The Darker Arts

by Oscar de Muriel

  ‘Och, just listen to the haughty sod!’

  Katerina grumbled and looked back at Father, which to him was agreement enough.

  ‘Very well, madam, this is how we shall proceed : As much as possible, I will steer the questioning away from the … erm, particulars of your profession.’

  ‘The brewery?’ Katerina said, her eyebrow so high I thought it would touch her hairline.

  ‘Of course!’ Father answered, spilling ashes over the files as he turned the pages. ‘When you narrate the events of the thirteenth, stick to what you said at the Sheriff Court. Can you still remember that?’

  ‘I’m not an idiot.’

  ‘Add no embellishments or details. Do not volunteer information. Do not defend your “dark arts”, or whatever the devil you call them. And that goes for you too,’ he used the cigar to point at McGray. ‘The last thing we need is your idiotic opinions in the air.’

  ‘Och, who the fuck d’ye—?’

  ‘Do save your foul breath,’ Father interjected, his voice bouncing in the little room. ‘Even if I gave a damn, I do not speak your Scotch patois.’

  ‘What—?’

  ‘Yelp like that again and I shall walk out and leave you to fix this petty mess on your bloody stupid own! Do we understand each other?’

  Nine-Nails clenched his fists. He had to force three deep breaths before he managed a hiss.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Excuse me, what?’

  McGray went red as a piece of iron in a kiln.

  ‘Yes …’

  Father gave him a fulminant eye, as if to leave clear who was in charge, before resuming.

  ‘Now, about judges : they are peculiar creatures. They know your life is in their hands and they adore that, so we want to keep him happy. If he says you speak, you speak ; if he says you dance, you ask to which tune. Like in every court session there will be the issue of time ; the court is likely to hear half a dozen cases today – none as eagerly awaited as yours, of course. Be succinct and do not repeat yourself, else the judge will become impatient. Thankfully, your case will be the first one to be heard, so it is less likely he will send you to the gallows because he wants to rush for his luncheon.

  ‘One more thing. I have managed one outwardly respectable person to vouch for you. The old woman you all call Lady Glass.’

  ‘You what?’ cried Katerina.

  Nine-Nails was astounded. He stammered before managing any discernible words. ‘How … how’s that possible?’

  ‘Father did some conveyancing for her in London,’ I said.

  ‘Oh,’ said McGray with instant understanding.

  Father went on. ‘My – let us call it agreement with the lady includes divulging nothing about her businesses and her lunatic son in exchange for her help. I shall word my questions so that the issue does not come up, but be aware of that. Do you have any questions, madam?’

  ‘Yes. What about the twat?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She means Pratt,’ said McGray. ‘The fiscal.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ Father closed the file. ‘Be prepared. From what Ian tells me, I gather he might have something up his sleeve. Now, madam …’ He interlaced his fingers, lowered his chin and cast Katerina the same piercing stare I’d learned to fear as a child ; that which in a flash could make me confess murder. ‘Is there anything else we should know? If so, this is the time to speak.’

  Katerina, however, remained silent, with the same uncomfortable grimace we’d seen before the session at the Sheriff Court.

  ‘Whatever you might tell us, I will still defend you,’ Father insisted, but Katerina tensed her lips further, as if attempting to seal them by sheer pressure. ‘Very well. Now, I suggest we get on our way. You do not want to be late for your own trial.’

  31

  The cabs had to negotiate puddled roads, stubborn horses and pedestrians running recklessly across the streets to escape from the storm. I know Edinburgh has never been a sunny idyll, but that morning, with the entire panorama blurred and darkened, the city felt like an unwelcoming stranger ; the buildings grittier, the air stale and the people threatening.

  It took us nearly forty minutes to cover the one mile to Parliament House, and when I finally saw the blackened spire of St Giles’ Cathedral, only just outlined in the blustery sky, I had to sigh in relief.

  Unsurprisingly, we were recognised at once. There was no gathering crowd, but the passers-by still yelled curses as the drivers took us around the building. When they halted, by the back entrance, I had to take a deep breath before opening the door. As soon as I did so the lashes of rain came in, my umbrella and overcoat useless under the elements.

  McGray covered Katerina with his own overcoat as we darted to the door. We were less than a yard away when a couple of mindless thugs ran to us and deliberately kicked the mud around us. Mary took the worst of it, her dress soaked all the way to her knees.

  ‘Blast, this is why I hate the Scotch!’ Father roared as we all made our sorry way through the corridors, leaving a trail of water and dirt on the marble floors.

  Two very tall constables were waiting for Katerina, ready to handcuff her.

  ‘We’ll be there, hen,’ McGray told her, affectionately squeezing her hand right after the constables had fastened it. ‘First row.’

  For an instant Katerina’s eyes misted up. She blinked tears away, raised her chin and pulled back her shoulders.

  ‘Thank you, Adolphus.’

  And there we left her, walking briskly to the courtroom. We could hear the murmur of the crowd well before we got there, as though we were approaching a colossal beehive.

  The stumpy officer opened the door for us and I had to force a deep breath.

  The High Court of Justiciary was an imposing chamber, everything in it designed to intimidate : its vaulted ceiling, that carried echoes throughout the space, the gilded plastering, the sober wood panelling, and especially the judges’ bench, raised high enough to leave no doubt as to their authority.

  When we stepped in, the place became a bedlam. The ascending rows for the public were a solid mass of chattering humanity, and as soon as they saw us – rather, as soon as they recognised Nine-Nails – we were pelted with boos and unrelenting vulgarity.

  The front row was the only one that did not attack us. It was occupied almost entirely by women in their finery, some entertaining themselves with needlework while the session began. To them this was akin to an evening at the theatre, only free and far more exciting.

  Shoving his way through the seats, I saw Katerina’s servant, Johnnie, again with a large tray of pork pies he was selling for a sixpence. I was not shocked by his presence but by people paying such a ludicrous amount.

  An usher showed us the way to the seats reserved for the advocates and witnesses, right behind the dock. The young Dr Reed was already there, looking as tired as he always did these days. He greeted us with a silent nod.

  I saw that all fifteen members of the jury were already seated on the side gallery, some staring at the crowd with stiff lips, others whispering into their neighbour’s ear. They all struck me as grumpy, sallow and not particularly brilliant middle-aged men ; one was even picking his nose without shame.

  Father must have read my anxiety, for he came to me and said, ‘They always look like that, Ian. I’ve seen worse.’

  I sat there, feeling like a useless piece of scenery in the drama that was about to unfold, and waited.

  A moment later I saw Pratt, preening towards his bench and bringing a hefty stack of documents under his arm. I had to blink twice before I fully recognised him, for his bright scalp was covered with a white bench wig. He nodded at us, though with a sardonic smile, and then waved at some point in the rows. McGray and I looked in that direction, and very quickly found Mrs Cobbold and Walter Fox amongst the crowd. Just like at the previous session, they sat together. Her sideways smile was a bad portent.

  ‘The auld bitch did come,’ McGray told me. I thought he was also looking
at Mrs Cobbold, but then he pointed at the furthest corner on the last row of seats. Surrounded by two officers, her stiff butler and a broad-shouldered manservant sat Lady Anne. She still wore mourning clothes and a hat almost as wide as an umbrella. ‘Och, the cow looks dreadful …’

  I noticed her paleness, but I did not have time to examine her face carefully. Right then the name Judge Norvel was announced, and I felt a pang of anxiety as we all rose to our feet.

  ‘So it begins,’ McGray mumbled.

  Judge Norvel carried himself with an enviable self-confidence, only possible in those who have exerted power for so long they no longer notice. He was a very lean man, with sharp chin and cheekbones, a pointy aquiline nose and bushy white eyebrows as angular as his jaw. Today he was clad in the heavy ceremonial robes reserved for the most serious criminal cases : a red gown with a white jabot around the neck, spread over a jacket faced with red ribbon crosses on the chest. The full-bottom wig, with its white curls, rolled down all the way to his chest (in McGray’s later words, ‘like the dusty corpse of a scruffy French poodle’).

  The hubbub had completely died out to a tense silence, as the man scrutinised his court with menacing beady eyes. The occasional ruffle of clothes and a single cough were the only sounds until Judge Norvel sat down and invited the audience to do the same. He picked up the agenda laid before him, his long, knotty fingers like the twigs of an elder tree.

  ‘Today’s first session is for the six Morningside deaths,’ he said with a thick Edinburgh accent that particularly emphasised the R’s, his voice a rich baritone that effortlessly traversed the courtroom. ‘Summon the accused ; Mr Alexander Holt, and Miss … Ana Katerina Dragnea.’

  Two pairs of officers brought them in, Holt marching first, crouching like he’d done at the Sheriff Court. He too looked pale and poorly, but nothing like Katerina.

  As soon as she walked in, all manner of insults and jeers rained down on her. Again she kept herself firm, her back straightened and dignified, as Judge Norvel bellowed furiously. His cry for order was deafening – even Father’s head jerked a little – and by the time Katerina and Holt were standing in the dock, the chamber was again in complete silence.

  ‘I know this case has received particular public attention,’ he said, ‘but I will not have this institution become a boisterous pen of baboons. Another outcry like this and this session will continue privately.’ Norvel then read the indictment, the selection of the jury and the names of the barristers. ‘Procurator Fiscal George Pratt—’ a soft trickle of puerile laughter. ‘And …’ the judge’s bristly eyebrows raised, ‘William Otto Frey Esquire, acting as counsel for the prisoner.’

  He tilted his head as he stared at my father, who in turn raised his chin, proud of still being recognised at courts.

  ‘Proceed with the oaths,’ said Norvel, and one of the clerks did so.

  Holt’s trembling voice was only just intelligible, whilst Katerina’s sliced the air like a knife.

  ‘How do you plead?’ Norvel asked.

  Again Holt stammered his ‘not guilty’, and Katerina took a deep breath and said the same with conviction. Though nobody spoke, the audience’s disagreement could be felt like a monster swelling behind our backs.

  Norvel cleared his throat, pleased by the unbroken order.

  ‘Gentlemen of the jury,’ he began, ‘this case, as you all might know already, has been particularly distressing to our entire city, and even the nation. I suspect that much of what happened on the night of the thirteenth of September will remain shrouded in mystery forever ; nevertheless, the most prominent facts shall be exposed here today, in hopes that the truth transpires and justice may be administered.

  ‘Hear the statements without prejudice. And I cannot stress this enough : what the press has been so kind as to expose so far,’ he cast an accusing glance at the bench of reporters and sketchers, ‘must not, must not, influence your judgement. All that matters is what is heard at this session today.’

  He paused for a moment, allowing the words to sink in.

  ‘The events, as we understand them so far, are that, on the night in question, the six deceased,’ he listed all the names and occupations, ‘attended what is colloquially known as a séance, in the hopes of …’ he cleared his throat, visibly uncomfortable by having to read such facts, ‘in the hopes of contacting a deceased relative, Alice Shaw, nicknamed Grannie Alice. The session was hosted at the residence of the late Colonel Grenville, and was facilitated by Miss Dragnea, present. By the first defendant’s wishes, all servants and other family members were told to vacate the dwelling for the night. Then …’ he sighed, ‘by means which remain as yet unknown, the six attendees perished during the night. Miss Dragnea was the only survivor and was found, surrounded by the six deceased, the following morning by Mr Holt. As Colonel Grenville’s valet, Mr Holt was the last person – other than Miss Dragnea – to see the victims alive.

  ‘Our head of forensics, Dr Wesley Aaron Reed, summoned here for cross-examination, has not been able to determine the cause of the deaths beyond doubt ; however, the lead theory is that some sort of undetectable poison was embedded in a ritualistic knife, provided by Miss Dragnea and used by the six victims to – ahem – make blood offerings.’

  The more he spoke the more anxious I felt. To a fresh listener, the facts would sound simple and incriminating enough.

  Judge Norvel put the summaries aside. ‘I shall now let the prosecution call their first witness.’

  ‘My Lord,’ Father prompted as he jumped to his feet, his voice as commanding as the judge’s – he’d told me many times it is not the smartest man who wins at court, but he who speaks the loudest – ‘before we proceed I would like to remind the honourable jury that the focus of this trial is not to elucidate what happened in that parlour, nor to give in to drama or speculation. Neither of the accused can be sentenced unless their culpability is demonstrated beyond any reasonable doubt by rational, cold, undeniable facts.’

  Norvel did not look amused. ‘Thank you, Mr Frey. We’d all be lost without the timely aid of the English.’

  There were some loud guffaws, which Norvel was happy to oversee.

  Pratt stood up then with a proud air and put a noticeable emphasis on his Scottish inflections ; much more than in the pre-trial inquiry. ‘My Lord, I would like to question Mr Holt first.’

  When he heard his name, the man startled. He then went to the witness box with trembling legs, and Pratt asked him to retell his version of the facts. Despite his nervousness, Holt managed to give a brief account that matched all previous statements. Pratt listened as he studied some papers.

  ‘I see here,’ he said, ‘that you were caught at the crime scene some time later. Retrieving a few items from the house. Is that correct?’

  Holt began to sweat profusely ; so much so, one of the officers had to offer him a handkerchief. ‘Y-yes. But it was an inheritance!’

  Pratt went on to recite in detail the items we’d seized.

  ‘Is this relevant?’ Norvel said.

  ‘I beg for your patience, my Lord,’ said Pratt. ‘I must offer further light on the matter of that petty inheritance.’

  Norvel twisted his mouth. ‘Go on.’

  Pratt picked up a bundle of sheets and went back to the witness box. ‘Mr Holt, I have to ask you a rather personal question. How much did the colonel pay for your services?’

  Holt almost choked, his face going red as he said the number. ‘Fifty-five pounds a year, sir.’

  There was a general gasp at the audience.

  ‘Extremely generous for a valet,’ said Pratt.

  Holt again wiped some sweat. ‘I … I served the good colonel for many years, sir. He valued loyalty.’

  ‘And so I see. He also included you in his inheritance, which I happen to have here,’ he raised the legal document for everyone to see and offered it to the judge for inspection. ‘I also took the liberty of taking Colonel Grenville’s will to a reputable merchant on St Julia’s Clo
se to give me an estimate of the value of said inheritance. Just under forty pounds.’ And he offered the last sheet to the judge, who nodded after a quick scan.

  ‘Even if we ignore the good relationship that existed between Mr Holt and his master,’ said Pratt, ‘even if we look at this from the most cynical and utilitarian point of view, why would this man want to murder an employer who paid him a salary no master in this city would be willing to match?’ He looked at me as he stepped in my direction. ‘Inspector Frey, a gentleman like you must have a valet. How much do you pay him?’

  I cleared my throat. ‘Under … A smidgeon under thirty pounds.’

  While people laughed, McGray whispered into my ear, ‘Thirty! I pay George eighteen …’

  ‘Very well,’ said Norvel, ‘you have made your point.’ He turned to Father with contempt. ‘Would you care to question the accused?’

  ‘Oh, indeed I would!’ Father replied, smiling and rubbing his hands as he took the floor.

  Holt gulped, and I even saw a fleeting spark of fear in Pratt’s eyes.

  ‘Mr Holt, you found the six victims. Dead. Am I correct?’

  ‘Y-yes …’

  ‘You knew the police would need to investigate.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They asked you to give them the keys to the house.’ Holt could not answer ; he simply nodded, knowing where that was going. ‘Now, when the police asked for your keys, I assume you understood they needed all the keys. I assume you, despite your clearly poor judgement, understood the seriousness of the situation : that the house must be locked, that nobody should trespass and interfere with the evidence.’ There was no answer, so Father leaned closer. ‘Did you understand that, yes or no?’

  Holt nodded, his lower lip protruding in misery.

  ‘And yet you lied. You kept a key and you made your way into the house. Whether you were entitled to the items or not is irrelevant.’ He looked at the jury. ‘Irrelevant.’

  It was then that McGray, for the first time in days, smiled.