The Darker Arts

by Oscar de Muriel

  Katerina surrounded her with an arm. ‘There, there, my lass. We talked about this.’

  It was astonishing to see the sentenced woman so tenderly consoling the visitor.

  McGray cleared his throat. ‘We … we have some news.’

  Katerina nodded, and then whispered into Mary’s ear, ‘Would you bring me some tea, dear? That would help me.’

  Mary wiped her tears, her freckles redder than usual, and sniffed loudly as she stood up. ‘Aye, of course. I’ll finish yer hair when I come back.’

  ‘Ask Malcolm, the guard with the long scar. He’s a good lad.’

  Mary attempted a smile as she walked past us. McGray patted her on the shoulder with affection. He did not look much better himself, so I took the bullet for him.

  ‘The … the date has been set.’

  She was trying hard, but Katerina could not fully repress a gasp. She raised her chin, fixing her gaze on me.

  ‘Tell me.’

  I gulped. One never gets used to delivering that sort of news.

  ‘The law requires to wait three Sundays after sentencing, so …’

  I could not go on, her green eyes staring intently into mine. She then looked down, began counting with her fingers, and only then did I manage to say : ‘Twenty-first of October, at eight o’clock in the morning.’

  There was a moment of silence, Katerina still counting. I was going to repeat the date, thinking she’d not heard, but then she looked up. To our astonishment, there was a content look on her face.

  ‘I will go on a waning moon,’ she said, now looking wistfully out the window. ‘The perfect time to detach from this world and meet rest.’

  Katerina said nothing for a while, as if she’d forgotten we were present. When she looked at us, it was with a quiet smile, the kind of gesture mothers reserve for their young children when they set off to build forts with broomsticks and tablecloths.

  ‘I don’t want you two to feel guilty,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen what awaits.’

  McGray took a short step back.

  ‘Ye must be wrong,’ he spluttered, as stubborn as ever. ‘Ye said yer eye was all out of joint.’

  Katerina took a deep breath. ‘The first time I saw it was when you were bringing me back from the Sheriff’s. Remember?’

  I did. Her face had been frozen still, her green eyes fixed on the outlines of Calton Hill as the carriage drove us across the bridge. I have seen my death, she’d whispered.

  ‘I just didn’t like what I saw,’ Katerina went on. Like she’d done upon her vision, she ran a finger on the skin of her neck, following the line of an imaginary noose. ‘I’ve had time to take it in. It’s all right. It’s all part of the greater—’

  ‘Oi, shut it right there! I won’t sit around and let ye go to the gallows. Even if ye had done it!’ McGray sat next to her, that persistent spark burning in his eyes again.

  Katerina nodded and reached for his hand. ‘I know you won’t. You’ll be with me ’til the very end. I’ve seen it.’

  McGray gulped. His eyes were starting to pool tears, which he hastily blinked away.

  ‘It’s all right, my boy,’ Katerina assured, squeezing his hand. ‘I’m at peace. I’m settling my businesses. Johnnie will sell the divination room and there should be plenty to keep my son in school until he’s of age.’ She winked at me, half smiling. ‘I’m good with numbers. I’ve always been. I’ve been muddling clients with them for twenty years!’

  I nodded, unconsciously smiling back at her. I secretly wished that, when my time came, I could accept it with half her equanimity.

  McGray was everything but resigned. He wanted to submit an immediate appeal, but Father advised him otherwise ; an appeal unsupported by new evidence was most likely to be dismissed. Father recommended we investigated further for another fortnight, and only appeal if all else had failed by then.

  I did not hear much from Nine-Nails for the next few days. He took all the files home and worked from there. Joan, who called frequently to bring me roasts and pastries, told me that McGray spent every waking hour locked in his library, reading, drinking and mumbling to himself, with only the dogs to keep him company.

  I would have visited, but I would not have been pleasant company for anyone. My mood was just as grim, and without the pressure of the trial, I was soon drifting back to the nightmares, the gloomy memories and the unexpected surges of anxiety.

  Father, who’d been as irascible as a bear with a splinter, did not help my spirits. He had not lost a case in almost thirty years (the last a lawsuit against a merchant from ‘Aber-bloody-deen’), and he moaned on and on about the nasty gossip that would circulate in London – the ageing Mr Frey, decaying barrister, utterly humiliated – by the Scots! Again!

  Fortunately, his hatred for Scotland was far greater than his fear of ill-intentioned upper-class natter, and he packed his trunks soon enough.

  On the morning he left I retreated to my study and attempted to read, but it turned out impossible. Father kept shouting orders at the loaders as they took his luggage out, and poor Layton ran up and down to meet his last-minute demands.

  Just as the racket subsided a little, the old Mr Frey came by, flustered and wrapped in his thickest, hairiest overcoat. As he sat in front of me, I heard Layton approaching.

  ‘Do you expect me to jump on a train without having had a drink?’ Father snapped. ‘Bring me a brandy. Now! And a flask for the trip.’

  Layton was back within the minute, bringing a tray with a decanter, two tumblers and a small silver hip flask. Father grabbed the latter.

  ‘Oh, you blithering idiot. It is a sodding eight-hour trip! Do you think this will do?’

  ‘Sir, I – I am afraid we do not have a larger—’

  ‘Then how come you are not rushing to the shop as we speak? I leave in fifteen minutes, you thoughtless fool!’

  He still shoved the hip flask into his breast pocket, watching how Layton dashed away.

  ‘Ahh, I do like to see them run. It is almost as amusing as torturing Catherine.’ He winked at me as he said that, and then poured two drinks – both unusually kind gestures.

  He lounged back, savouring his drink, and I pretended to read on. I could tell he was about to give a monologue which I did not have the energy to face. After a while I looked at him, and found him staring at the window. Outside it was drizzling, the sky dull and grey.

  ‘I am sorry, Ian,’ he said. ‘I failed you.’

  I closed my book and let out an impatient sigh. ‘You did what you could. The case was a lost cause.’

  Father shook his head. ‘Lost causes used to be my speciality … Maybe that is why I was so keen to help you. I mean, I truly wanted to escape London and the wedding psychosis, but I also wanted to help you.’

  I chuckled. ‘I am your new lost cause.’

  ‘Well, of course you are! It is like you made everything in your power to become one. All these hopeless trifles, all these assignments of yours … They will never bring you fortune, and only very, very rarely will they bring you glory. In fact, they will only make you more and more miserable if things continue like this. Unless, of course, you meet an untimely end like that poor frog Maurice.’

  ‘Father, do you have a point?’

  ‘Laurence and I only joined the bar for the money and the prestige. Elgie is also after the applause ; he would have abandoned his music already if that Stoker fellow had not hired him at the Lyceum. Oliver – pff! He just sits around and eats. But you, Ian …’ He had to take a long swig of alcohol to go on. ‘You have this … reckless drive. Your inspector job means everything to you. It always has. You have always given it your very best ; you always dive straight into these silly inconsequential cases, even if it breaks your back or gives you very little in return – which is not something I can say about any of your brothers. Or myself. I do wonder what it might be like to feel such hunger in life. Sometimes …’ He needed another swig. ‘Sometimes I envy you.’

  He could not look me
in the eye when he said that, and I must admit I felt just as uncomfortable, so I decided to go for the liquor too. As I leaned over the tray, I saw myself reflected on the polished silver – bleary-eyed, pale, my septum still slightly bent where it had once snapped, and when I picked up my drink I saw the scars where my hand had been burned … twice.

  I smiled bitterly. ‘You are only looking at the glamour of it.’

  Father began to chuckle, and it soon morphed into an unrestrained cackle, too infectious to resist. I had to smirk as we clinked our glasses and drank to my dishonour.

  ‘I am really sorry about your Uncle Maurice,’ Father said then. ‘He was an irresponsible wreck, but I know how much he meant to you.’

  I sighed, and for some strange reason, the words rolled uncontrollably out of my mouth : ‘I still dream about that night.’

  Father said nothing, and I fixed my eyes on the golden brandy. When I looked up, Father was again staring out the window, though looking at nothing.

  ‘I still dream about your mother,’ he whispered. ‘She opened my Great Parade.’

  ‘Your what?’

  Father smiled. ‘Did you never hear your grandfather say that? When his old friends started to die, he called it The Great Parade. He said you never want to be first – or last.’

  I chuckled, recalling my late grandfather’s humour. As dry as bones.

  Father sighed. ‘Oh yes, Cecilia died far too soon. I thought we still had so much ahead. We—’ he shook his head. ‘I married again, but if I could still be with her …’ He finished his drink and stood up swiftly. ‘Don’t tell Catherine. If she ever has to hear it, I want it to be from me!’

  We both laughed earnestly and clinked our glasses, perhaps for only the third time in our lives.

  Only a moment later we heard Layton coming back from the shop and saw him come in covered in perspiration.

  ‘What took you so bloody long?’ Father shouted, snatching the new flask as he made his way to the door.

  Before he crossed the threshold, he hesitated, a hand on his waistcoat pocket, patting his rounded belly. I could tell he was about to say something, but in the end he simply winked at me and rushed downstairs, where I heard him shout more orders.

  I looked through the window and saw him get into the loaded carriage, still reprimanding poor Layton. He waved his cane at me as the driver spurred the horses, and a moment later Father disappeared around the corner.

  That was the last time I saw him alive.

  36

  We were well past the end of summer, with nothing but increasing desolation ahead of us. The days grew darker and shorter, the leaves began to wither and the air became damp and colder. And on those evenings I would sit there in my parlour, alone with my nightmares and my fears and my sad memories.

  I heard nothing from McGray and entertained myself sorting out petty paperwork at the office, until that dreadful Monday afternoon when Mrs Holt burst into my office.

  ‘There you are!’ she cried, carrying her sobbing child in her arms.

  McNair came running behind her.

  ‘Sorry, sir! I couldnae stop her!’

  ‘I need to talk to you,’ she pleaded as McNair tried to pull her away. ‘My husband needs you!’

  McNair was going to lift her up like they’d done at court, but she kicked about again, and the little girl cried hysterically, balancing precariously in her mother’s arms.

  ‘Oh, stop it you both!’ I roared, standing up and banging my fists on the desk. ‘McNair, take that child away while I dispatch this … lady.’

  McNair did obey, though carrying the girl at arm’s length.

  ‘Now, madam,’ I said as soon as the drilling cries could not be heard anymore, ‘I do not care what your husband has to say. He should have spoken before the trial.’

  ‘He says he can help your gypsy.’

  ‘She is not my—’ I rubbed my face. ‘How could he possibly help her?’

  Mrs Holt came closer. ‘He says he can tell you something about the colonel. Something nobody else knows.’

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘He wouldnae tell me. He wants to talk to you. I know my husband ; I can tell it’s very important.’ I took a deep breath, far too tempted to tell her to go to Halifax. ‘He won’t play games with you. I swear it on my child’s life.’

  I could feel the despair in her voice, tears welling in her eyes.

  She came closer still, seeing my reticence. ‘He said something about the colonel … having a fight on the day he died.’

  The man’s grazed knuckles instantly came to mind. Those wounds that had looked so fresh in the morgue.

  ‘And what did he—?’

  ‘That’s all he said,’ she prompted. ‘Please, sir, please! It will only take you an hour. That’s all I ask of you.’

  I grumbled, thinking she was right. Unlike Katerina, time was something I had in ample supply. Saying nothing, I reached for my coat and hat, Mrs Holt prattling how thankful she was.

  ‘Look after the girl,’ I told an overwhelmed McNair as we stepped out. ‘We shan’t be long.’

  ‘But I’m nae wet nurse!’ I heard him scream, fighting to get the child’s hands off his ginger hair.

  I was tempted to check if McGray was at home, but I imagined he’d be in a sorry state, so I decided to conduct this questioning on my own terms.

  We reached Calton Hill soon enough, which I found gloomier and colder than ever before. That place must be hideous in the middle of winter.

  The guards took me to a questioning room, and before walking in I asked them to take Mrs Holt away. The woman protested with her usual vulgarity, and I was only too glad when the door was shut and her voice could be heard no more. A few minutes later they brought Holt, manacled and wearing the inmates’ uniform.

  The man looked ghastly. He’d been transferred to jail some ten days ago, but with saggy bags under his eyes and a patchy stubble, it seemed he’d been ravaged by famine and disease for months. He was vigorously scratching his head, most likely infested with colonies of nits or fleas. I instinctively pushed my chair back.

  ‘I suppose incarceration is not as comfortable as you expected.’

  ‘Don’t mock me, sir,’ he whimpered. ‘I’ve never been so miserable in my life. They gave me three years. Three years! For breaking into a house where I stole nothing from!’

  I did feel a pang of compassion for him, but feigned some indifference.

  ‘What is it you need to tell me? I am fiendishly busy at the City Chambers.’ He did not need to know I was as idle as an upper-class spinster. ‘I know Colonel Grenville had a fight. Your wife said—’

  ‘Oh, but there’s something else, sir!’ he nearly squealed, and then lowered his voice. ‘She’s not around, is she? My wifey.’

  ‘No. In fact I asked the guards to keep her as far away as possible.’

  Holt rubbed his dry, prickly chin. ‘You … you must swear she won’t hear any of this.’

  I sighed impatiently. ‘Yes, yes. Confidentiality. Gentleman to gentleman. Go on.’

  ‘Sir, I must hear you swear—’ I made to stand up and Holt cried at once, ‘I was having a hanky-panky!’

  The words bounced in the little room, and as I sat down, Holt covered his mouth.

  ‘I see,’ I said. ‘With whom?’

  Holt covered his mouth ; his voice came out muffled. ‘Miss Leonora.’

  I winced. ‘She? With you?’ I looked sideways and shrugged. ‘Then again, she was pretty strange …’ Holt was on the verge of tears. Shame, guilt, heartbreak, all converged in his distorted face. I softened my tone. ‘For how long?’

  ‘A few months. Six, or a wee more. The colonel sent me to do chores for her. We talked … one thing led to …’ he saw my reproving stare and snorted. ‘You’re a man, you must understand me. With my girl being born I couldn’t— you know …’

  I sighed and nearly uttered ‘how disgusting’.

  ‘But Miss Leonora was so special,’ Holt said. �
��Everyone misunderstood her. Her relatives mocked her ; her uncle was a drunken idiot always getting her and himself in trouble ; ladies her age didn’t want anything to do with her … The poor creature felt so lonely. One day she just burst into tears in my arms.’ He began whimpering like a child, mopping tears with his mucky sleeves. ‘That day – the day she died, that is – I picked her up early. You might remember I told you so. We pretended she needed something for the camera. The truth is we went elsewhere. We— Oh, she loved Arthur’s Seat …’

  ‘That is fine,’ I said. ‘I do not need to know the details.’

  He began whimpering, so I gave him a moment. I felt little compassion for a chap who frolics around just after his wife gave him a child, but I needed him to talk, so I played the compassionate man. I told the gaolers to bring us two cups of tea – a ghastly brew that tasted of cinders – and when we were alone again, I asked, ‘Is that why you took her necklace? The gold nugget?’

  Holt nodded, sipping his tea as if it were the most delicious nectar and warming his hands with the cup. ‘I never wanted to sell it. It was going to be a memento ; something to think about—’

  ‘So you went into the parlour to retrieve it,’ I blurted out. ‘And then lied to us.’

  ‘I’m telling the truth now! And you saw the photograph, so you know it’s true!’

  I massaged my brow. ‘Go on. I shall decide if I believe you or not.’

  ‘Leonora …’ Holt had to put the cup down, but he would not let go of it. ‘Leonora told me things about her family. Things about the colonel. She made me swear I wouldn’t tell, and even if I wanted –’ he gulped ‘– I couldn’t mention a word to my wife, of course … And if the colonel ever found out I was aware of his dirty secrets, he—’

  ‘What did she tell you?’ I prompted.

  Holt took a deep breath. ‘Leonora told me her poor dad died of some disease he caught in Africa … wherever that is.’

  ‘What was he doing there?’ I asked, my mind going through the collected pieces. ‘Gold mining, I assume? Were they part of the African gold rush?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Leonora’s father and uncle worked there for some time, but I believe the actual mine belonged to the Shaws.’