The Strings of Murder

by Oscar de Muriel

  ‘Who’re ya calling witch?’ Joan howled. I had to put a hand on her shoulder to keep her from screaming out all the slander I know her capable of.

  ‘McGray, this is Joan, my personal servant. I asked her to bring my essentials from London.’

  ‘Yer essentials! ’

  ‘She even got a dammed mare and pushed it in the stable with yer horse, master!’ George snapped.

  ‘Why, you brought Philippa!’ I exclaimed, grinning like a child on Christmas Day. Then my eyes met McGray’s furious face and I had to clear my throat. ‘Joan, I gave you a very concise list of the things you were supposed to fetch! Why did you bring all these bundles?’

  ‘I only brought what you asked me, sir,’ Joan retorted, handing me the two-page list that I had written myself. I scanned it swiftly and checked the piles of stuff around me. I was sure there was a mistake, but very soon it became clear that I had slightly underestimated the size of my requirements.

  ‘Dear Lord …’ I sighed. ‘I never thought this list would turn out to be so voluminous.’

  ‘Sir, the one thing I brought that’s not in the list is your mare, but Mr Elgie insisted. He said that you would not be happy without a proper mount.’

  I nodded and slowly turned back to McGray. ‘Is there any, ehem, problem if I keep these things here?’

  McGray shook his head. ‘I imagine I have no choice.’

  Joan sighed in relief and extended a hand, waiting for the settlement that I had promised, but then a brilliant idea hit me.

  ‘Actually … McGray, I suppose I should be entitled to have a personal servant. Am I not? I would prefer to have Joan staying here.’

  ‘Impossible! We only have rooms for two servants!’ George cried, and McGray had to restrain him just as I had restrained Joan.

  ‘We shan’t be here for too long,’ I added promptly, recalling the poor suit that Agnes had patched and the nasty, lumpy porridge she served in the mornings. ‘After all, Commissioner Monro is supposed to arrange my permanent accommodation in less than a fortnight …’

  ‘And I hope he does,’ Joan spat in a monotone. ‘This place is a whiffy hole!’

  I cast an infuriated look at her. You are not helping! I mouthed.

  McGray shook his head again; I could tell how sick of me he was. ‘How can ye call all this twaddle yer essentials?’ He walked around and picked one of the boxes. ‘Earl Grey tea! Cos we wild Scots don’t have tea, I suppose! And now ye want to be served by an Englishwoman! That’s typical. Wherever youse English go, there youse take yer teas, yer jams, yer nauseating cucumber sandwiches!’ He looked at Joan. ‘And yer hogbeasts too!’

  Joan’s eyes almost popped out of her face. ‘Hogbeast your mother, you nine-nailed prick!’

  Joan had been in Edinburgh but a few hours, yet she already knew the infamous nickname! McGray blinked for a second and I covered my face. Then I heard what I least expected: McGray exploding in laughter.

  ‘I like this one, Frey! She stays!’

  Immediately we heard George’s frantic howl: ‘What? Master, ye cannae be serious!’

  ‘I’m sorry, George. Agnes’s pottage makes me gag, and she’s not kept her promise of not drinking when she’s lighting the fireplaces. Besides, this one looks like she can cook properly.’

  George went on complaining but McGray had made up his mind. As they kept arguing Joan approached me. ‘Mr Frey, I have two letters for you.’

  ‘Letters?’

  ‘Yes. One’s from your father and one’s from Mr Elgie.’

  I took the messages. ‘Well, I can imagine what my father has got to tell me, but Elgie?’

  First I saw a thick pack of paper sealed in wax. My father never liked envelopes; he always preferred to fold the letters on themselves as in the times of my grandfather. I opened the seal to find that the old Mr Frey had rambled on and on for eighteen sheets – front and back. His compact, elegant hand covered the paper in never-ending paragraphs containing all sorts of reprimands, which soon invited me to toss the letter aside.

  I crumpled it up and gave it back to Joan, then opened the other envelope. It was a very short note, undoubtedly by the hasty pen of my youngest brother:

  Hello Ian,

  How are the Scots treating you? I would tell you how shocking it was to hear about your departure, but I am sure Father must have covered that already in lengthy prose. He has been grumpier than usual – the vein in his temple has never looked bluer.

  Nevertheless, one very good thing has come out of your calamitous situation – as father refers to it. It took some convincing, but he has finally let me join Sullivan’s orchestra in the Lyceum Theatre. His main concern was my not having connections in Edinburgh, but since you are there now, he cannot object.

  I must warn you that he has asked me to give him a full account of your circumstances, but I suppose we can concoct some credible lies together.

  You must excuse the short letter, but I must start packing presently.

  I shall take the next suitable train and meet you very soon.

  Your favourite and very excited brother, Elgie

  ‘What the hell! Joan, did you know that Elgie was planning to come?’

  ‘No, sir, but he did tell me he had a surprise for you.’

  ‘What a surprise!’ I grumbled. ‘Joan, I need you to send a telegram first thing tomorrow morning.’

  As I spoke I ran to my room to get some ink and paper. In the telegram I told Elgie in the firmest of ways that I did not want him in Scotland. While chasing a Ripper with McGray leading the charge, the last thing I needed was my little brother jumping around and asking me to walk him across town.

  The next morning Agnes simmered her last ghastly porridge. McGray gave her a generous settlement and the woman left the house with a wide grin.

  George, on the other hand, did not take things so calmly. The old man was furious, casting bitter glances at Joan and me, and mumbling unintelligibly whenever we entered a room. He exploded that very morning: as McGray and I stepped out of the house, we heard him yelling at Joan.

  ‘Now take all that shite out o’ the way, ye auld nag!’

  Joan’s retort was such a display of roaring vulgarity that even the sturdy McGray seemed to squint a bit.

  Since we both had horses now, McGray preferred to ride to the City Chambers instead of taking a coach. The morning air was damp with a fine drizzle but, wrapped up in one of the thick overcoats that Joan had brought, I could hardly feel it. I was happy to mount Philippa, my lively white mare, but could not help feeling uneasy while we went along the streets of Old Town; being showered with the contents of some chamber pot was a constant threat.

  ‘Nice beast ye have,’ McGray said.

  ‘Oh, I am proud of her,’ I replied, patting Philippa’s neck. ‘A Bavarian Warmblood, she is.’

  ‘Nae, I meant yer maid. That woman’s got a sharp tongue!’

  I could only laugh. ‘Well, now that you mention it, you have a good mount yourself. Is it an Anglo-Arab?’

  ‘Aye, it is.’

  ‘Yes, I recognized the deep chest and the sloping shoulders. Good animals; strong as the English thoroughbreds, yet without the temperament. What is his name?’

  ‘Rye,’ McGray said proudly.

  ‘Rye! What kind of name is Rye? You might as well call it oatmeal … or wheat …’

  ‘I’m sorry it’s not as all-michty-arsey as ye’d like. What d’ye call yer mare? Queen Margot?’

  ‘Philippa, actually,’ I replied. I preferred not mention that I had named her after Philippa of Hainault, the wife of Edward III.

  Nine-Nails chuckled. ‘And ye still wonder why I call ye names …’

  I sighed. ‘Anyhow, what is your plan for today? Again, I would suggest we question the luthier.’

  ‘Aye, we need to see that laddie. Did ye bring the piece o’ paper?’

  ‘Yes, it is in my pocket. Do you think that the luthier will recognize it?’

  ‘We’re not going to the luth
ier just yet. I wanna show that score to someone else.’

  I remembered immediately. ‘Do you mean Caroli?’

  ‘Aye. The laddie sent me a note. He found the name o’ the tune and is asking us to visit him.’

  ‘Why didn’t he tell you in the note?’ I protested with a deep frown.

  ‘Dunno, and it really intrigues me.’ McGray looked ahead with impatience. ‘If he wants to see us in person, he must have something very important – or very delicate – to say.’

  16

  Danilo Caroli owned a fine house on Hill Street, actually not too far from Moray Place.

  To my surprise, it was Caroli himself who opened the door for us, and before I could do anything he received me with a rib-cracking hug and a resounding kiss on each cheek. I simply stood stiff and waited for him to draw his hands off me.

  ‘Mediterraneans …’ I whispered while he gave McGray the same inappropriate welcome. ‘Disgustingly forward.’

  ‘Come in, Inspectors! My wife ’as prepared some antipasti.’

  ‘Mr Caroli, we do not have time for –’

  ‘Haud yer wheesht!’ McGray whispered at me.

  I whispered too. ‘Sorry, could you repeat that? Erm, in English?’

  ‘Och, shut up and get in!’ Then he told Tucker to wait outside.

  ‘Oh, let the dog in,’ Caroli said. ‘My Lorena loves animals. She’s got three large dogs ’erself!’ Despite being less than four feet away from McGray, Caroli shouted those words from the bottom of his stomach (and the rest of the conversation would proceed at that volume).

  Patting our backs with excessive enthusiasm, Caroli led us to a small parlour furnished with Moorish benches crammed with cushions. These were arranged around a cedar-wood chest, richly engraved, that the Carolis used as a coffee table. My eye was caught by the wooden carving in its centre; it was a Venetian gondola complete with its gondolier, and crafted in the most exquisite way. The folds in the man’s clothes, the muscles in his arms and even the veins in his clenched hands were all perfect.

  ‘Oh, ’ere is my wife, Lorena!’ Caroli pushed us forward when the young lady entered the room.

  Mrs Caroli, almost as tall as her husband, was a ravishingly beautiful woman with full red lips and eyes as black as charcoal. Her hair was a cascade of dark curls, framing the white, smooth skin of her cheeks, and she had the most welcoming smile. She wore a mourning dress as black as her eyes, which not only highlighted her white skin, but also her round belly, for she was in the last stages of pregnancy. I saw her hands swathed in black lace mittens, gripping a rosary against her lap. There was something odd in the way she clasped the beads, as if her hands were incongruously tense underneath her pleasant countenance. I would soon learn why.

  ‘Welcome, Inspectors. Please, have a seat.’ Unlike her husband, her voice was soft and had a pleasant southern English accent; only occasionally would an open vowel or a rolling R escape from her lips.

  The three dogs Caroli had just mentioned were in fact hounds that came trotting around her: huge, dark and drooling. Tucker did not look too keen to approach them, and simply remained crouching in a corner, whimpering from time to time. The golden retriever would not move from that spot throughout our visit.

  McGray and I sat down as Caroli called his servants with animated yelling. Two girls and a boy came in immediately, carrying bowls of olives, crusty bread, cold meats, a jug of wine and a cruet set with vinegar and olive oil.

  ‘Mr Caroli, this is not a social visit …’ I began, but Caroli was shouting commands in fast Italian, and the girls were already pouring wine for us in fat glasses. As if Caroli’s voice were not enough noise, the dogs started to bark madly around his wife. She had some difficulty to let go of the beads, and then used her knuckle to push a few pieces of bread off the plates for the dogs to eat from the floor. I had a glimpse of her fingers, which were stiff and knotty, before she quickly gripped the beads again.

  It did not take a genius to tell that she suffered severe arthritis. What did surprise me was to see such a serious case in such a young woman; arthritis is mostly an ailment of the elderly. Unless it is triggered by another condition.

  Unfortunately, Mrs Caroli noticed my staring. She caught my eye and I believe I even winced.

  ‘I shall take the dogs back to their shack,’ she said, visibly uncomfortable. ‘You gentlemen have important matters to discuss.’

  Caroli jumped off his feet. ‘Do you need to do that now? Let me ’elp you.’

  ‘No, you need to attend the inspectors.’ Caroli’s face would not relax, but Lorena was already pushing the dogs away with her ever clenched hands. ‘Don’t worry, Danilo. I’ll be very careful. And don’t imply I am clumsy; I do know how to lock the shack.’ Then she leaned over the nearest dog and patted its back with affection, ‘No bad boy will escape today, will you?’

  She smiled at her husband and, reluctantly, Caroli let her go.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he told us. ‘She’s expecting our first child, as you can see, but all the same she jumps and dances and takes care of the animals … It makes me uneasy, especially with ’er condition –’

  ‘We understand,’ I said promptly. I felt too embarrassed to let him go on talking about his wife’s infirmities.

  Mr Caroli then almost forced us to partake of his bread and olives and wine. McGray seemed quite happy; he tried to tempt Tucker with a slice of ham, now that the huge hounds were gone, but the dog refused to leave the safety of his corner. I, as usual, was impatient to get started with the inquiries.

  ‘So ye’ve found the score,’ McGray finally said.

  As if she had read his mind, Mrs Caroli came back with one of her maids, who brought a bundle of paper. ‘Danilo, I think this is what you wanted the inspectors to see.’

  ‘Oh, yes. I found Fontaine’s last loan in the registry, but I thought you might like to see the book itself, so I borrowed this – we keep two copies of all scores in the library.’

  The maid handed me the papers, which were very old and rudimentarily sewn together in a soft leather cover. I opened it in the middle and needed but a glance to tell that it was a very difficult piece to play; dotted with quavers, semiquavers, ligatures and very long trills all the way through. I turned to the first page to see the title. What a surprise it turned out to be!

  ‘Il trillo del diavolo! ’ I read, and McGray jumped on his seat.

  ‘The what?’

  ‘Fontaine was playing the Devil’s Trill Sonata. How fitting!’ I arched my eyebrows. ‘In fact … it is a bit too fitting.’

  ‘Tartini’s sonata?’ McGray asked, before even having a chance to look at the score. I looked at the front page, and the composer was indeed Giuseppe Tartini.

  ‘Do you know about him?’ I asked in bewilderment. ‘I thought you would only listen to tunes with names like “Toss the Feathers” or “Tripping down the Stairs”.’

  ‘Nae, ye halfwit!’ McGray exclaimed, looking revolted. ‘Those are Irish! Actually I ken the story of that Tartini chap very well.’

  ‘So you know the legend be’ind the Devil’s Trill?’ Caroli asked.

  ‘I do not,’ I declared. ‘My brother might have mentioned it to me at some point – he is a proficient violinist, you see – but I do not recall it just now.’

  ‘Mr Caroli, can ye please tell the story to Inspector Frey? I think he’ll give it more credit if he hears it from anyone but me.’

  ‘By all means, Inspector. I like telling that story.’ Caroli cheerfully bit into a slice of bread soaked in olive oil before beginning the tale. ‘Well, Giuseppe Tartini was one of the chief composers of the baroque period. Early eighteenth century, I’m talking about. The man was gifted, but, at least in my opinion, far from being the best of ’is time; ’e began to play the violin at a late age, at about twenty, or so I read, and then spent several years without being very successful. This sonata changed it all, not only because of the music, which is extraordinary by itself, but also because of the way ’e came to
compose it. One night Tartini dreamt that the Devil appeared to ’im and took up ’is violin to play. According to ’im, it was the most intelligent, most beautiful music ever ’eard. When Tartini woke up ’e tried to write it down and then composed the sonata from those notes. Until the day of ’is death Tartini claimed that what ’e wrote is not even a shadow of what the Devil played in ’is dream.’

  McGray spoke before I could even scoff at that last remark. ‘But there are other versions of that story, ain’t there?’

  ‘Oh, yes. The grim one. Some people say that it was not a dream; that Tartini in fact sold ’is soul to the Devil in exchange for the best violin piece ever written. It’s also said that the Devil put a curse in the music itself.’

  ‘A curse?’ I repeated. ‘What sort of curse?’

  ‘It’s a curse on anyone attempting to play it. And there is some basis for that belief: the last movement is fiendishly difficult to play, even for the maestros … And also, there are some passages – the Trills – that can give you cramps in the wrist after playing them for a long while. I’ve ’eard of violinists who even damaged the nerves of their ’ands from playing this sonata – and never played again!’

  I pondered for a moment. Under any other circumstances I would have thought it an old wives’ tale, but it actually gave some shape to all the tangle of evidence – a morbid shape, in fact. ‘What is your … opinion of those tales, Mr Caroli?’

  He started by saying what I was already thinking. ‘Well, you can always believe that Tartini made it all up to give some distinction to ’is music, or that the Devil’s dream came from a drunken night or terrible indigestion …’ then he showed a hint of a smile. ‘Still, I sometimes want to believe it’s true. The story does ’ave its charm.’

  ‘Charm!’

  ‘Yes, Inspector. Well, at least for us violinists. The Devil’s Trill Sonata was the first truly virtuoso piece written for an instrument. See, instrumentation was nothing but an accompaniment for singers before that; very simple and very dull to play. The Devil’s sonata drew attention to the beauty of abstract sounds instead of the words and the voice. Personally, I think it’s exciting to believe that all the rich instrumental music that we ’ave today was triggered by a gift from the Devil.’