I saw the preposterous hour on the mantelpiece clock and rubbed my eyes in frustration, knowing I would not be able to sleep again. I thought of asking Layton for some tea, but preferred not to ; my old valet had had very difficult times too. Besides, hot beverages had done very little to improve my general mood in recent days. I rose nonetheless, and pulled the curtains aside to peer through the window. Mile after mile of darkened fields and woods opened before me : my uncle’s – late uncle’s – large estate.
It was a peaceful, starry night, and the moonlight drew the landscape in beautiful shades of blue and silver.
Just like that terrible night at the Highlands. The night Uncle met his demise, surrounded by those ghastly torches.
I shook my head and turned away from the view, or those images would make their way into my head like they’d done almost every night ever since.
I looked at the pile of half-read books on the bedside table and made to pick one up, but gave up even before touching them. I was sick of staring at the same page for hours, unable to take in the words, or all of a sudden finding myself ten pages ahead without the faintest memory of what I’d just read.
With nothing else to do, I paced for the next hour.
‘This is what Nine-Nails must feel like every night,’ I mumbled at some point. I wondered if he too had nightmares, if he might still dream of his dead parents, or the moment when his deranged sister had cut his finger off.
I’d been ignoring his correspondence, not even opening the letters and telegrams, secretly hoping that he’d become tired of my apathy and dismiss me. I knew I would never be so lucky.
Just as the sky began to clear, there was a soft rapping at my door. It was the tall, bony Layton, already bringing my morning coffee. The bags under his eyes told me he too had had a sleepless night. No wonder – before working for me, he had served Uncle Maurice for more than ten years and had also been terribly affected by his death.
As he displayed the service on the table, and before I could remark on the early hour, he pointed his long, aquiline nose at the window.
‘It appears you have visitors, sir.’
I went back to the window and saw a carriage approach at full speed. It was pulled by four horses, so it must be a real emergency. The carriage soon reached Uncle’s manor, and just as Layton passed me a cup of coffee, I saw an unmistakable figure emerge.
‘Damn my luck!’ I grumbled.
‘Shall I let him in, sir?’
‘He will make his way in even if you refuse,’ I predicted, and the moment I finished the sentence, I saw Nine-Nails climb up the entrance steps and push the main door open.
‘Tell the staff I want them to start locking that door,’ I told Layton. I could almost hear my late uncle cry, ‘Lock the doors? This is England!’
A moment later, Layton was showing McGray into my chamber.
I should be used to his scruffy stubble, his clothes garish and creased, and his hair as messy as if he’d galloped through a blizzard. However, surrounded by my quaint rugs and furnishings, he looked as out of place as a bristly grouse tossed into a basket of fine linen.
‘You look positively dreadful,’ I said.
McGray frowned. ‘Och, I’ve been travelling all night! Ye look much fucking worse in yer silken shimmy and freshly out o’ bed.’
It would have been pointless to argue ; my dressing gown was indeed silk damask.
‘Enough of the niceties,’ I said. ‘Have some coffee.’
He wrinkled his nose at it. ‘Anything stronger?’
‘McGray, it is barely after six in the morning.’
‘And yer point is …?’
Layton bowed then and went to fetch him some liquor.
McGray lounged in one of the two armchairs, stretched his long legs and arms, and cast an evaluating look at the oak panelling and four-poster bed.
‘Nice pile o’ rubble ye’ve been sleeping in, Frey! Sort o’ gives grounds to yer bloody snobbery.’ He clicked his tongue. ‘Sort of.’
I half smiled, sitting down and sipping my coffee.
‘I have spent many happy Christmases here,’ was all I could say.
McGray nodded. ‘So … is this all yers now?’
That was a fair guess. Uncle Maurice had never married, and the only child he’d fathered (as far as he’d told me) had died very young.
‘Uncle said so more than once, but knowing what he … was like, he may not have left his legal affairs in proper order. My brother Laurence may litigate to get his cut.’
‘Laurence? The same twat yer fiancée left ye for?’
I clashed my cup on the saucer. ‘Do you always have to remark on that? You know very bloody well who he is.’
‘There, there! Nae need to snap. What about yer younger brothers?’
‘Elgie and Oliver were not his blood relatives.’
‘Och, right! Their mum is that bitch o’ yer stepmother.’
‘Indeed. And even if they had a claim, I doubt they’d be interested in managing an estate like this. Elgie is too artistic to be practical. Oliver is … just Oliver.’
Layton came back then, bringing McGray a decanter of single malt, a good measure already poured in a tumbler.
‘Yer done with the funeral, I guess.’
I let out a long sigh. ‘The saddest affair you could imagine. Elgie was the only other relative who attended. The rest were Uncle’s creditors and tenants, all more interested in asking whether his death would disturb their businesses.’
Layton discreetly walked out, perhaps affected by my words.
I put my coffee on the table and rubbed my forehead. ‘McGray, I have a million matters to deal with right now. I am sorry you had to come all this way, but you will understand it is impossible for me to go back to Scotland after this.’
I did not look at him at first, expecting one of his typical outbursts. He, however, said nothing, and when I did turn my eyes to him, I found him biting his lip. The coarse, unsinkable Nine-Nails McGray looked shy and uneasy for the first time.
‘Am afraid ye have to.’
A deeper silence followed, each moment increasing my anxiety.
‘What – what do you mean?’
McGray could not have sounded more sombre. ‘The prime minister wants to keep our subdivision open. And us handy.’
‘The most illustrious Commission for the Elucidation of Unsolved Cases Presumably Related to the Odd and Ghostly?’ I cried, the interminable name rolling off my tongue at speed. ‘Why on earth would anyone, let alone the prime minister, want to keep that pit of manure open?’
I was expecting Nine-Nails to pounce on me. That subdivision was his baby, created for the sole purpose of finding what had driven his sister insane, and almost entirely funded from his own pocket. He, however, remained silent, giving time for the answer to creep slowly into my head.
I hunched forwards, mumbling as I buried my face in my hands. ‘The Lancashire affair?’
‘Possibly …’ McGray downed his drink in one gulp. ‘Dammit, I cannae lie to ye. I am certain. I spoke with the new superintendent. He received a letter from the PM himself. Lord Salisbury didnae give explanations ; he just told him that our department must stay open.’
At once I stood up and began pacing.
The previous January, whilst following another case all the way to Lancashire, we had accidentally discovered that the prime minister’s son had turbulent dealings with a coven of so-called witches – well, McGray called them that. To me they were nothing but crafty smugglers and charlatans, so dangerous and influential the Borgias would have envied their organisation. It was clear now that Lord Salisbury himself owed them ‘favours’.
McGray tried to soothe me. ‘It might be nothing, Frey. Salisbury maybe just wants us handy as a precaution.’
I let out a strident laugh. ‘Oh yes, nothing! Believe that, McGray, if it makes you happy.’
Somehow I already knew that Lord Salisbury and his dubious affairs would come back to haunt us, and
it would turn out to be one of the worst nightmares of our lives. However, it would not happen for a while.
‘Frey,’ said Nine-Nails, if possible looking more sombre, ‘there’s another reason I came.’
‘Another reason!’ I reached for the decanter and ‘strengthened’ my black coffee. Sod the time. ‘An even worse emergency? A bout of the bubonic plague, perhaps?’
He was searching in his breast pocket.
‘This is a proper emergency. The clock’s ticking.’
‘Oh really? Who is about to die?’
Nine-Nails grimaced as he produced a piece of newspaper. ‘Madame Katerina.’
I had downed half the cup before he said that.
‘Why, your swindling clairvoyant?’
‘Aye.’
‘Who also happens to brew toxic ale to render pedlars blind? Is she in trouble? My, oh my, how bloody unexpected!’
‘It’s really delicate, Frey.’ McGray grumbled, unfolding the sheet on the table. ‘They might take her case to the High Court. She may hang!’
I snorted. ‘A miserable and squalid life followed by early death? Well, that is just what happens when you move to Scotland.’
‘Frey …’
‘And when they put you in a box and bury you, that is the warmest you will ever be.’
‘Och, I forgot ye can whine like an Ophelia when ye set to it!’
‘And six feet underground is also the safest—’
‘Frey, can ye shut it for a second and read this?’
I grabbed the cut-out, ready to toss it into the dying fire. However, even before I could crumple it, the headline’s obnoxiously wide lettering caught my full attention.
2
‘Have you questioned her?’ I asked as we walked out of the manor. I was still astonished as to how fast I’d managed to sort out my luggage.
‘Nae, they took her straight to—’
‘Did you go to this Grenville man’s house?’
‘Nae yet. I’m—’
‘Did you at least manage to have a word with that valet? Or the officers he called?’
‘Nae! Frey, I’m—’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Nine-Nails! What did you do then?’
He slapped the back of my head. ‘I’m fucking trying to tell ye I didnae get time to do anything at all! The new blasted superintendent wanted me to come and get ye first. His very words were, Bring Ian Percival Frey here, else—’
‘What? He asked you to come here when there is a crime like this to investigate?’
He cupped both hands like a pair of scales. ‘Urgent letter from the prime minister … Saving a dubious gypsy’s life …’
‘I see. Do you at least know if the corpses are properly—?’
‘Frey, what the hell! Are ye bringing yer entire new buggery manor brick by brick?’
He made a sensible point. The servants were bringing three more of my chests to the already laden carriage.
‘I parted Edinburgh with all my belongings. I had no intention of going back. I even settled my rent with your beloved Lady Glass.’
McGray’s jaw dropped. ‘Ye were leaving for good, ye wee trickle o’ slimy snot?’
‘Lady Anne might call me the same when I tell her I want the property back. And I am sure she will try to treble the price.’
Layton came to me then. ‘Sir, what shall we do with your mare? The stables man says it will take him a while to—’
‘Ye brought Philippa too?’ McGray squealed.
‘I just told you I had no intention of—’
‘Och, forget it. Ye can send for her later. Ye won’t be able to mount her a lot anyway. The weather’s already turning for the worse.’
I blew inside my cheeks. ‘In more ways than I can tell …’
I knew the carriage trip was going to be dreadful, but McGray’s unease made it all the worse. He kept reading the cut-out over and over, every time emphasising a different passage and voicing a new speculation. Thankfully, the ride to Gloucester’s train station was not too long, and from then on it became much easier to ignore Nine-Nails, even if we did miss the day’s last service to Scotland.
We spent the night in Gloucester to ensure we’d catch the first train in the morning. McGray was of course keen to talk, but I categorically rebuffed his offer of drams and locked myself in a separate room. At least the station’s inn was clean and very comfortable.
The following day, the service to Scotland set off with considerable delay. Then we had to change trains in sooty Birmingham, having to run for dear life to catch our connection. One of my trunks was even dropped onto the rails and very nearly burst open. And the second leg of the journey was worse : our train sat still for three full hours in the outskirts of Carlisle, no explanations given. By the time we made it to Edinburgh, the sun was already setting.
As soon as we stepped off the wagon, I saw that autumn was setting in with annoying punctuality ; the trees of Princes Street Gardens were already shedding their leaves, and the winds brought gelid chills from the north-east. I looked bitterly at the uniform layer of grey clouds, which might not let through a single stream of sunlight until April. The thickset castle, atop its craggy mount, made me think of a chubby old man in brown, sooty tweed, lounging in an armchair and smoking a pipe as he watched the ages go by.
‘Here I am again,’ I said in a resigned sigh, wrapping up tighter in my overcoat. ‘Against all expectations …’
I sent Layton to Great King Street with all my belongings, and paid a young boy to deliver a note to Lady Anne Ardglass.
‘Begging that auld bitch to let yer valet in?’ McGray asked. He carried no luggage at all, and I envied his light pace.
‘Indeed. I would try some other lodgings, but she owns all the respectable properties in this tattered town.’
‘If she kicks ye out ye can come to Moray Place for a wee while. Joan will be glad to have ye there.’
I could not contain a sigh at the mention of her name. Joan had been my maid for eight years, before meeting McGray’s elderly butler George and deciding she wanted to live in sin with him. I still missed her coffee, her delicious roasts and sometimes even her irreverent gossip.
The station’s clock struck seven right then.
‘It is too late to go to the City Chambers,’ I said.
‘Indeedy. Nae chance we’ll get anything meaningful done today, but we still have time to see Katerina.’
I sighed, for the prospect of meeting that woman – again – did not thrill me. And in the following weeks I would be talking to her much more than I’d ever wished for.
‘We better hurry, then.’
‘Nah, it’s fine. I’ve made a few agreements with the laddies at Calton Hill.’
‘Calton – is she already in Calton Hill Jail?’
‘Aye, for her own safety. They took her to the City Chambers, but as soon as The Scotsman published the story, we had a mob of dribbling idiots trying to catch a glimpse. A couple o’ drunken sods even threw stones at the building.’
‘Dear Lord. We have to be careful or this case will become a spectacle.’
‘Might be too late for that, Percy.’
Calton Hill Jail was a deceptive building.
With a set of rounded towers that looked more like a painting of Camelot, enclosed by sturdy walls, and with a gate surrounded by medieval-style battlements, anyone would have mistaken it for a fairy-tale castle. It also stood proudly on the craggier edge of Calton Hill, and even its address – Number 1 Regent Road – sounded prestigious.
Nothing could be further from the truth.
The kingly towers were the residence and offices of the governor, and were indeed lavish ; however, the cell wings were dingy, damp and overcrowded, understandably feared by those on the wrong side of the law. Some of those sentenced to death were still chained to the walls while they awaited execution.
I’d been there only once, in February, when a pathetic prisoner claimed that the mysterious hole on the floor of his c
ell had been opened up by a stone-eating gnome. Even McGray had laughed at the tale – I both laughed and retched upon hearing that a steel spoon had miraculously appeared in the prisoner’s ablutions.
I recognised the gloomy esplanade at the front. Hangings were carried out there, and even though executions were no longer public, people still climbed to the top of Calton Hill to have a peek. I looked north and saw the steep slope of the mount, its edges blurry behind the mist. From there, the mobs possibly had a better view than their morbid fellows a century ago, when hangings took place at Mercat Cross, in the middle of Edinburgh’s High Street. More comfortable too. I imagined people sitting on the grassy slope, maybe even drinking and picnicking, as they watched a miserable wretch writhing in the gibbet.
A guard came to receive us, greeting McGray with deference. The man had a weathered face and a deep scar running all the way from his temple to his chin. His eyes, however, had a benevolent air.
‘I thought ye were nae coming, sir,’ he said as he led us through the darkened corridors.
‘Delays, Malcolm,’ McGray answered. I saw that he discreetly passed him a one-pound note.
Malcolm took us to a small questioning room.
‘Please wait here. I’ll fetch her right away.’
We stepped in and sat at a battered table. The air somehow seemed to become colder and colder as we waited. A moment later, Malcolm came back, Katerina by his side.
‘Oh, God …’ I let out when I first saw her.
I was expecting the tingling mass of multicoloured shawls, veils and pendants, the cunning green eyes and the mordant smile. Instead, the poor woman was clad in a ragged grey dress, handcuffed and walking in a stoop.
Without her thick layers of mascara and fake eyelashes, she looked at least a decade older. She was not wearing any of the studs or rings that usually decked her nose, eyebrow and earlobes, and the empty piercings looked like wrinkly slits on her saggy skin. Her hair was wrapped tightly under a faded black cloth, a few blonde and greyish locks sticking out like the bristles of a brush. Her menacing fingernails had been cut short, and the black varnish was flaking off the jagged edges.
The Darker Arts Page 3
