‘Givin’ the laddie some fresh air?’ McGray said.
‘Yes,’ Clouston replied. ‘I still don’t know how to approach him, but I definitely won’t keep him locked in his room; confinement is precisely what turned him into … this.’
‘And keeping him occupied,’ I added, pointing at the clay.
‘I want to keep his mind from wandering, yes. Besides, he has not said a word since you brought him here, and the arts are the clearest form of communication. Of course, we can’t give him a violin – that would only reinforce his delusions – and for obvious reasons I will not give him sharp tools to carve wood. I considered allowing him to paint, but God knows what sort of poisons he could prepare with all those chemicals … So for now he will have to make do with clay.’
‘Ye heard the news about Mrs Caroli?’ McGray asked.
‘That she is leaving Scotland? Yes. She is going to her father’s old house in Venice, I believe. One of her servants came yesterday with a letter from her. The woman will be sending a handsome stipend to keep this fellow well treated.’
I let out a long sigh. ‘Poor Mrs Caroli …’
Clouston dropped his notepad out of sheer indignation. ‘Poor Mrs Caroli! The worst crime here was committed by that bloody woman! She kept this creature in hiding only because he looks different. Imagine if he’d had the chance to grow like a normal child; the wonders he could have contributed to music, to art, maybe even to science! And that lady cannot even be prosecuted because Giacomo is still underage and thus has no legal rights!’ He leaned to pick up the pad, an apologetic look in his face. ‘Excuse my outburst. I simply –’
Just then a screeching madman ran past us – I dodged him with a swift movement, for I had lost too many good suits already. Clouston had to join the orderlies in their chase and left us behind without having the chance to say a proper farewell. What a dedicated man, old Dr Clouston.
I shook my head and turned to leave, but then I noticed that McGray was looking at Giacomo with the most melancholic expression He was touching the stump of his fourth finger with the same hand’s thumb.
‘No demon, just a boy,’ he sighed, looking weary. ‘Ye must be pleased, laddie.’
In a way I was, but McGray seemed so dispirited that I preferred not to mention it.
‘I am sorry you did not find what you expected,’ I said … and I was honest.
‘I ken I was reckless with this case. I mean, I’m always reckless, but I think I overdid it this time … I should’ve never given the fiddle to the Carolis …’
‘Listen, I stated it in my report and I am telling you: I do not believe we could have avoided Caroli’s death. We practically put the violin in Giacomo’s hands, but that was probably our luckiest move; had we not found the violin in Ardglass’s hands, we would probably be mourning my brother now, still without clues.’ Again I meant every word, but it did not seem to cheer McGray up.
‘I’m glad I helped Elgie,’ McGray said. Then he let out the most tired sigh I’d heard from him. ‘When my folks died, and this …’ He showed his mutilated hand. ‘When this happened, I saw someone … someone like him, Frey,’ he looked intently at Giacomo. ‘I saw someone like him crawling in the room, when my parents’ bodies were still lying there and my sister had gone berserk. I always thought that it had been a demon. Until now, I’d never thought it might’ve been something else …’
‘Does that mean that you no longer believe in all this “odd and ghostly” absurdity?’
McGray smiled. ‘Nae. It means that now I have wider possibilities in mind. Ye should try that too, lassie.’
I clicked my tongue as I saw him walk away, carrying the pouches of fudge.
‘Take the day off, dandy. Ye deserve it.’
I shook my head as I saw McGray walking into the asylum. As soon as I lost sight of him I made my way to the entrance. The patient was still running about the gardens and I’d had too many unpleasant surprises in the last weeks.
I looked back and glimpsed Nine-Nails and Pansy through one of the upper windows. Despite the distance it was a heartbreaking sight: McGray lovingly pulling strands of dark hair off his sister’s face, then sitting next to her and narrating the events of the last few days in utter detail. I saw him placing the pouches of sweets next to her and waving his arms excitedly as he spoke, his face lightened with a grin.
There is something peculiar about McGray’s face; you look at him from one angle and he seems lively, careless … even childlike. Then he shifts his head, or wrinkles his nose, or adopts a weary gesture, and you can see how the strains of life have lined him.
Now I understand him. He needs to hunt the spooks, to go after the odd and ghostly stories and believe they are real … He needs something to fight for and to make him feel that his life still has some purpose. Perhaps that is precisely what has kept him from madness.
Perhaps that is also why I need the CID.
I shook my head, trying to rid it of such thoughts, and asked the asylum clerks to bring my mount. As I waited I noticed that the weather was dry and sunny, despite being the first days of December.
The bright blue sky and the cool air were like an invitation to live; it seemed a perfect moment to gaze at the castle while having a good cigar in the New Club, or to wander among the Georgian mansions, or to finally climb Calton Hill and have a proper view of Edinburgh with neither the fog nor the ghosts armed with daggers.
‘No need to hurry, Ian,’ I told myself while riding along the snowy street. ‘It looks like you will be stuck in this town for a good while …’
Author’s Note
Marfan’s syndrome was not properly identified until 1896.
It is a hereditary disorder that affects the musculoskeletal system, resulting in ligamentous laxity, joint hypermobility and bone elongation – adult patients are usually over six feet tall, with long, spidery hands and feet. Transmitted as a dominant trait, the children of bearers are very likely to develop this condition.
To date, a specific treatment for Marfan’s syndrome is still not available.
THE BEGINNING
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PENGUIN BOOKS
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First published 2015
Copyright © Oscar de Muriel, 2015
Illustration by Roberlan Borges
The moral right of the author has been asserted
ISBN: 978-0-718-17983-0
The Strings of Murder Page 32
