The Darker Arts

by Oscar de Muriel

  ‘You will only make matters worse!’ I warned, but again he ignored me.

  I saw three officers coming in with truncheons, McNair amongst them, looking terribly worried.

  Sperry whimpered miserably until something behind McGray’s back caught his eye. He raised a quivering hand. ‘It was him! He came to me last night and snatched all the files!’

  All our heads turned in that direction to find Pratt’s shining scalp.

  McGray dropped Sperry, who fell as limply as a poorly-stuffed scarecrow, and hurled himself at Pratt, ready to rip him apart.

  The three officers, two very brave clerks and I managed to seize Nine-Nails just in time, I do not know quite how, but there were files and sheets of paper fluttering in the air.

  ‘That would have been said in court anyway,’ Pratt said coldly, as we all struggled to keep Nine-Nails at bay. The bead of sweat on his bald head betrayed his smug demeanour.

  ‘Ye calculated it so fucking well!’ McGray snarled. ‘Get that shite on the front page just on the day of the sodding funerals. Fuel people’s resentment. Make sure the jury will be nicely prejudiced!’

  Pratt was about to smile, but then the enormous Mackenzie pounced at him. Constable McNair managed to seize the dog’s collar and, after much jerking, subdued the animal.

  Still struggling with the dog, his ginger freckles flushed, McNair came closer to Nine-Nails. His eyes were pleading.

  ‘I … I must ask you to leave, sir,’ he whispered. ‘We’ll get in trouble if you don’t.’

  Pratt had the good sense to go, and only when he was out of sight did we release McGray.

  He said nothing. He simply looked around. All the faces around him were scared or baffled or reproaching.

  When he left, slouching and dragging his feet, with the dogs whimpering as they followed, I felt terribly sorry for him.

  Layton nudged me the following morning, and I found I’d spent the night on my armchair, my back and neck cracking with every move.

  As I rubbed my eyes, preparing myself for the herculean task of standing up, Layton opened the curtains.

  ‘You have a visitor, sir,’ he said, and just then I heard a racket coming from the corridor.

  ‘This early?’

  ‘It is ten o’clock, sir.’

  ‘What?’ I cried as I jumped on my feet, so quickly I saw stars. ‘Why did you let me sleep for so long? I have work to do!’

  Before Layton answered, there was a loud thud resounding from the ground floor.

  I rushed downstairs, rubbing my sore neck and perfectly aware of my dismal appearance. I found several trunks piled up at the entrance hall, the main door wide open, and a muscly loader bringing even more luggage. I was going to ask him what he was doing, but then something enormous blocked the scant morning light from the entrance.

  The first thing I saw was a wide, distended belly, tightly constricted by a black overcoat whose brass buttons were about to burst out like bullets.

  ‘Father!’

  The old Mr Frey stepped in, his confident stomps like those of a proud rhinoceros, a hand resting on his ermine lapel and the other grasping his ebony walking cane.

  ‘Is it you?’ I squealed.

  ‘Oh, Ian, what a stupid question. You sent for me, did you not? By the way, you look ghastly.’

  ‘I … I did, but—’ I shook my head, struggling to reawaken my brain. ‘I never – ever thought you’d come! Did you … did you perhaps misread my telegram?’

  He chuckled as he paid the loader. ‘Gypsy, six deaths, your unhinged boss thinks a ghost did it. Even with your atrocious grammar, I could not have possibly misunderstood ; it is in every paper in London.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Yes. This is precisely the type of alarmist silliness they always use to fill up the back page. Your stepmother actually fainted when she spotted your name.’

  ‘Actually fainted, you say?’

  ‘Oh, you know the act. She dropped dramatically on her chaise longue and did not move until the maid brought her some smelling salts.’ He then looked at Layton and barked, ‘When the devil are you going to take my coat, you bloody overgrown poker?’

  Layton had just arrived and closed the door, and I saw a slight smile on his face as he received my father’s hefty garment – as if being shouted at was the right order of things in the world.

  ‘By all means, do not show me the way,’ Father snapped sarcastically, heading to the stairs. ‘I still remember where everything is. But do bring me a cigar before you sort my luggage. And see that that bloody mare gets fed.’

  ‘Mare?’ I repeated, rushing to the open door.

  Knowing my misogynist father as I did, I half expected to see my stepmother come in. The reality, however, was infinitely more pleasant. There, standing proud, her pristine white coat gleaming against the dull greys of the street, was my Bavarian warmblood.

  ‘Why, you brought Philippa!’

  ‘Yes. Elgie insisted – that is why it took me so bloody long to arrive. I had her sent from Gloucestershire, and I will tell you one thing – she is one nasty, sulky mare, just like your ex-fiancée.’ And as Father went upstairs, he grumbled something about how only barbarians can survive with just the one servant and no horse.

  I could not help myself and went to pat my precious Philippa. She was indeed in a mood, but I knew she’d be restored after a wholesome meal and a long rest.

  ‘Give her a few carrots,’ I told Layton, aware of my sudden glee, and then went after the old Mr Frey.

  He was already lounging in my favourite chair and looking at my disarray of paperwork with dubious eyes.

  ‘I thought you did not like Scotland,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, I abhor the damn country, but Edin-bloody-burgh will be a thousand times preferable than hearing Catherine and that blasted trollop Eugenia prattle about the wedding plans. It is nauseating, Ian.’

  I slightly winced at how casually he’d uttered the name Eugenia – my former fiancée, whom he’d also just compared to a sulking horse. I could not say much in her favour, for Eugenia broke our engagement last year to go and marry my eldest brother.

  Father was shaking his head, oblivious to my clear discomfort. ‘Do you know how many yards of white ribbon it takes to deck the pews of St Mary Abbots Church? Do you know the meaning of the bloody species of white flowers that must go on a wedding bouquet? Do you know the minimum length an organdie train should be, so society does not whisper the bride’s family is scrimping?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, I do now, and I wish I could scrape it off by sandpapering my brain.’

  ‘I know a forensic man who could do that for you.’

  ‘Ahh, but you should have seen Catherine’s face when I told her I was leaving. I did not mention a word until my trunks were being carried away. Oh, the laughter!’

  ‘Did you … tell her the reason? That you came here to defend a gypsy clairvoyant at Scotland’s High Court?’ I only asked that question out of my own disbelief.

  Father let out his booming laughter. ‘But of course I did! That was the cherry on my bloody cake! She will probably despise you until the day she dies.’

  ‘Not much of a change there.’

  Layton walked in then, proudly bringing the box with the good cigars. Father grabbed one, barely glancing at the man.

  ‘Bring me brandy – no, claret. I’ll start with the claret, I need my mind sharp. And get me whichever meat or cheese or food you have around, provided that it is fatty and not Scotch.’

  And as he said so, he leaned closer to the files.

  ‘Father, I must tell you something before you begin.’ I sat nearby so I could lower my voice. ‘I … I am not entirely sure this gypsy woman is innocent. She—’

  ‘Oh, Ian, you always make me laugh! Do you think I made my name by defending only the right and just?’

  ‘I … suppose not. But—’

  ‘A successful lawyer does not give a damn about those petty details. A lawyer’s
job is to get his client free.’ He bit the cigar and snapped his fingers at Layton. ‘Fire!’

  The reader may have noticed it is quite impossible to speak over the old Mr Frey, so I said as much as I could whilst his mouth was busy lighting his Cuban.

  ‘We have no idea yet as to how the six died. There is the possibility of a poisoned knife, but we have no clues as to the motive. Not even a faint lead to suggest—’

  ‘Not important.’

  ‘Not important!’

  Father chuckled as he savoured the tobacco. ‘Oh, Ian, I am so glad you dropped out of Cambridge. You would have been a lousy lawyer ; the laughing stock of Chancery Lane. I am only here to try and get that woman out of jail. Who did what is utterly irrelevant to my work.’

  ‘What about justice, or—?’ I held my tongue, knowing I was only inviting more abuse.

  ‘Justice, you said?’ Father asked. ‘Justice is very, very rarely delivered at court.’

  I stared at him, indignant. ‘Then where?’

  Father was already immersed in the files. He did not even look up when he answered.

  ‘I wish I knew.’

  29

  Father spent the entire day reading the statements, my notes, the relevant newspapers, and from time to time asking me to clarify what my ‘sloppy sentences’ meant.

  At some point I had to go to McGray’s house to retrieve the documents he kept, and also the statements he had collected from Katerina’s less affluent clients. When I arrived, I found Joan, George and the servant boy Larry furiously scrubbing the portico, dotted with splatters of unidentifiable filth. I noticed a young but intimidating constable now guarding the property.

  Joan jumped up as quickly as her knees allowed and, as rubicund as ever, greeted me with her thick Lancashire accent.

  ‘Master, so good to see you! Did you get my butter biscuits? I sent ’em with Mr McGray, so I wasn’t sure they’d get to you!’

  ‘Yes, Joan. Delicious. But – what happened here?’

  ‘People have been throwing shite at us!’ Larry shouted, scrubbing with the skill only a former chimney sweep can have.

  ‘Don’t swear to the masters!’ old George snapped, pinching the boy’s shoulder.

  Joan had gone sombre. ‘He’s right. The moment that nasty picture appeared in the papers, people came here like vermin. Thank God they sent us this peeler, but who’s got to clean? Us, poor devils!’

  I shook my head, thinking of the hordes of idle people who took the trouble of carrying rotten things to soil a neighbour’s home.

  ‘I hope this ends soon,’ I told her reassuringly as I stepped in. ‘At least today I have good news.’

  When I told Nine-Nails my father was taking charge of the defence he gave me a rib-cracking embrace, lifting me several inches from the floor, and I became intimately acquainted with the true scent of his ragged overcoat.

  ‘This does not guarantee she will go free,’ I said as soon as I found myself back on my feet, but McGray’s eyes were already glowing with renewed hope.

  ‘Och, I ken. But at least she has better chances. I’ll have to thank yer dad!’

  I tittered. ‘Oh, believe me, the less he sees of you, the better the outcome.’ I went to his library, which was as messy as ever, and began collecting the scattered statements. ‘I assume the missing ones are at the office?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Very well, I will fetch them. And I will dismiss Sperry while I am there.’

  Nine-Nails was pouring himself a celebratory whisky, but he spilled half the measure as he shook with laughter.

  ‘Ohh-ho-ho-ho … neh! Wait here, I’ll do that myself.’

  And sadly he left the house before I could beg him not to break any bones this time.

  I was back home an hour or so later and, feeling reduced to a petty clerk, I left the pile of documents on Father’s table. Instead of thanking me or even greeting me, he passed me an envelope without taking his eyes from the page.

  ‘Make sure this reaches Lady Anne.’

  I nearly stumbled when I heard the name. ‘Anne … Ardglass?’

  ‘Yes! I addressed it clearly enough.’

  ‘Are you asking her to—?’

  ‘Oh, Ian, do you want me to work on your case or answer your silly questions? Yes! I am asking her to vouch for the gypsy.’

  I could not contain a hearty laugh. ‘I must tell you that the old woman despises McGray. And me. She will never testify.’

  Father finally looked away from the work, if only to pour himself more claret.

  ‘I still hold some of her conveyancing documents. The old crone owns a very pretty townhouse in London, just off Hanover Square, and she did not acquire it through strictly lawful means.’

  ‘She will rather lose a property than help us.’

  ‘Why do you think so? I understand why she might despise that Nine-Stubs Malone, but why would she despise you?’

  I let out a sigh. I would not mention the fact that Lady Anne had unceremoniously offered me the hand of her granddaughter and I had refused – now that I came to think about it, perhaps she’d only done so to ensure my father would never use her dirty linen against her. It was much preferable to tell Father about the deathly Lancashire affair. ‘Do you remember that her only son died?’

  ‘I … vaguely recall reading it in the obituaries, yes.’

  ‘He did not die. Well … he is dead now, but for years he was locked in the lunatic asylum here in Edinburgh. His early death was a sham. Lady Anne was embarrassed of his condition.’

  Father finally looked at me with undivided attention. ‘And how come you know all this?’

  ‘Last January the man murdered a nurse, and then a few other people. Nine-Stubs and I were in charge of chasing him.’ Father began chuckling. ‘E-excuse me, Father, did you find that story in any way funny?’

  ‘Why, no! I find it juicy.’ He snatched the envelope back. ‘I shall include all that in my threats.’

  I watched indignantly as he penned the dreadful addendum. ‘Not only will you force an elderly woman to testify at the High Court – which will be most scandalous and humiliating for a lady of her rank – but you will also threaten to reveal her darkest family secrets? That would ruin her reputation for the rest of her life.’

  ‘Bah! How long might that be?’

  ‘McGray thinks forever. He even mentioned she might have done a pact with the devil.’

  ‘Well, in that case she will have to spend eternity in shame.’

  I shook my head. ‘Father, you do scare me sometimes.’

  He laughed, raising his glass in a toast to himself. ‘Are you not happy I am on your side this time?’

  30

  The city air felt increasingly oppressive as the time passed. I thought it was simply my own anxieties, but the autumn weather held its share of blame ; the clouds grew thicker and darker until they looked like a solid roof, yet remained reluctant to pour any rain.

  The sky finally broke on the morning of the trial, lashing the streets like an Amazonian downpour. I heard the relentless drumming on the window as I adjusted one of my better ties, and then peered out into the street, where gusts of brown water flowed and splashed around the overwhelmed sewers.

  The Scotsman (which Layton had to iron, for it had arrived dripping wet) mentioned the trial on the front page with, if possible, even more alarming language. The horrendous image of the hand of Satan featured again, though thankfully much smaller than the previous Friday – this I can only attribute to the newspaper trying to save on ink.

  Father and I set off very early, and I had to endure his endless complaints about the weather.

  ‘What a glorified slum,’ he said as we approached the castle-like towers of Calton Hill Jail. ‘The Scotch really like to overcompensate.’

  Thankfully the tempest had discouraged onlookers, and our way in was relatively painless – though we both moaned in the exact same manner as our shoes plunged into the muddy yard.

  McGray’
s cab arrived just a moment later. To my astonishment, he was cleanly shaven and wore a perfectly fit black suit.

  ‘My, oh my, you dressed decently!’

  He shrugged. ‘It’s Bram Stoker’s. He never asked for it back. Bit tight round the crotch, mind.’

  We went to the questioning room, where Katerina was already waiting for us.

  Mary from the Ensign pub was with her, giving her some last touches of make-up. Her flare of ginger curls obscured Katerina’s face, but I could see they were both wearing their Sunday best – demure grey dresses, plain shawls and discreet, yet clearly new hats.

  Mary moved aside to greet us, and when I saw Katerina’s face, I could hardly repress a squint.

  Though her make-up was fit for a court, the woman looked yet another decade older. Thinner, paler, and the bags under her eyes hung like dry, empty folds of skin. There was still some fire in her green eyes, albeit much diminished. She was like the flame on a candle wick, slowly yet consistently fading away.

  The necessary introductions were made, though Father, as is his custom, never offered a hand to shake. He nodded at Mary, though not looking at her. ‘Get rid of the washerwoman.’

  She gasped and raised a fist, but McGray held her by the shoulders and whispered something into her ear. Mary could only scoff and mumble between her teeth as she walked out.

  Father installed himself at the table, staring at Katerina with as much scrutiny as she did him. She raised her chin proudly and he winced as he bit his cigar – which he’d keep between his teeth throughout the meeting. Their stance made me think of two ancient titans, measuring each other’s strength before delving into an Olympian skirmish.

  ‘Madam,’ Father said at last, ‘I have heard that you can be reticent to taking advice. I will only tell you this : Do as I say and you might, just might, walk out of this alive. Ignore me and you will be doomed for certain. Either way, at the end of the day I walk out happily to a large glass of brandy. Do we understand each other?’

  Instead of looking at Father, Katerina turned to McGray. ‘How much am I going to have to pay for this?’