The Strings of Murder

by Oscar de Muriel

  I groaned. ‘There doesn’t need to be a number. He might be planning to keep doing it again and again …’ I kneaded my temples with frustration: ‘God! As if things were not bad enough already!’

  ‘Don’t get so whiny. Things can always get worse; but we’ve still got some trails to follow. I’ll take another look at that street where Caroli died.’

  ‘A waste of time, I must say.’

  ‘Perhaps. But I think I can get a better idea now in the daylight.’

  ‘If this sickly, murky Scottish gleam can be called daylight …’

  ‘Och! Look who’s talking! Yer London’s skies are smokier now than right after the 1666 Great Fire.’

  ‘Oh, shush! You are right; we should follow whichever trail we … h – ha –’ I yawned again, my mouth open so widely I could have swallowed McGray. I was so tired my eyes were itching.

  ‘Ye look as battered as a canary caught in a cockfight. We better go home and get that maid o’ yers to make us something to eat. Then I want ye to rest; I need ye to go to the ball o’ that bitch Lady Ardglass. Ye better have yer beauty sleep before that.’

  My exhaustion was turning into apathy, so I did not even bother to contradict McGray. I simply followed him when he had our horses fetched.

  Even though the worst of the storm had passed, the shower was still persistent as we rode back to Moray Place. I saw murky rivers of rain flowing down the slopes of Princes Street Gardens. The city’s main railway ran along the deepest point of the indented lawns, where huge storm drains kept the endless Scottish rain from flooding the rails.

  Joan had not been expecting us to return so soon but she quickly improvised a wholesome meal: fried eggs with thick slices of crispy bacon, fresh bread, black coffee for me and thin ale for McGray – I could not help noticing that she served him the thickest rashers of bacon.

  We dug in happily – it still surprises me how much a good, fatty serving of meat can do for the mood.

  ‘Och, there’s something else I must do!’ McGray said, the corners of his mouth peppered with breadcrumbs and egg yolk. ‘I must tell Mrs Caroli about her husband.’ He shook his head, a sombre look on his face. ‘That isn’t going to be easy.’

  I decorously wiped my mouth with the napkin. ‘In fact, I would like to be there as well; the prospect is gloomy to say the least, but it is a matter of honour.’

  George was coming in to pick up our dishes: ‘An honourable Englishman! I thought I’d never get to see one!’

  Sadly, Joan was standing right behind him. ‘Don’t talk to my master like that, ya creased sack of spuds! ’

  McGray and I exchanged tired looks and left the breakfast room before our servants’ rants turned into carnage.

  Just as McGray was opening the back door to the stable, Joan ran towards him carrying a freshly pressed overcoat. ‘Master McGray, take this! ’Tis freezing out there!’

  I could not tell whose eyes were more bewildered, mine or McGray’s.

  We made swift progress to Hill Street to see Mrs Caroli, and as soon as one of the servants opened the door we heard the newborn crying – or rather roaring – in the most desperate manner.

  ‘Are they doing well?’ McGray asked, while the servant led us to the stairs.

  ‘Our lady’s fine … well, as good as she could be after all that’s happened. But the poor baby is ill; feverish. The doctor came and told us to keep the boy cool … but there’s nothing else he can do.’

  ‘So it was a boy,’ McGray said.

  ‘Aye, sir. It was a boy … Just like master Caroli wanted.’

  Before going upstairs I had a glimpse of the main parlour, where the youngest maid, the one who’d talked to me the night before, was beginning to remove the flowers from the funeral. The half-withered petals hung languidly from the bent stems, as if to announce that death had truly arrived in that house.

  ‘I told you babies don’t do well in this family,’ she murmured as she worked.

  I grimaced as soon as we walked into the upstairs bedroom, for it had the characteristic reek of illness, and then I almost shivered when I saw the poor woman lying on the bed.

  Her face was simply ghastly: her skin as pale and dry as parchment, her dark hair utterly dishevelled, and her eyes, bordered by dark rings, were misery itself. It was as though giving birth had drained half her life. When she saw us she frowned in the most awful sorrow; she understood that our presence meant harrowing news.

  McGray kneeled by the side of the bed and carefully held one of her hands. The contrast between her stiff, twisted fingers and his thick, strong hand could not have been greater. ‘Mrs Caroli, we hope yer not goin’ through a lot o’ pain.’

  ‘I can get through this,’ she said, with a firm voice which did not match her fatigued looks. ‘There is just one thing I need to know. Pray tell me; where is my husband?’

  ‘I mustn’t lie to ye …’ Tenderly, McGray turned her hand and laid the golden ring in her palm. ‘In the early hours we found yer husband’s ha– … We found evidence to indicate that …’ McGray inhaled deeply, ‘he’s been murdered.’

  There was a horrible silence. It must have been a matter of seconds but it felt like painful hours. Then, putting her elbows together, Mrs Caroli covered her face with her clenching hands and began to shudder until the bed shook. From between her hands came a low, desolate wail, and soon her fingers were soaked with tears.

  ‘We are so, so sorry,’ was all I could say, but any words would sound hollow at a moment like this.

  ‘I wanna ask ye a few wee questions,’ McGray murmured, resting a comforting hand on her shoulder. ‘But I’ll do so only when ye feel fit for it.’ Mrs Caroli did not reply; she shook her head in assent, and then mumbled something that vaguely sounded like ‘leave me alone’.

  McGray patted her shoulder again and then we left. We told the maids where we could be found, whenever Mrs Caroli felt like talking to us.

  As we were mounting our horses, I saw that McGray was wearing the tightest frown.

  ‘I fear it was we who brought this upon the Carolis,’ he said, his eyes fixed on the ground and burning with guilt.

  ‘Because we brought the violin to them, do you mean?’

  ‘Aye. Think about it, Frey: everyone who’s owned the fiddle is dead! I feel like finding the damn thing just to give it to ye and see what happens …’

  I would have responded, but McGray seemed so regretful I felt sorry for him.

  ‘Go home, dandy,’ he said. ‘Have a rest and then go to yer snooty ball.’

  ‘Are you sure that you do not want me to help you?’

  ‘Aye. I can tell yer exhausted; yer face looks far more shite-sniffing than usual. Besides, I’m planning to bring Madame Katerina to help me and she’ll work much better without ye bitching about everything she says.’

  I tilted my head. ‘That, I must grant you. I can hardly imagine an encounter that could be more injurious to the soul.’

  ‘And also, I need ye to question Lady Glass tonight. The old viper was Fontaine’s and Wood’s landlady. I don’t like her being so connected to the case. I’m sure she’ll chatter more freely if ye meet her alone.’

  Saying no more, we went our different ways.

  Once at Moray Place I thought that Elgie would certainly enjoy some distraction, and there was little that could go awry at such a social gathering, so I sent a note telling him about the ball. He sent the same messenger back with his reply, stating that he was ‘decidedly elated’ by the prospect.

  After telling Joan to have my finery ready for the evening, I spent most of the day sleeping. I am glad I did so, for that night would again turn out to be … rather bloody.

  26

  ‘Joan! Joan! ’

  ‘Yes, master?’

  ‘What the hell is this?’

  ‘Your brown suit, sir. I pressed it today.’

  ‘I see it is my brown suit, woman! I asked you to press the black one! The black one! This is a very formal party and I need the bl
ack one!’

  ‘I was going to press the black one, sir, but I don’t know what you did at that funeral to get those poor clothes in such a shocking state! Mud and ashes all over, and they stank of dog so much I had to soak ’em in milk!’

  I groaned in frustration as I hysterically rummaged through the wardrobe.

  ‘There’s no use, sir,’ Joan said. ‘You asked me to bring only one black suit. But there’s the navy one you like so much. Nobody’ll notice you’re wearing navy if the ball’s by candlelight.’

  A gentleman in London would never wear a navy suit to a formal ball. Never! I was appalled to find that Joan was right; I had no suitable attire and there was no time to do anything about it.

  ‘Very well, then. Give me that navy one.’ I cannot tell how much it pained me to say that – I was about to break one of the most basic rules of etiquette.

  While I changed behind the folding screen Joan went on rambling about how much she hated George and the ‘snooty fishwives’ who worked in the neighbouring houses.

  ‘Mr McGray came back when you were sleeping, sir,’ she said at some point. ‘He was in just for a second and said he needed to check something in the city library … or the registry or something. Oh, the poor man looked wasted, but he got on his horse as if all fresh. Not long ago he came back carrying these mighty rolls of paper and he’s been reading in his study ever since!’

  ‘You seem to have taken a lot of interest in Nine-Nails,’ I said, recalling how attentively she’d served him lunch and fetched his coat earlier. ‘I thought that you hated the man.’

  ‘Oh, master, even you would be kinder to him if you knew his misfortunes.’

  ‘Misfortunes?’

  ‘Yes. Haven’t you wondered how the poor man lost his finger? Or why nobody visits this house?’

  I remembered McGray mentioning that he kept that silly Agnes because nobody else would work for him, and then saying that Lady Glass had spread scandalous rumours about his family, but he had always spared me the details. ‘Well … yes, I have wondered, but I cannot say the intrigue keeps me from sleeping.’

  Joan’s eyes almost swelled in the excitement of telling the tale. ‘Oh, sir, ’tis such a dreadful story …’

  I sighed in resignation. ‘It is too late now to keep you from talking. Go ahead, but be quick. And hand me the cuffs and the tiepin.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Well, it all happened five years ago, when the McGrays were well placed here in Edinburgh. The late Mr McGray had many properties; farms and ships and also I think a distillery of fine Scotch, nearby the –’

  ‘He was wealthy, I follow the general idea.’

  ‘Oh, yes, sir, very wealthy. George got all enthused when he told me all these stories about his late master. The late Mr McGray made himself, you know; all the way from a clerk in a filthy pub in Dundee – wherever that is. Of course the very high peoples around here didn’t like such a family, without exalted ancestors and all that. That Ardglass hag you’re calling on today especially devoted herself to –’

  ‘Joan, you are beginning to ramble.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Sorry, sir. Well, five years ago, like I told you, the family went to spend the summer in one of their houses near Dundee. They liked their horses and the hunting and the country life, you see. Every year they spent something like a month in their country properties, taking only a couple of servants; a maid, of course, and a man to bring the charcoal to the fireplaces and all those things us women cannot –’

  ‘Joan, are you getting any closer to the point? Actually I will wear a navy tie, too.’

  ‘Here it is, sir. I was telling you that they took only one or two servants … and that would be the last trip of the family … Everybody’s got a different version of what happened that day, but George told me to believe none …’

  ‘There, there; you are getting in the bloodcurdling mood.’

  ‘Well, sir, it is bloodcurdling! What would you do if one of your own kin went all berserk and attacked you? That happened to poor Mr McGray!’

  I frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Oh, sir, I would like to have finer words to say this … but his sister butchered her parents!’

  So abrupt was her statement that I bit my own tongue.

  ‘She did what?’

  ‘Butchered … killed ’em horribly! Oh, master, I can hardly repeat that! The girl pierced her mother with a fire poker and stabbed her father in the heart with a kitchen knife! One maid was there but she told everyone she saw nothing, only heard Miss McGray shrieking like a monster. That woman ran to fetch our Mr McGray, who happened to be out right then … And when he got back to the house he found his poor sister all covered in blood, still with the knife in her hands and completely out of her wits. Poor, poor girl.’

  ‘And then …?’

  ‘Mr McGray tried to calm her down, but his sister attacked him, and would’ve probably killed him too, but thank God she only –’

  Joan could not say more, frightened by her own story. It took me a moment to notice that I too had fallen still, staring at her reflection in the mirror, my motionless hands unable to finish the knot of my tie.

  ‘McGray’s own sister chopped his finger off!’ I cried at last.

  Joan assented and the eyes of Miss McGray came back to my head like a flash. I had been right; those were not the eyes of an ordinary girl, but I would have never thought that such a stare belonged to a demented parricide.

  ‘And I suppose she has been in the asylum ever since.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Poor Miss McGray never spoke again. The last person who heard her uttering a word was some Dr Clouston; the girl was yelling something about being possessed by the Devil.’

  ‘Possessed?’

  ‘Aye. I know you don’t believe these things, but nobody’s come up with a better explanation. Even the doctor in the madhouse can’t tell what’s wrong with her.’

  In that she was right. I remembered my brief chat with Dr Clouston.

  ‘So George told you all these things?’

  ‘Yes, but sir, everybody knows the story! For months and months after it happened people in this town would talk of nothing else at their parties. Now people even tell the story of the McGrays around the fire, just as they tell stories of witches and spirits on Christmas Day. I’m astonished you don’t know any of this. Haven’t you spoken to anybody since you got here?’

  ‘Why, I have been fiendishly busy since I arrived! The last thing I would want to do is to hunt gossip in the fish market.’

  One moment later someone knocked on the door and Joan ran to look through the window. ‘ ’Tis your brother, master!’

  I checked my pocket watch as I adjusted the chain to my waistcoat. ‘Lord, he was supposed to be here twenty minutes ago!’

  Joan gave me my thickest coat and I went downstairs, my mind still dwelling on McGray’s turbulent past.

  The door to the library was ajar and I caught a brief sight of him, leaning over the table where a gigantic blueprint lay. He was utterly focused on the document, his nose almost touching the yellowed paper and his four-fingered hand running meticulously over the intricate plans.

  Suddenly everything made sense: his premature wrinkles, the bags under his eyes, his utter disregard for appearances and good society …

  Most importantly, that morbid story explained McGray’s obsession with ghost stories and all his superstition. Each book in that library, each twisted artefact he kept, each sleepless night researching witches and goblins and demonic rituals, each day struggling to get his subdivision approved – all those efforts were spurred by a family tragedy. I recalled how tenderly he’d touched his sister’s hand while visiting her at the asylum, and how infuriated he’d been when he caught me peering into the room.

  Could he, in the back of his mind, still maintain a desperate hope of bringing his sister back? After five long years sitting in front of that girl’s empty face and enduring the mockery of the entire town, how could he possibly keep himself stand
ing? I could only imagine how much he still loved the girl – and surely how much he had loved his parents – to completely devote his life to such a hopeless quest. It is hard to admit, but at that moment I truly pitied the man.

  I was going to tell him that I was about leave, but preferred not to. It is awkward when one learns something very personal about someone; one no longer knows quite how to address them.

  Joan’s tale left me in a grim state of mind, and as I walked out of the house the evening climate lowered my mood even more: the air was frosty and the rain had turned into a thick sleet that fell almost horizontally.

  Fortunately, I did not need to walk far. Elgie had arranged for a coach to pick him up at the New Club, which would take us from Moray Place to the Ardglass estate. I was glad to see that he had chosen a splendid brougham carriage.

  ‘Lord, how can you be so bloody unpunctual?’ I snapped as soon as I got into the carriage.

  ‘Oh, brother, do not make such a fuss. We are but a few minutes late.’

  ‘A few minutes late! You are so late Joan had enough time to tell me the entire life and tribulations of McGray.’

  Elgie’s eyes glowed. ‘Oh, did she tell you all about his crazed sister?’

  ‘Why, you already know it!’

  ‘Well, I have been chatting with people at the New Club. I mentioned your job and McGray’s name naturally came up.’

  ‘I will appreciate it if you stop mentioning my job to any stranger you stumble across on the street.’

  Elgie went on as if I’d not spoken. ‘Oh, my brother, that story of the mad sister is simply astounding; worthy of being written down in a book! This good man told me that they even tried to exorcize her with the priest and the holy water and the whole thing! Can you believe that?’

  I found myself frowning hard. ‘Would it be so amusing if it were me or Oliver?’

  Elgie went silent, his cheeks as red as cherries. His blond hair looked almost white in comparison.