The Strings of Murder

by Oscar de Muriel

  McGray and I exchanged puzzled looks. For a moment his eyes flickered, giving away how troubled his thoughts were.

  Mrs Caroli noticed it as well and rolled her eyes. ‘You must excuse my husband. All musicians have their share of insanity; it comes with the profession.’

  ‘Ey!’ Caroli protested, playfully patting his wife’s cheek. By the way they looked at each other I could tell how much he cared for her.

  McGray put down his glass of wine. ‘Erm … Mr Caroli, would ye do us another favour? Can ye play a wee bit o’ the piece for us?’

  ‘Oh, I can’t play the complicated passages without practice; this is one of the most difficult pieces ever composed. But I can try some bars of the first movement, the Larghetto. Let me bring my violin.’

  Caroli left the room and Lorena attentively offered us more wine, which I refused.

  ‘How do you find Edinburgh, Inspector Frey?’ she asked then. Some small talk to show she did not mind my peeping, I supposed.

  ‘Tolerably well, Mrs Caroli,’ I lied, ‘thank you. Have you been living here for long?’

  ‘Danilo indeed has – almost seven years now – but not me. My father is a Venetian trader so he splits his time between London and Italy. My sister and I were both born in Venice, but received most of our education in London. I only moved to Scotland after marrying Danilo, a little more than three years ago.’

  ‘That explains the perfect English that you speak,’ I said.

  ‘I appreciate it, but I would be a stupid woman if I could not speak properly, after being educated here since I was eleven.’

  I winked at McGray. ‘Do you see? Perhaps if we take you to London now, in about ten years’ time you will be able to imitate something that resembles actual English.’

  ‘And maybe if I start kicking yer crotch now, I’ll take the dandy jabber outta yer mouth by Christmas time.’

  Caroli came back bringing his violin and a music stand on which McGray placed the score. After quickly fine-tuning the instrument, Caroli inhaled deeply and began playing.

  After listening for a moment I wondered how anyone could relate that music to the Devil. It was the sweetest melody. Written in a six-eight tempo, it almost felt like a waltz – one-two-three, one-two-three. Beautiful notes moving rhythmically like the gentlest swell, I thought they were exactly what the weeping of a fallen angel must sound like.

  ‘I’m afraid that’s all I can play.’

  McGray assented. ‘That’s all right. Can we borrow the sheets for a wee while?’

  ‘By all means, if you think they might help you.’

  Caroli offered us yet more wine and food, but this time both McGray and I refused. We could have stayed chatting in that house well into the night, such was the Carolis’ hospitality, but the streets were getting dark already, so McGray politely refused.

  Before we made our way to the entrance, Mrs Caroli set one of her stiff hands on McGray’s arm. She had an apprehensive look.

  ‘Aye, Mrs Caroli?’

  Lorena bit her lip, but then inhaled deeply and spoke. ‘Inspector, I wanted to … plead with you to do all you can to find the person responsible for Guilleum’s death.’

  ‘What –’

  ‘Nobody has told us anything, but everybody knows by now that poor Guilleum was … murdered. Why else would you be questioning people? I am sorry I am so forward, but … oh, he was the most extraordinary man, and I do not say it because of his talents – genius seldom does people any good – but because he was so, so compassionate. He befriended my husband and me … I think he was our only true friend in town; he understood perfectly what it was like to be a foreigner … an outsider … to be different.’ Her eyes were tainted with sorrow, and she looked down. ‘He was an old friend of my father; in fact he was the one who introduced me to Danilo. Oh, poor Guilleum did so much for our families … More than I can say. He did not deserve such an end. Please, bring him justice.’

  McGray kindly pressed her hand and gave her a long, reassuring look. ‘We’ll do everything we can, be sure o’ that.’ He smiled at her and then tried to ease the mood. ‘So when do ye expect to deliver?’

  I frowned, for in London it is considered terribly inappropriate to ask such questions of a lady. Nevertheless, Mrs Caroli was happy to reply.

  ‘It could happen any moment now. I am looking forward. This is our first child.’

  ‘Merry, merry! D’ye have names in mind?’

  ‘If it is a boy, I was thinking I could call him Giacomo.’

  Just as he heard that, Caroli choked and almost spat out the olives he was eating. ‘Giacomo! Ma sei pazza, Lorena?’

  Mrs Caroli blushed visibly, but then went on as if her husband had not spoken. ‘And if it is a girl I would like to call her Lucía, like my late sister.’

  Caroli only shook his head. Apparently neither name pleased him much.

  Finally they saw us out, and Tucker ran out of the house as one of the servants opened the door. The poor retriever looked relieved as soon as its paws were on the muddy streets.

  Caroli said goodbye with another inappropriate hug and then yelled deafening farewells.

  ‘How annoying these Italians are,’ I spluttered as soon as we were out of their hearing range. ‘They think they can throttle with hugs and suffocate with kisses everyone they stumble across. And do they have to be so unbelievably loud?’

  McGray chuckled. ‘Aye, for youse English the Frenchman is a stinky clown, the Scotsman’s a wild dog, the Spaniard’s a mighty fool, the Italian’s a bandit … Aye, only Englishmen are the pinnacle o’ perfection!’

  ‘But of course! Why else would God let the English rule an Empire upon which the sun never sets?’

  Nine-Nails chuckled with pleasure. ‘Cos even God himself cannae trust leaving an Englishman in the dark.’ McGray looked at his pocket watch. ‘It’s too late to see that Fiddler laddie.’ He shrugged. ‘Nah, we’ll do that tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘Afternoon? Do we have something scheduled in the morning?’

  To my surprise, McGray did not reply, but simply rode on, pulling his horse a little further away from mine. I would have pressed for an answer, but there was something strange in his sudden silence; he was frowning, with his shoulders slightly hunched and an evident discomfort in his stare. It was as though he had wrapped himself in a bubble I should not even attempt to burst.

  17

  McGray’s foul mood would take a while to vanish.

  The next morning he refused breakfast, even though Joan’s bacon had filled the house with delicious smells. I could not eat much either, for Nine-Nails soon came to rush me. I nearly choked when I saw him: he was wearing a clean shirt (well, cleaner than his usual one) and an overcoat that could almost be described as decent.

  ‘Get ready, lass,’ he said instead of good morning. ‘It’s late.’

  He was carrying some items I would have never associated with him: lavender soaps wrapped in ribbons, a package of whisky fudge and a small bouquet of white roses.

  ‘Are you taking that for an investigation? And I am the lass!’

  ‘Oh, shut up and move yer royal arse! The coach I called is already waiting.’

  ‘Coach?’ I asked. ‘The weather is not that bad yet.’

  ‘Aye, but I don’t fancy riding today. Not to where we’re heading.’

  ‘Are you at least going to tell me where that is?’

  ‘Ye’ll see.’

  ‘The case of the haunted house! ’ I roared as the coach took us down south across Lothian Road. ‘I cannot believe you! We are in the middle of a case that –’

  ‘Oh, shut up, ye’ve been whining all the way! I’m sick o’ yer accent! Why do youse Southrons talk as if youse got a piece o’ hot spud in yer mouths?’

  I grunted. ‘Do not get me started on irritating accents, please!’ I banged my fist on the carriage’s door. ‘I cannot believe your attitude. We have no clear trails on Fontaine’s case so far, yet you decide to wander about Edinburgh. What is
there so important in this other case?’

  ‘A man named Brewster died in that house. He was frightened to death one day in his own cellar, or so the post-mortem suggested. And his wife went mad without explanation, but a few weeks later, in the same room. Nobody in the CID cared about their case. Who would care about an elderly man who died without leaving much wealth? Or his lunatic widow? But those people deserve a proper investigation as much as Fon-teen does.’

  Had my entire career not been depending on the success of Fontaine’s case, I perhaps could have agreed with McGray … but not right then.

  ‘So where is this “haunted house” we are going to?’

  ‘Up north, just off the Botanical Gardens, but we’re not going there today. We’re going to the Royal Lunatic Asylum, to find out more about Mrs Brewster’s condition.’

  ‘And I suppose you are taking flowers for the mad lady …’ I said bitterly, glaring at the bouquet and box of sweets McGray was carrying. He went silent in the same odd way he’d done the day before, which made our way all the more uncomfortable.

  The ride took us a good while, for the Royal Lunatic Asylum was at the southernmost edge of Edinburgh. We crossed Castle Rock, the Old Town, a huge green area imaginatively called The Moors, and kept going south until the neighbourhood of Morningside. For the rest of the ride I remained silent, arms crossed and frowning, hating every minute I wasted with such nonsense.

  Finally, when my bad temper was reaching its peak, the carriage descended beside a bright green lawn towards the asylum, which turned out to be the complete opposite of what I expected.

  Most asylums I’d had the chance to see (because of my profession) were filthy gutters; museums of madness. Basically, places to dump the lunatics somewhere to keep them out of sight. Edinburgh’s asylum, in contrast, was a wide, very pretty building with brown sandstone walls and many chimneys. The driver took us around it and I saw nothing but lawns: very well-kept gardens with some pine trees and oaks and birches, and a good number of benches evenly distributed. A few patients were pacing about while some male nurses looked after them.

  The carriage stopped by the main entrance and when the horses’ hoof beats died out, the most peaceful silence came to my ears; only the soft wind, birds twittering and the very occasional voice of a lunatic or a nurse. Even to me, that garden felt like a nice place to have a pleasant read.

  A thin, middle-aged man came out to greet us. Dressed in a spotless black suit and walking in a gentlemanly manner, he looked more like the kind of experienced, confident doctor I would have wanted to find in the morgue. His skull was as bald and smooth as a peach, except for dark, neatly combed hair on his temples, and a long, yet very well-trimmed beard.

  ‘Good day, Mr McGray! I was expecting you.’ He looked down at McGray’s flowers and effeminate gifts. ‘Why, I see you’ll seize the day and pay a visit to Miss McGray too!’

  I blinked in puzzlement. Who on earth was Miss McGray?

  ‘Aye, but we’ll see Mrs Brewster first. Ye ken … business is business. This is Inspector Frey, freshly arrived from London to assist me.’

  ‘Thomas Clouston, the asylum’s superintendent, at your service,’ he said with a firm handshake. ‘Please, follow me.’

  He took us along the asylum’s spacious corridors towards one of the rooms in the West House, which apparently was the side of the building reserved for working-class and pauper patients. Mrs Brewster’s room was on the second level, and when we got there a nurse was leaving with an empty tray.

  ‘Did she eat well, Cas?’ Dr Clouston asked.

  ‘Aye, Doctor. But I had to force her a bit. She wouldn’t have the stock. Thank God she’s resting now.’

  ‘Good work, lass.’

  We walked into a small, austere-looking room with just the essentials: a narrow bed, a ewer and a basin, and the smallest cupboard and night table. A bony, elderly woman was sleeping on the bed, her grey hair carefully tied back. Far from being relaxed, her lined face wore a deep frown and she breathed in sharp inhalations. She almost looked as if she were on her deathbed.

  McGray leaned over her. ‘Is she unwell?’

  ‘No, she is sleeping,’ Dr Clouston replied. ‘She sleeps a lot these days, but apparently it is helping her. She still is deeply unsettled, but her physical health has definitely improved.’

  ‘How long has she been here?’ I asked.

  ‘Next week it will be three months, Mr Frey.’

  ‘Not a terribly long time,’ I said. ‘Considering how long a lunatic can be stranded in these places.’ I noted uncomfortable looks from McGray and Clouston.

  ‘The symptoms remain the same?’ McGray asked.

  ‘Yes, Mr McGray. As I told you in my last letter, she is a typical case of general breakdown, although the symptoms have diminished to an extent. During her first weeks she was in a state of constant anxiety; the nurses would find her utterly distressed in the mornings, gazing upwards and clenching the rail of the bed. She manages to sleep now, but as you can see, it is an unquiet slumber.’

  ‘So … her case is similar to …’

  ‘Yes, Mr McGray.’

  ‘Similar to what?’ I asked, but McGray just shrugged.

  ‘She hasn’t spoken yet?’

  ‘Unfortunately, not a word yet, Mr McGray.’

  I paced around the bed while Dr Clouston continued describing Mrs Brewster’s condition in detail. He was indeed a very professional man.

  ‘So what is your theory, McGray?’ I asked at the first chance. ‘The woogyman in the cellar? What is there so incredible about an elderly widow collapsing?’

  ‘There’s nothing in her medical history to hint she’d lose her wits like this,’ McGray said.

  Dr Clouston nodded. ‘That is right. Nothing I can trace from her way of life. Her husband was retired, and even though they had little wealth, Mr Brewster had saved enough to maintain himself and his wife without any privations. I could, however, attribute her state to the strain of losing her husband.’

  I lifted my eyebrows. ‘I think we have our answer, McGray.’

  He shook his head. ‘Nae, it’s not that simple. She lost her only son many years ago. The laddie was an army cadet in India, only nineteen. Then she lost her parents and three sisters over the years. I think she was prepared to deal with losing a loved one. Besides, that house has a dark history; tragic deaths, one after the other …’

  ‘It is not the same as facing tragedies when one is young and strong. If, as you said, she had lost all her loved ones, it is not hard to imagine her dismay when her husband, her very last companion, left her.’

  ‘And how d’ye explain her losing her mind in the exact same room where her husband died?’

  ‘Why, I do not know! Anything sounds more likely than some ghost scaring this woman’s husband to death … and her to insanity. Shall we go now?’

  McGray looked at me with just as much impatience. ‘Is that how youse Southrons work out all yer cases? No wonder Jack the Ripper is still as free as a bird!’ He turned to the doctor. ‘I think there’s not much we can do right now. Dr Clouston, if she ever speaks send someone to fetch me, no matter what time or day.’

  ‘I will, Mr McGray.’

  ‘Can ye give her files to Frey? I’d like to have a closer look. Ye ken, when nobody’s rushing.’

  ‘By all means, I shall fetch them. Will you please wait for me?’

  ‘Frey can go with ye. In the meantime, I can see Pansy.’

  ‘Very well, then. Do you want me to walk you to –’

  ‘Nae, don’t ye worry, I ken the way.’

  McGray pulled a couple of roses from the bouquet and laid them on the woman’s night table. Then he left the room quickly.

  As Dr Clouston led the way to his office, curiosity finally betrayed me.

  ‘Doctor, may I ask who is this … Miss McGray?’

  He cast me a perplexed look. ‘Has he not told you?’

  ‘Well, we have not had many chances to chat.’

&
nbsp; Dr Clouston took off his spectacles. ‘He is visiting his sister. Miss Amy McGray. He calls her Pansy, like their late parents used to.’

  My mouth must have been a perfect O. Until then I had not realized how little I knew about McGray.

  ‘Well, erm … What is her condition?’

  Clouston’s eyes became sombre. ‘General breakdown, like Mrs Brewster, and equally unjustified. One day, without any apparent reason, her mind simply snapped. The one difference is that Miss McGray also had paroxysms of rage.’ He sighed. ‘Poor girl … she has been here for five years.’

  ‘Five years!’ No wonder McGray had cast me scornful glares when I mocked his flowers and when I remarked how long-lasting mind disorders can be. I cannot express how guilty and embarrassed I felt; I can only say that my cheeks became suddenly hot.

  ‘Are you well, Inspector?’ Clouston said. To his eyes I had simply blushed without reason.

  I shook my head dismissively. ‘Yes, yes. You said five years. Without any improvement at all?’

  ‘Oh no, she improved tremendously during the first few months. She never had violent fits again, and she doesn’t tap her head against the windows any more. After six months or so she even began to show some occasional lapses into sanity’

  ‘Oh, really?’

  ‘Yes – well, petty things to the untrained eye. We have a suicidal lord among our patients, and I encouraged him to read aloud to her. Sometimes she seemed to understand and follow the plots: I once saw her biting her fingernails at the climax of a Wilkie Collins, but I am afraid that is all we will ever get from her.’

  Something in Clouston’s manner had changed. The man had talked about Mrs Brewster’s symptoms in a neutral, merely scientific approach, yet he seemed deeply, personally concerned for Miss McGray’s state. He was trying to hide it, but that slight tension in his eyes and jaw simply betrayed him. Years of questioning witnesses and suspects had given me the knack of telling when someone was holding something back, yet at that time I preferred not to question him any further.