McGray thanked Hill for the tea and we rose to leave.

  ‘Will ye be all right now that Mr Fon-teen is gone?’ McGray asked her while she showed us out. Hill blushed a bit at the unexpected interest in her welfare.

  ‘Aye, sir. My master’s relatives are pickin’ me up when they come to sort out the rent o’ the house. I’ll be working in one o’ their houses in Dover.’

  ‘Ah’m happy to hear so. Will that be soon?’

  ‘Couple o’ weeks, I think.’

  ‘Fine. We’ll be coming back soon to have another look at the room.’

  ‘Can I get in to clean it up?’

  ‘Not yet, I am afraid,’ I said, putting the keys back in my pocket.

  ‘The lass is right,’ said McGray. ‘We need to look at it one more time.’

  As I got on the carriage I could hear Goodwife Hill whispering at McGray’s ear: ‘Why d’ye call ’im lassie, sir?’

  ‘Cos he is a bloody lassie, Hill,’ he replied out loud. ‘Don’t ye see him?’

  Unfortunately those words coincided with me wiping mud off the edge of my shoes. The woman covered her mouth, though her sniggering was all too obvious. I preferred to ignore them as there were more important things to worry about.

  I had a last view of Fontaine’s house and thought of the small fireplace, the missing score, the frequently locked door and the five eyes drawn with blood. All those things showed knowledge, careful planning and, above all, some ominous, hidden purpose. There was something in that murder that felt even more sinister than the plain sadism of Jack the Ripper.

  As the carriage started off I had an odd feeling. Besides the obvious questions, there had been something misplaced in that room, something that did not quite fit … but I could not tell what it was. I knew that I was missing some detail, and that fact may well haunt me for the rest of my days. I had not realized it yet, but there were more deaths ahead; deaths that could have been avoided, had I identified t
hat subtle detail there and then.

  Scrape off … scrape off … scrape off the slimy stuff.

  Hard work, not for the squeamish!

  Oh, but how beautiful it will be! How beautiful!

  They will all despair … they will all repent and love my work … for years, endless years to come!

  9

  The carriage drove us back to the City Chambers at the top of High Street. I left McGray there as he had to pick up his horse and dog, and the driver then turned north, taking me back to the niceties of the New Town.

  Despite the darkness, hundreds of raven-black columns of smoke could be seen hovering over the city, especially above the overcrowded Old Town. Lit from below by the yellow lights of countless windows, they almost looked like the fumes from a witch’s cauldron. No wonder Edinburgh was also called Auld Reekie – the Old Smoky.

  Just as we entered the beautiful crescent of Moray Place, it started to drizzle again.

  ‘And I thought that London was bad,’ I mumbled as I walked in.

  McGray’s butler, George, received me and took my umbrella and overcoat. ‘I’ve prepared yer room and unpacked yer things, master. Ye’ll find them in yer wardrobe. Dinner’s ready too, if yer hungry.’

  ‘Excellent. You have not cooked haggis, I hope.’

  ‘Oh, no, sir. But I can get ye some for tomorrow.’

  ‘Please, do not! Ever.’

  I walked through the hall and finally had the chance to look at it properly. The place was clean yet in evident disrepair: the carpet was visibly worn out, the edges of the central table were eroded, and the oak panelling on the walls was scratched and moth-eaten in the corners.

  George led me to a sort of breakfast room. It had a square table that could not seat more than four people, and I had the impression that it used to be a small parlour or study, hastily adapted for dining.

  ‘It does not look like Inspector McGray receives many guests,’ I said.

  George had a bitter look. ‘Nae. This is not a house the all-michty like to visit.’ Then he coarsely yelled at the opposite door. ‘Agnes! Fetch Mr Frey’s supper!’

  An even coarser voice – if possible – replied from the adjacent room. ‘In a minute! Ye auld nag!’