Before we made our way to the entrance George stormed out through the backdoor, his cheeks red with rage.
‘Master! C’min! See what that mad hag’s done with the house!’
I covered my face in utter frustration and we walked into, well, some place that looked nothing like the house we’d left in the morning.
The mountain of boxes was gone from the main hall; the rug had been washed to reveal that, underneath its former layer of dust, it bore a Persian pattern; the furnishings and the wood panelling on the walls had been polished, and the chandelier lighted it all up with an entire new set of candles.
Joan, in fact, looked as if she’d absorbed all the scruffiness of the place; her apron stained and greasy, her hem torn in a few spots, her hair a mess and her reddened face peppered with beads of sweat. Still, she was grinning with pride when she saw us come in.
‘D’you like it, master?’
‘To say the least!’ I said, trying to contain my true and utter delight. ‘Did you do all this on your own?’
‘Nae! She brought an army o’ tatty brats to help her,’ George yelled.
‘You didn’t expect me to clean years and years of filth all by myself, did you? Oh, and I also spent some money on new pots. I wasn’t gonna cook my master’s dinner in one of those old spittoons you had here!’
‘Dinner!’ McGray cried, stepping into the breakfast room, where a steaming beef stew was waiting for us. My mouth watered as soon as I smelled it – after a whole day riding in the frosty streets, the hot, meaty stew was precisely what we needed.
McGray attacked the food with utter pleasure (I guessed he had not eaten a decent homemade meal for years). Minutes later he was smacking his lips and letting out a delighted belch.
‘Frey, I’m not gonna miss ye when the case is done; I’m gonna miss yer maid.’
George grunted and McGray patted his back with affection. ‘Come on, George, don’t be jealous! If anything, this woman’s givin’ ye more free time.’
Nine-Nails burped again, his belch half mixed into his following words: ‘Come on, lassie, we’ve got a good deal to discuss.’
We left Joan and George to clear the table. As they did so, the pair argued in angry hisses, among which I could made out ‘ye fat cow’ and ‘you ancient wreckage’.
I joined McGray by the big fireplace in his messy library. He was already leaning over his small table, where Caroli’s open score still lay. Tucker was sleeping peacefully next to him.
‘Gimme the piece o’ sheet.’
‘Pardon me?’
‘The piece o’ music sheet!’
‘Oh, I see!’
I gave him the now dry paper and he went through the score, holding the reddened piece over it as he turned the pages.
‘What are you doing?’ I asked.
‘I wanna make sure ’tis the tune we’re looking for. I didn’t want to show the bloody piece o’ paper in front o’ the pregnant lady. It’s a very auld copy, copied by hand, so this particular bit may not be on the same spot.’
McGray scanned over the pages for another minute, his three long fingers and stump running through the stave lines.
‘Och, there it is!’ he exclaimed.
He held the torn corner over the handwritten notes. It was a short passage, but it was clear that every single note matched.
McGray rubbed his face heavily, the golden glow of the fire casting shadows on his lined face. His frown was deeper than usual. ‘Looks like my suspicions were true …’
‘What suspicions?’
‘Ever since Campbell told me about this case I’ve had this theory in my head, but I didn’t want to tell ye until there was enough evidence. Now, lassie, I need ye to do what I brought ye for.’
‘And that would be …?’
‘To hear my theory and then judge it with an unclouded head.’
I lounged on the armchair in front of McGray and lit one of the Cuban cigars that Joan had brought me. ‘Tell me everything. This should be entertaining.’
‘I confess, Frey, that when ye said that I would only dance to folksy tunes, ye weren’t entirely wrong. I dunno anything about those almighty composers and players, except for Tartini and Paganini. And I ken about them only cos they’ve one thing in common: they are believed to have had dealings with the Devil.’
‘And the Devil appears to be your area of expertise.’
‘Thanks! Even if ye said it mockingly. Ye heard the tales o’ Tartini and his sonata composed by the Devil …’
‘Allegedly composed by the Devil,’ I remarked.
‘Whatever! Now ye also need to hear Paganini’s legends.’
‘I know that Paganini is believed to be the best violin player in history.’
‘Indeed. So darn good that some folks thought him … twisted.’
McGray stood up, plunged his hand in a pile of books and pulled one out swiftly. The ease with which he found his way was most impressive; he’d probably be able to find a specific sheet of paper in that room even with his eyes covered.
‘Hear what some people thought about him,’ he said, turning the pages of the thin volume and then reading aloud. ‘“The excitement that he caused was so unusual, the magic that he practised upon the fantasy of his hearers so powerful, that they could not satisfy themselves with a natural explanation. Old tales of witches and ghosts came into their minds. They tried to explain the wonder of his playing, to fathom the magic of his genius by invoking the supernatural. They even suggested that he’d dedicated his soul to the Devil! There is in his appearance something so demonic that one looks for a glimpse of a cloven hoof.” ’
‘You said it yourself; that is nothing but ignorant people trying to explain something they did not understand.’
‘Aye, but even the wildest legends have their share o’ truth. Paganini, among other oddities, had abnormally long fingers.’
He showed me an engraved page which depicted a very bony, rather handsome violinist in the centre of an astounded crowd. His hands, casually holding the violin, looked terribly long and sturdy. I calculated that, if that portrait was accurate, those fingers would have easily spanned more than two-thirds of the violin’s fingerboard.
McGray pulled out a piece of paper that was inserted in the book. The sheet was crammed with handwriting. ‘Here are the notes I scribed when I met a very auld chap who’d seen Paganini playing. He told me that his fingers looked like long claws; his hand could go all the way to the highest notes with no trouble. And everybody agreed that when he played there was something unnatural, eerie about him.’
I let out a puff of fragrant smoke. ‘And that was enough for people to say that he had dealings with the Devil?’
‘That, and the stories about his dead mistresses, and that throughout his career he refused to play with metallic strings. He only used catgut.’
I raised my head slowly once I heard that. Things indeed were beginning to take shape. ‘Tell me.’
‘Ye ken that catgut is not made from cats …’
‘But from goats. Yes, I know.’
‘Well, there was word that Paganini didn’t use strings made from goat bowels … but from humans …’ My mind whirled with those words, and somehow the crackling of the fire appeared louder to my ears. ‘And he didn’t use guts from mere strangers,’ McGray added, ‘but from his mistresses.’
I felt a sudden chill, recalling the ghastly photographs showing Fontaine’s open carcass and also the report from Dr Reed: Fontaine’s body was missing several feet of intestines.
‘Paganini had many, many lassies, and several women around him died in mysterious circumstances through the years. The tale became famous; the tale o’ Paganini murdering his women, trapping their souls into his fiddle, and then using their guts to make strings.’
‘I see now,’ I muttered, ‘but you look desperate to tell me the whole thing, so go ahead.’
McGray sat again, his blue eyes glowing next to the fire. ‘The murderer is not trying to imitate Ja
ck the Ripper, but Giuseppe Tartini; someone wants to use the same fiddle the Devil played – the one that Paganini used to encage the souls o’ his lovers – and to play it with human catgut. This bastard is a clever one too; he’s not using just any guts, but the guts of a virtuoso, and he’s used the symbol – the five eyes – to tell Auld Nick what he’s up to; to invite him to appear and play his violin once his set o’ strings is ready. Most likely he wants the Devil to compose another sonata.’
McGray then sat back, as if those words had drained all his energy. ‘So?’ he sighed. ‘Makes any sense to yer scientific mind?’
I savoured the tobacco for a little while as I thought. It was a great deal of information to digest.
‘In my opinion,’ I finally said, ‘those tales about Paganini are utter rubbish, and Tartini’s dream of the Devil sounds awfully like a frustrated man appealing to superstition in order to draw some attention to his work …’ I raised a hand as I saw that McGray was about to protest. ‘Nevertheless, stories do not need to be true to poison the minds of disturbed people. Now, Nine-Nails, do not, do not get used to hearing me say this, but …’ I had to gather strength to utter the next words. ‘What you say does make sense. Even more, I doubt that all these things – Tartini’s violin, the score, the symbol, the missing intestines – can be explained simultaneously by any other theory.’
McGray grinned. ‘Good, Frey. We finally are on the same ground!’
‘Indeed.’ I nodded. ‘And your theory narrows down the number of suspects quite a bit: We are definitely looking for a violinist; someone young and slender enough to climb and crawl through a chimney. And, according to Joe Fiddler, Fontaine was worried about someone seizing his violin.’
‘Yet the fiddle wasn’t taken after his murder.’
‘Exactly. That immediately makes me think of … inheritance.’
McGray’s eyes widened. ‘Do ye suspect that scrawny Theodore Wood?’
‘Indeed.’
He stroked his stubble for a moment, his blue eyes fixed on the fire. ‘Well, the laddie does look skinny enough to get himself through a chimney, and now that I think about it, we found those pieces o’ score and glass. Remember ye said the killer couldn’t be very skilled?’
‘Yes. I can definitely imagine Wood clenching things clumsily while climbing up the chimney. Besides, he got disgustingly thrilled when we gave him the violin; he almost made me shudder.’
McGray nodded slowly. ‘Indeedy. Now we need to bring the Devil’s mark and the missing guts into the picture.’
‘Do you think that Wood could be involved in satanic rituals?’
‘Ah’m not sure. He doesn’t look like someone into witchcraft to me. We can find out easily if we search his house, though. I ken exactly what we should be looking for.’
I savoured the last bit of my cigar while walking out of the library. ‘Excellent. I will get a search warrant signed tomorrow morning so that we can investigate immediately. Finally, it seems like we are getting somewhere.’
It is time … yes, it is time.
But one needs to be sure.
Just a quick trip to check on him. Just a little jaunt to see.
He is rotting …
20
The following morning I rose more than an hour before it was time to go. Knowing that I could not possibly sleep again, I got myself ready and took extra time to give myself a perfect shave. I missed going to a proper barber, though.
‘You’re up early, master,’ Joan said when she saw me coming down the stairs. ‘You want some breakfast already?’
‘Yes. Is McGray not up yet?’
‘No. I heard him snoring like a bear when I walked by his room.’
Joan served me a cup of strong coffee and I thought I’d use the spare time to sit back and relax with the newspaper. At least that was my intention, but I’d not had three sips when someone knocked on the door. Joan went to the entrance but George ran frantically to overtake her.
‘I’ll get that, ye stupid cow!’
Once more Joan burst into vulgar yelling, so loud this time that I utterly lost my temper. I tossed the paper onto the table and followed them, intending to scold the pair as never before. Nevertheless, I had no chance to say a word. George opened the door and I saw the very last person I could have ever expected:
My youngest brother, Elgie. Wrapped up in a thick overcoat that made him look terribly slender and childish, he was smiling at me as if it were Christmas morning. He carried a trunk and his violin case – God, how sick I was of violins!
‘What the heck are you doing here? ’
His smile would not give way. ‘Is that any means of talking to your favourite brother?’
‘My favourite brother! ’ I squeaked. ‘After this, you have switched places with bloody Oliver!’
‘At least you did not say Laurence!’
‘Oh, shush! I am not bloody joking! Did you not receive my telegram? Joan! Did you not send the damn telegram? I told you that it was urgent!’
‘But I did, sir! I swear I did.’
‘Why, do not scold the poor woman,’ Elgie intervened. ‘It must have reached home when I was already on my way. I caught this marvellous train a couple of days ago. I would have arrived sooner, but I had to stop overnight at Beattock Summit. I did not know that the Scottish landscape was so inspiring: those mountains I saw on the rail … and that castle and the hills in this town! Brother, you and I are going to have a lot of fun.’
I covered my exasperated face with both hands. ‘Fun! Do you think that I am on a holiday? I am far too busy, and attending to your whims is the last thing I need! You will catch the next train back home, do you hear me?’
I did not realize how strident my shouting was until McGray came downstairs, his still sleepy face quite put out.
‘Blast! The one day I manage to sleep like a log! What’s going on here, Frey? Don’t ye think it’s enough with these folks’ clatter –’ he then saw my brother. ‘Who the heck’s that laddie?’
Before I had the chance to speak, Elgie walked forward, extended his hand and greeted McGray with a foolish grin. ‘Mr Elgie Frey, sir. Inspector Frey’s youngest brother.’
Not only did Nine-Nails not shake his hand, but he cast him a killer look as he yelled at me. ‘Whaaat! For God’s sake! Am I goin’ to receive all the bloody Freys in the country? Weren’t ye happy bringing yer old hag and yer mare and yer mountains o’ useless shite, ye pretentious London lassie?’
Elgie blinked and looked at me in confusion. ‘Pardon me, brother. Why did this gentleman just call you a London lass–’
‘Enough! ’ I roared. ‘McGray, save your smelly breath; he is not staying.’
‘But, brother –’
‘You are not staying! Joan, send him to London on the first train, steamer, horse or mule that you find. If I see him here when I return, I will kick you out; I swear I will.’
I had my overcoat and hat fetched and was about to leave the house, but then Elgie planted himself firmly in front of me.
‘I am not leaving, Ian. I cannot believe that you, of all people, are asking me to go home. How it is right for you to come all this way for your career, yet you expect me to stay home and ignore mine? First violin in an Arthur Sullivan debut! How can you ask me to let that pass me by?’
I massaged my temples. I could hear Catherine shouting what a terrible influence I’d been on her little boy. Right then, however, I did not have time to argue.
‘Very well, stay a few days if you must. We shall talk whenever I have some time to spare.’ Then I turned to McGray. ‘I will send him to the New Club. They shall find him some lodgings, so do not worry about having more of my kin in this derelict pigsty of yours.’
I walked out before Elgie could say another word. I knew that his presence would only mean trouble.
As we mounted our horses McGray said, ‘I wouldn’t have minded the laddie staying here. Honest.’
I arched an eyebrow, intrigued by McGray’s change of
attitude. ‘Why, are you feeling guilty now?’
‘Nae. Don’t be such a cod’s head! But the laddie seems much nicer than ye. He definitely has some guts.’
‘Thanks, but I would rather have him as far from my work as possible.’
We rode to the City Chambers in silence, and on our way a poignant thought came to me; that Nine-Nails surely missed the company of a sibling.
Campbell’s eyes kept moving from left to right, scanning the still unsigned search warrant that lay on his desk.
‘That is one bold theory, Frey.’
‘It may sound like such, sir, but the evidence speaks for itself.’
‘Did you say that McGray suspected this all along? Why did he not mention it before?’
‘He told me that he lacked enough evidence. To be quite frank, I believe that McGray wanted this theory to be true, which turned him cautious. You must know how obsessed he is with anything related to the Devil.’
‘Only too well! Did he also suspect this Wood chap?’
‘No, sir. That was my natural conclusion.’
Campbell arched his thick eyebrows. ‘Good, good. Together, you two make one fair inspector.’ He signed the warrant and handed it to me. ‘Search as much as you please, Frey. I do hope you are on the right track. You are not in a position to make any mistakes.’
After that pleasant warning I joined McGray at the front yard of the City Chambers, where our horses were waiting, and we headed to the Conservatoire.
‘What did the old fox have to tell ye?’
I shrugged with a grumpy face. ‘He wanted to moan, basically. Dear Campbell is as sweet as a kick in the crotch. He signed the warrant; that is all that matters.’
We went north and made it to the Conservatoire precisely as the dark clouds broke in a relentless rain. McGray and I dismounted our horses and walked hastily to the entrance, our faces lashed by the cold raindrops. Fortuitously, Mr Ardglass happened to be talking to a couple of students in the main hall, so it was not necessary to announce us.
‘Why, Inspector Frey!’ he said to me with a smile, which faded when he turned to McGray. His hideous whiskers seemed to stand on end. ‘What can I do for you? Do you need to question anyone else?’
The Strings of Murder Page 17
