The Strings of Murder

by Oscar de Muriel

  I sat at the table, and a very long minute later, a scrawny, middle-aged woman appeared with a tray. Her grey hair was messy like an explosion, and with her hooked nose and malevolent expression she looked like an archetypical witch from a children’s book. Agnes placed a steaming bowl of pottage and a thick slice of bread in front of me.

  ‘There, master.’

  I cast a stupefied look, my patience utterly worn out. ‘For goodness’ sake, fetch me a spoon and napkin, woman! Do you expect me to lick the bloody soup like a mule?’

  Reluctantly, she went back into the kitchen and returned with a spoon and a stained piece of cloth.

  George was looking at me intently, opening his mouth as if wishing to say something.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked.

  ‘Sir … May I ask what happened to yer clothes?’

  I looked at my jacket with dismay. Tucker had torn it and stained it, and then one of the filthy scoundrels had spilt his blood on me at the pub.

  ‘This is what comes with the job,’ I sighed.

  ‘I can mend it, master,’ Agnes said, boldly rumpling the collar of my jacket. I pulled myself away.

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘I swear, master. I can stitch very well! Ye won’t notice it’s torn!’

  ‘Give it a try, then. In any case, I was planning to get rid of it.’

  I finally began to eat, but the thick soup had no taste, the meat and vegetables were soggy as if they’d been boiling for days, and the bread was stale. Still, having eaten only a frugal breakfast and then half the driest pie in the world, I gobbled it up in a few minutes.

  I was almost done when I heard someone coming into the house through the back door. It was McGray, again wet from the rain, but not nearly as drenched as the first time I’d seen him. Tucker came in trotting happily, legs and belly all muddy.

  ‘Och, they’re feeding ye!’

  ‘If you can call this food …’

  Nine-Nails cackled. ‘Aye, but ye survived Agnes’s pottage. Now I ken ye’ll live through anything.’

  George came in and took McGray’s damp overcoat. ‘Will ye dine, sir?’

  ‘Nae!’ He even shuddered as he said that. ‘I had a wee bite at the Ensign.’ He and George exchanged smiles of complicity. ‘But do give Rye some oats and a carrot. The auld horse’s worked very hard today.’

  ‘Right away, sir.’

  ‘Do you have your own stable?’ I asked.

  ‘Aye. Why?’

  ‘I would like to bring my own horse. Is it possible to keep it here too?’

  McGray arched his eyebrow. ‘Ye ride? I thought youse Londoners only travelled in lace-lined stagecoaches!’

  ‘Obviously, I do ride.’

  ‘There is enough room for another horse,’ George said. ‘And attending two animals instead of one won’t be much heavier on me.’

  ‘Are you any better at watching a horse than that woman is at cooking?’

  McGray patted George’s back affectionately. ‘Och, yes! My George’s the best with beasts, Frey. He even manages to take good care o’ me!’

  George blushed visibly and hurried out.

  ‘Ye done with yer food?’

  ‘Indeed,’ I said, pushing the bowl away. Finding a proper place to eat in that blasted town would be a top priority.

  ‘Good. I wanted to have a chat with ye.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Follow me.’

  McGray led me to a large room with a high ceiling that in other times must have been the actual dining hall. Its wide window offered a nice view of the crescent’s garden and the neighbouring mansions, but the room itself was a mighty mess.

  There were towers of books and files and old newspapers ascending to the ceiling like twisted trees (I would not want to be near when those mountains of paper lost their precarious balance). There were drawings and paintings of demons and weird beasts pinned to the walls, and also a collection of strange objects like Meso-American carved stones and voodoo dolls. A huge fire burned in a wide fireplace that had been built to warm large parties, in front of which there was a cushioned sofa and a leather armchair. Tucker snuggled up on a mat placed at a prudent distance from the hearth, which appeared to be the one free spot on the floor.

  I dodged books and artefacts as I followed McGray into the room.

  ‘Have a seat, Frey.’

  I tossed aside a bundle of papers, making room to sit down. ‘Do you enjoy living buried in piles of rubbish?’

  ‘Believe it or not, I ken where everything is in this room,’ he said, walking straight into a bulky mountain of books, digging for a second and immediately pulling out a very old volume. ‘It’s when they clean up that I cannae find my stuff.’

  He sat on the armchair and laid the book on the dusty coffee table that separated us. It was a large, thick tome, bound in crumbling leather. When he opened it I saw that its yellowed pages had been filled by hand. McGray turned the sheets, searching, and I had glimpses of Nordic runes and odd sketches. I recognized a pentagram surrounded by Hebrew characters, and also wicked drawings of dissected bodies and deformed creatures.

  I gulped. ‘Is that a book of witchcraft?’

  McGray nodded slowly. ‘Aye. I’ve been researching the black arts for a good while. This book tells things witches don’t unveil willingly.’

  ‘Then how did you get it?’

  ‘Ye don’t want tae know.’ McGray kept turning the pages indifferently.

  I looked around. ‘Are all these books and papers related to your “research” on the occult?’

  ‘Aye. I have almost as many in the office, but I prefer to keep the important ones here.’

  ‘A long research indeed,’ I whispered. The only larger personal library I’d seen was my late grandfather’s, but he’d had seventy years to collect it – and he always kept it neat and organized. ‘This certainly shows … erm … devotion.’

  I actually meant ‘obsession’. I could never fully discount McGray from the ranks of the mentally disturbed.

  He found the page he was looking for and turned the book round for me to see it. Drawn across two pages was the same symbol we had seen at Fontaine’s study.

  ‘So it is a witches’ sign,’ I said.

  ‘Aye and nae. It’s a symbol they created to summon the Devil. Are ye familiar with the Eye of Providence?’

  ‘The Eye of Providence,’ I echoed. ‘Do you mean the symbol the Yankees use in their national seal?’

  ‘Aye; an eye inside a triangle pointing upwards. See, the triangle emphasizes the Holy Trinity; three is a divine number. Even the pagan gods of the Celts had three faces. In this symbol the triangle is inverted to represent rebellion; the underworld.’

  I brought a hand to my mouth to cover a sudden yawn. ‘These satanists … Merely turning something upside-down is enough for them to call it the Devil’s work. Inverted cross, inverted pentagram, inverted Holy Mary … They should at least be a bit more inventive, do you not think so?’

  McGray was now the one showing impatience. ‘That’s not all they did to corrupt the Eye of Providence. Ye see the five eyes?’

  ‘Yes, and I have been meaning to ask you about that. Why five? And why are they displayed asymmetrically? Three on one side and two on the other …’

  ‘These are supposed to be three pairs of eyes, or the eyes in the three faces o’ Satan.’

  ‘Wait, wait. You said three pairs of eyes, but I only see five.’

  ‘Aye. In the Hebrew Apocrypha, God pierces Satan in the eye before expelling him from Heaven. That coincides with an old pagan belief: the spirits o’ the underworld were mutilated or marked in some way to differentiate them from the good ones – just as they did with thieves in medieval times.’

  ‘Are you saying that the witches created this seal to please both Christian and pagan deities?’ I chuckled. ‘That is the way I like to bet at Ascot!’

  ‘Nay, nay! Ye have it all backwards! If all this stuff matches it’s cos it comes from ancient k
nowledge, Frey. Ancient. This is far older than Christianity as we practise it. These hags ken what they’re doin’. Ah’m telling ye; this is not a seal they use lightly. They don’t even teach it to many of their kin.’

  ‘Very good. All that is very picturesque, and I am sure I would enjoy it next to the fire on a rainy day, but let’s go to the point, McGray. You know what this seal is used for, do you not?’

  ‘Aye. When witches draw the five eyes o’ the Devil with a victim’s blood, they’re inviting him to watch over them.’

  ‘Do you mean … looking for the Devil’s protection?’

  ‘Protection, a favour, advice.’

  ‘Typical of witches.’

  ‘Aye, but Fon-teen doesn’t look like the typical sacrifice. Witches usually offer black cats, babies, virgin lassies; not old, fat musicians. Also, I don’t remember that takin’ organs away was part of it.’

  ‘Why do you think they would change the ritual this time?’

  ‘Dunno. But I’m sure we can find some clue in my library.’

  ‘I would prefer to inquire more about Fontaine from the people who knew him. Find out more about what happened around the time of his death.’

  ‘Maybe, but we also need to ken what we’re looking for. Tomorrow we’ll spend some time researching in the office.’

  ‘I beg to disagree,’ I said firmly. ‘This sort of inquiry must be done right after the murder, before people forget the details.’

  ‘And what are ye goin’ to ask them? “Hey, laddie, tell me what gravy auld Fon-teen had on his chips”?’

  ‘And I suppose that sticking our noses into your old hags’ scribbles will be more useful!’

  ‘Perhaps not, but am in charge here. Remember that.’

  I felt a rush of anger. What an idiot I had been assigned to work with! I forced a deep breath, all of a sudden noticing my clenched firsts. ‘Do you mind if we discuss it in the morning? I will only end up shouting things that I must not.’

  ‘Aye, I’ll let yer head cool. It’s been a long day for ye. I’ll ask George to show ye yer room.’ Then he yelled: ‘George! ’ The butler appeared within a moment. ‘George, take the Archbishop of Fuss-minster to his bedroom.’

  George assented, trying to hide a smirk, and led me to the corridor. I gave McGray a last look and found him turning the crumpled pages of his old book with one hand, the other stretched to pat the dog’s head.

  ‘Does he not sleep?’ I asked George, suddenly realizing how tired I was.

  ‘Nay, sir. My poor master has not slept well for years. He goes to bed only in the small hours.’

  I nodded slowly. ‘Obsessive behaviour and sleeping disorders …’ I mumbled.

  ‘Beg pardon, sir?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I said promptly. ‘Just a thought.’

  George took me to a reasonably large bedroom. It was neat and clean, with an old canopy over the bed and a small window looking over the back yard. The first thing that caught my eye was the terribly narrow wardrobe; the ancient thing could not take more than ten garments. When I opened it I saw that it was half full with the meagre luggage I had carried with me. I could only hope that Commissioner Monro found me better lodgings before Joan arrived with the rest of my possessions.

  Worn out as I was, I decided to pick my clothes for the next day. It had become an old habit, as it invariably helped me release my mind from the pressures of work. There was no better way to forget about horrid crimes than matching jackets, shirts and ties.

  However, something kept tossing and turning in my head. There had been something odd in Fontaine’s study, but I could still not pinpoint what. Everything in that room – the symbol, the stain of blood and the red splattering on the shiny violin, the missing score, Hill’s words about a spine-chilling melody … It all flashed over and over in my head. Something I’d seen had definitely been … incongruent … out of place.

  The door’s worn lock came to mind; the fact that both the keys to the room had been inside; the window also locked from within. Whoever had attacked Fontaine had managed to go in and out cleanly, without breaking bolts or leaving the slightest trace – not even a trickle of blood, despite the butchery practised on the corpse. My brain almost ached trying to think how.

  I would have dwelled on those thoughts a long while, but something distracted me: After picking a navy suit, I looked for the tiny chest where I kept my cufflinks. When I opened it, the first items that I saw were a couple of very pretty ivory cuffs, shaped as minuscule roses mounted on gold.

  I felt a pang in my chest. Eugenia had given me those for my last birthday, but I did not remember putting them in my luggage – unsurprisingly, since I had packed frantically, throwing in whichever clean clothes and other items I found at hand.

  I cursed myself for not setting my eyes on those little white roses previously. Perhaps I would have discarded them out of bitterness, or perhaps I would have taken them with me as tokens of my lost love. Either would have been better than that unpleasant surprise; Eugenia’s fierce eyes, her coldness when I said goodbye, my own furious speech … all those images caught me off guard, surging past my eyes as vividly as if they’d just happened.

  My pride still injured and the wounds still fresh, I tried to lock myself away from any feeling. I tried to convince myself that I had never truly loved her; that I’d merely fancied the idea of having a wife, a home and a family, and that Eugenia was but a compulsory piece in that picture.

  However, looking at it objectively, it really was a regrettable loss. Had my life continued in London, Eugenia would have been the most perfect match for me. We would have complemented each other with our imperfect tempers, our haughty characters and our social pretences … perhaps to the world we would not have been the most affable of couples, but indeed we would have made each other happy.

  Things would have been so different … for both of us.

  I remember going to bed in the most exhausted state of mind and, as I laid my head on the pillow, tossing the cufflinks aside.

  I never knew what happened to them. Perhaps Agnes took them and sold them for a few shillings …

  10

  My jaw hit the floor when McGray showed me our ‘office’, which turned out to be a dingy storeroom in one of the basements. There were narrow barred windows right below the ceiling, through which I could see people’s feet and horses’ hooves moving about the courtyard.

  McGray lit an oil lamp and the room’s mess fully hit my eyes. There were as many books and bizarre artefacts as in his personal library, but also countless formaldehyde bottles preserving things that were too ghastly to keep at home.

  ‘I’m a bit scruffy,’ McGray said, ‘but that’ll change now that yer here. That’ll be yer desk, by the way.’

  He pointed at a small writing table in the corner, half hidden among the debris. I stared perplexedly at the miserable piece of furniture and the old wooden chair behind it, a thick blanket of dust covering both.

  ‘Do you truly expect me to clean up this hole?’ I cried. ‘I am an inspector, not your bloody maid.’

  ‘Someone’s got to clean this up and it ain’t gonna be me.’ McGray threw a thin file at me. ‘Oh, and take yer transfer paperwork to the archive.’ Constable McNair came in as I said that, followed by a little old man in a grey suit.

  ‘Inspector McGray, this man wants to talk to ye.’

  McGray, who was already looking at some old witchcraft book, lifted his eyes slowly. ‘Who? And what for?’

  The little man stepped forward. ‘I’m Charles Downs, the late Mr Fontaine’s solicitor. I was told I should talk to you regarding his will.’

  ‘I’ll take care of it, McNair.’ The officer left and McGray invited Downs to have a seat. ‘What can we do for ye?’

  Downs was already producing a bundle of documents from his briefcase. ‘I have recently been to my client’s residence and was told the police had restricted all access. I am Monsieur Fontaine’s executor, you see.’

  ‘I see.’


  ‘Monsieur Fontaine left almost all his possessions to his nephews and his housekeeper – everything but four objects …’

  The man paused dramatically and McGray lost his temper. ‘Stop yer theatre shite and speak!’

  Downs startled and reddened visibly. ‘Well, Monsieur Fontaine wanted his collection of violins to be distributed among his students and colleagues in the Edinburgh Conservatoire of Music.’ He handed the will for McGray to read. ‘As you can see, the late Monsieur Fontaine explicitly wanted those violins to be delivered as soon as possible. He assigned each specific violin to a given recipient.’

  McGray read and then nodded. ‘And I guess ye want us to give ye those fiddles.’

  ‘That’s correct, Inspector. I was told by the housekeeper that you locked the room where they are kept and took possession of all the keys to it.’

  ‘We are investigating that room, Mr Downs,’ I intervened. ‘We cannot release any objects until we have completed our inquiries.’

  ‘I do understand, but my client’s last wish was …’

  ‘With all due respect,’ I interrupted, ‘anybody’s wish, whether last or first, is utterly irrelevant at the moment. We are investigating a murder, Mr Downs, not hosting a garden party.’

  McGray sat back, stroking his stubble. He looked at me. ‘Ye wanted to get out, didn’t ye, Frey?’ I gave a grouchy nod. ‘Ah’m thinking we can get round this nicely: ye can go with Mr Downs to Fon-teen’s house, check the room again if ye want and get the fiddles for him, then he’ll show ye the way to the Conservatoire, where ye can do the questionings yer all mad about. In the meantime I’ll do more research here.’

  ‘Excellent. Sounds like you are not completely devoid of sense, Nine-Nails.’

  I feared he’d punch me for calling him that, but he simply raised an eyebrow. ‘Och, I got yer approval. Now my life’s complete!’ He looked at his pocket watch. ‘Lunchtime already! Fancy goin’ to the Ensign?’

  I could not possibly eat there again, neither could I keep on punishing my stomach like that – a few days eating like the day before and I would starve. Fortunately, Mr Downs misunderstood McGray, thinking that the invitation was extended to him too, and he refused first.