The Darker Arts

by Oscar de Muriel

  As soon as the sorry chap was gone, McGray settled in his chair, put his soiled boots on the desk, and stroked his stubble as he exhaled like a locomotive’s whistle.

  I knew I should not even attempt to talk to him, so I went to the morgue and gave Reed the poisons to analyse. Unprecedently, he offered me a cup of tea – a ghastly brew, but I had to gulp it down as a token of camaraderie. I left, making a mental note to buy him some decent leaves.

  When I returned to the office, McGray was still breathing sharply, but at least he was now standing in front of the wall lined with evidence, pondering. I thought it better not to disturb him, so I began sorting out some paperwork, until—

  ‘Of course!’

  His yelp made me jump and drop a stack of documents, and I saw him poking a sheet on the wall, so hard he nearly pierced the paper. I went closer and saw it was a page from Leonora’s journal.

  ‘Grab yer coat, Percy. Quickly.’

  ‘Why? Where are we going?’

  ‘To the crime scene. I think we missed something.’

  22

  I have been poisoned whilst on a moving train, I have ridden open carts at night while beaten by a witch, I have rowed across Scottish lochs with certain death right behind my back – yet none of those trips was as convulsive and scary as that short ride to Morningside.

  McGray paid the cab driver a ludicrously handsome amount, and the reckless young man took us there in an impossibly short time, ignoring bumps, potholes, sharp corners and panicked pedestrians.

  I stepped down rather shaken and ran after Nine-Nails. He unlocked the house and rushed to the upper floor.

  When I walked into the parlour, I noticed quite a few differences. In his search, McGray had pulled furniture, carpets, and moved the camera aside. I saw he’d dragged it, leaving a trail of smashed glass.

  ‘Is that the spot where you found the knife?’ I asked as we both knelt down.

  ‘Indeedy, but that’s nae what I want ye to see.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Look at the shards. How many plaques d’ye think got smashed here?’

  ‘I … I could not tell. One? Two?’

  I felt silly, but McGray grinned. ‘Just what I thought!’

  And he then went to the wooden box, the one with the new plaques and the chemicals, which still sat against the panelled wall.

  ‘D’ye remember the note in Leonora’s journal? The one she made on the day of the séance?’

  ‘Vaguely. You did not give me time to—’

  ‘She wrote she woke up early to buy a boxful of new plaques. A boxful, Frey.’

  And to illustrate his point, he opened the box. I saw the green velvet lining, which still bore the marks of withdrawn glass, and then understood.

  ‘This is half empty,’ I mumbled, leaning closer to the fabric, and counted the marks.

  ‘At least eight are missing,’ McGray concluded, and then pointed at the pile of shards. ‘And that does nae look like the wreckage of eight sheets o’ glass.’

  Indeed it did not.

  ‘Katerina also said Miss Leonora had taken several photographs,’ I said, and then I raised my chin. ‘Holt? Could he have taken them too?’

  McGray nodded. ‘Either that, or they’re still in this room somewhere.’

  I looked around, my mind working at full speed. I saw the broken camera and pictured the scene in my head : Miss Leonora, excited beyond words, taking photographs at full speed.

  ‘She’d have to store them in the dark,’ I said, ‘and it would have been somewhere handy, so she could work at speed … She must have had another box at hand, which is now gone. Holt must have—’

  McGray raised a finger. ‘Leonora sat by the window …’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Opposite Katerina. Surely to get the best angles.’

  ‘Aye, but … Was that arrangement fortuitous or premeditated?’

  ‘Three words of more than two syllables in a row! That has to be a milestone.’

  McGray did not pay attention. He leaned over the wall, and began tapping the oak panelling with his knuckles.

  ‘My auld man used to hide his whisky from my mother. He had a—’

  The sound shifted from dull to hollow. McGray knocked again, now with his fist. The sound was unmistakable.

  I held my breath as he studied the edges of the panel. There were no hinges or keyholes, but the inlaying was carved so that one could pull it out with the nails. And McGray did so as he let out a victorious cheer.

  And there they were : a neat stack of plaques, wrapped in a black cloth.

  ‘Leonora’s photographs!’ I gasped, while McGray picked them up as gingerly as he would have done a newborn. ‘Everything that happened at the séance is recorded there. The ritual, the deaths …’

  ‘The spirits.’

  23

  ‘Of course!’ McGray said, hugging it in his lap as the mad driver took us back to the City Chambers. ‘Leonora had to keep the exposed plaques safe from the light, but she must’ve been laden with all the equipment, so instead of carrying another box she improvised. She stored the plaques in that compartment as she went on, so she could keep pulling new ones out o’ the box freely. That’s why she had to sit there! It was all—’

  He did not finish because the entire cab bounced, we both banged our heads against the roof and the precious box nearly slipped off his lap.

  We made it to the headquarters and stormed into the photographer’s office. The little plaque on the door, which read ‘R. Wedgewood’ and ‘NO ENTRY’ almost fell off when McGray slammed it open.

  ‘Shut that door, you cretin!’ the man cried, guarding his trays of half-developed images from the daylight. ‘You’ll ruin my work!’

  I had to oblige, for McGray would not listen. Once closed, we were lit only by a dim light, turned red by the coloured glass of the oil lamp’s chimney. The pasty Wedgewood, who seldom ventured out of his little workshop, and reeked of the chemicals he spent his life with, was glowing with fury.

  ‘I’m busy, get out!’

  ‘Nae. We need ye to develop these,’ Nine-Nails said, placing the box on the nearest workbench and nearly knocking over a few jars of chemicals. Wedgewood leapt to catch them just in time. ‘Right now.’

  ‘Leave them there. I’ll get to them.’

  ‘Are ye deaf too? We need them now!’

  ‘Now?’ Wedgewood cackled. ‘They’ll be ready when they’re bleeding re—! Wait, what are you doing?’

  McGray was rummaging through the drawers, tossing files and old photographs until he pulled out a bundle of very poor-quality portraits – toddlers, newly-weds and the sort.

  ‘I ken just for how long ye’ve been doing this.’

  Wedgewood gulped.

  ‘With police resources?’ I asked.

  ‘Aye. This bastard’s been milking the place to keep his own business.’ McGray rolled up the photos, used them to hit the man on the head and then to poke him in the chest. ‘Ye better work on our evidence right now. And I mean right sodding now!’ He waved the roll of pictures before Wedgewood’s eyes. ‘In the meantime, we’ll keep these for ye.’

  And we walked out of the tiny room, this time not bothering to close the door behind us.

  ‘McGray, do you have dirt on everyone in the police force?’

  ‘Aye. Be careful what ye say in front of me.’

  The next hours were an agonising wait, McGray smoking and pacing across our office like a husband waiting for his wife to give birth. Once more, I envied the lazy dogs, piled up on each other and dozing in a comfortable corner.

  Sperry, the sorry lawyer, came by at some point. I rushed him out before McGray decided to skin him alive, and decided I could use the time to brief him as best as I could. We sat in one of the questioning rooms, and I gave him all the documents I could spare.

  I was hoping his idiotic demeanour might conceal a hidden genius, but sadly it was not so. The poor chap was as slow and dim-witted as his exterior suggested, and I co
uld soon picture Pratt flogging him at the High Court. I would have found some humour in that, had there not been a human life at stake. And since the best I expected from my father was a succinct ‘ARE. YOU. MAD,’ things looked bleak indeed.

  When I walked back into the office, McGray’s nerves were on edge. We still had to wait for a while, but before long we heard the rushed, erratic steps of the photographer coming down the stairs. It was dark by then, the cellar lit by an oil lamp and the amber glow from the street lights, coming through the barred windows. In the dim light, Wedgewood’s pale face almost seemed to glow. His eyes were bulging like those of a frog, his grey hair was now a matted mess, and his hand quivered as he raised a file.

  ‘You must look at this,’ he whispered, his mouth dry.

  We jumped to our feet, and McGray snatched the photographs so swiftly he nearly tore them.

  I came closer, bringing the lamp, and we leaned over as McGray opened the file.

  The picture on top, still somewhat damp and stinking of ammonia and sulphur, sent instant shivers down our necks.

  24

  It was a blurry photograph of the round table. Though positioned to have Katerina at the centre, she was almost completely obscured by the glare of many candles. Only the bases of the candlesticks could be seen, for they faded as the light of the flames became a pure white stain that dominated the image. At its core, however, lay the shock.

  A human hand. Apparently floating in the air.

  It was a blood-curdling sight : dark and apparently charred, with twisted, spidery fingers, finished in sharp tips and set like a menacing claw. The skin was coarse and cracked, like the bark of an ancient tree, and the wrist looked like a tangle of exposed nerves and tendons.

  More striking still was that the arm also became diffuse as it approached the flames – or rather, the spot where we could tell the flames would have been, for the overexposed plate had rendered a bright white blur there.

  The hand appeared to be materialising from the fire itself, propelled upwards as if to catch something in the air.

  It was exactly what Katerina had described : ‘a shadow taking shape in-between the candles ; something solid sprouting from thin air’.

  The hand of Satan, she’d said, and the memory of her tale made me shiver.

  ‘Evidence enough?’ McGray asked.

  ‘This cannot be,’ I muttered. ‘It has to be some trick with the light. Some—’

  But I could not deny what my eyes saw. There it was, as sharp and clear as the horrified faces of Colonel Grenville and Mr Willberg on the margins of the picture.

  McGray took the file and spread the pictures on his desk. Neither Wedgewood nor I spoke ; we examined the photographs in stunned silence.

  There was an image of the group, Leonora included, clearly taken before the ritual began. All the men were standing behind three chairs, reserved for Katerina, Mrs Grenville and Miss Leonora.

  Though nothing compared to ‘the hand of Satan’, the image was still grim. Katerina was again the focal point, but her face could barely be made out, concealed under her black veil. Her cheekbones and nose, projected on the material, were the only clear features, and they rather made her look like a living skull. How fitting.

  In the hand of Miss Leonora, I recognised the fob and wire to activate the camera’s switch, which she pressed as she stared into the lens with eerie intensity. Mrs Grenville had attempted a smile, but it made her look manic instead. Bertrand seemed about to wet himself, while Mr Willberg and the colonel looked decidedly put out. The old Mr Shaw, who Bertrand held by the arm, had been wearing his spectacles, which reflected the light and made it impossible to read his expression.

  ‘They all look fine there,’ I said. ‘That is – unharmed.’

  The next image was of everyone gathered at the table. Katerina was flanked by Mr Willberg on her right and the colonel on her left – the latter looking at her with blatant disgust. Mrs Grenville sat next to her husband, and by her side was her father. Bertrand was on the opposite side of the table, next to Mr Willberg, and he would have been holding Leonora’s hand during the session. She did not appear, busy behind the camera.

  The rest of the photos were from the séance itself. They had been taken in quick succession and with completely the wrong light. Lit from below, everyone’s faces looked spectral : sunken eye sockets nestled in brightly white brows, cheeks and chins, which seemed to float in an almost uniform blackness.

  At the centre of all those photographs was the glare of the candles, becoming brighter and brighter from one exposition to the next, and just as the light increased, the faces went from agitated to distorted. And then the ghastly hand finally appeared.

  ‘Is this the last image?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Wedgewood. ‘All the plates you brought were numbered. Though there was an empty slot in the case.’

  ‘That would’ve been the one that smashed to smithereens when the camera fell,’ said McGray. ‘The picture taken after this. What I’d give to see it …’

  This time I shared his curiosity. I looked at the photographs over and over before I spoke again.

  ‘Do you think they died very soon after this was taken?’

  ‘Aye. Look at where they’re sat. That’s exactly where they found them. My guess is they dropped dead just minutes later.’

  I shook my head. ‘Unfortunately we’ve discarded heart attacks. These photographs would have persuaded the jury they were all scared to death.’

  ‘I was nearly scared to death when I first saw them,’ Wedgewood admitted, mopping sweat from his brow with a rag that stank of sulphur. He scurried off then, eager to escape those ghastly images from hell.

  ‘One word o’ this to anyone and yer dead!’ McGray roared at him.

  I cannot tell for how long we stood there, scrutinising each image, but particularly the one with the blood-curdling hand.

  Ironically, it was the silence that brought us back to our senses. The City Chambers were now deserted, and all we could hear were the dogs’ occasional snores.

  McGray straightened his back, though keeping his eyes fixed on the pictures.

  ‘Go home, Frey. I’ll probably need ye fresh in the morning.’

  I took a few short steps away, still mesmerised. ‘You should rest too.’

  ‘Nah,’ he said, rummaging through a drawer, from which he produced a chunky magnifying glass. ‘I’m goin’ to look at these very carefully …’

  Nothing would have moved him from that spot, maybe not even the City Chambers catching fire, so there I left him, bent over the desk, his nose an inch from the photographs.

  I walked the empty corridors, my steps echoing all around. When I stepped into the frosty night, my nerves were still altered, making me see that horrid hand in every shadow of the streets, every time I blinked.

  Of one thing I was sure – I would not manage to sleep at all.

  25

  By the next day, everyone in Edinburgh talked of nothing but the trial.

  Mrs Holt had given venomous statements to the press, detailing her miserable dwellings, how her poor little child would die of hunger, and how callously she’d been treated by a police inspector whose name she did not wish to recall, but who happened to have nine fingers. The article was illustrated with a drawing of the woman carrying her child, which made her look like a grieving Madonna.

  The papers also announced that Colonel Grenville would receive a military funeral, scheduled for Friday. He and his wife would be buried in the grounds of St Cuthbert’s Church, in his family crypt, while the other four would go to Grange Cemetery, closer to Morningside. All the bodies, however, would be present during the larger-than-life service at St Giles’ Cathedral, followed by a solemn procession. In the last lines, the newspaper exhorted the public to stay away and respect the grief of the few surviving relatives. I could only laugh at the irony. The article was more like an open invitation, designed to exacerbate the public resentment.

  As expec
ted, when I made it to the City Chambers there was a small crowd gathered at the entrance, calling for justice for the good colonel and demanding Mr Holt be allowed ‘to return to his sweet wife’.

  I lowered my head, trying to conceal my face with my hat, and managed to scuttle through without being seen. I was not surprised to walk into the office and find McGray still bent over the photographs, with the magnifying glass and wearing the same clothes.

  ‘Is it morning already?’ he said when he saw me come in. I pointed at the dull light coming through the barred windows. ‘Och, right!’

  He blew out the oil lamp on the desk and rubbed his eyes.

  ‘Did you find anything?’ I asked him.

  ‘Only one thing, but it just confused me even more.’

  He showed me the photograph that directly preceded the one with the dark hand. There was something on the tablecloth, right on the edge of the photograph, which had not appeared in any of the previous images. It looked like a dark pebble.

  ‘Is that the gold nugget?’ I asked.

  ‘Aye. She took it off. That would explain how Holt “found it” on the floor ; it most likely fell during the commotion and rolled close to the door. So Holt was telling the truth.’

  I frowned. ‘Why would she do that? If I saw a twisted hand floating in mid-air, the last thing I’d worry about is removing my cufflinks.’

  ‘Nae only that. The nugget was a protection charm. It’d be like a nun seeing the devil and deciding to drop her rosary.’

  I sighed. ‘One more bloody thing to consider. And you say you found nothing else?’

  He let out a long sigh. ‘Nothing, and I better stop looking. These are driving me mad.’

  I checked the time. ‘Shall we go and question the surviving Shaws? They are the only relatives we have yet to question.’

  ‘Aye, but I need to go ’n’ get some breakfast first, I’m starving.’ He whistled at the dogs, who sprinted up as if already knowing there was food to be had.