The Darker Arts

by Oscar de Muriel

  I stared at him for a moment, taking in all that he’d said.

  ‘How to dodge blows,’ I echoed. ‘Indeed you have. You wanted to defend your family’s rights – yet you refused to take part in the séance.’

  Fox looked down, unable to repress a smile.

  Suddenly I felt the full weight of the rain and its coldness.

  ‘You did it,’ I hissed. ‘You killed them all! Somehow you tampered with Katerina’s knife! Was that why you always visited Miss Leonora? Or did you swap it when the colonel went to see you?’

  It was his turn to remain silent.

  ‘You know where those deeds are! And now you are just waiting for the waters to calm down before you retrieve them!’

  ‘Can you prove any of that, inspector? Here I am, helping you escape some lowlifes who nearly—’

  I could not repress myself anymore. I grabbed him by the collar, my hands shaking in wrath. ‘You murdered six people! And an innocent woman will be executed because of you!’

  Fox flinched at first, but then his cynical smile crept back.

  ‘Be careful, inspector. Unlike you, I do have a witness.’ And he pointed at the cab driver, who’d been watching intently.

  I pushed him away, at least getting some satisfaction as I saw him stumble backwards.

  Fox smoothed his clothes as he jumped into the cab. He grinned at me as soon as he closed the door.

  ‘Even if all the gibberish you’ve said was true, you’d not expect a magician to reveal his secrets, would you?’

  I clenched my fists, but all I could do was watch him go.

  ‘Good evening, inspector. And – take care of yourself. You have no idea how many scoundrels are at large in this city.’

  44

  I was not able to sleep until the small hours, and then I spent most of the Sunday pondering my options.

  That damn Walter was right. I had no way to prove he’d arranged the assault, and given my connections to Katerina and McGray, everyone would laugh at my claims.

  I also thought it best not to tell Nine-Nails, at least for the time being. He and Katerina knew far too many people who might break Walter’s legs, and as much as I would have approved, that would not help anyone at the moment.

  Whenever I thought of it my guts went on fire. The bastard would walk away, Katerina would die, and there was nothing we could do about it.

  I had a much-needed bath, haircut and shave, but I still looked terrible, my eyes framed by dark circles, my frown deeper than ever, and the skin sticking to my cheekbones as if I’d starved for days. Layton seemed worried, for he kept offering me biscuits, cognacs and fruit.

  And then a note arrived.

  It came from McNair, telling me there was an odd-looking ‘giant’ at the City Chambers, who could barely make himself understood but apparently claimed to be some sort of religious person.

  I attempted to explain in a note that the man must be the East Orthodox priest Katerina had asked for. Halfway through the page I realised I was writing pure and laughable prattle, so I went to meet the man in person. I asked Layton to find me the best bottle of Bordeaux from the cellar, and I set off.

  No wonder McNair had messaged me. The priest was imposing ; as tall as McGray but twice as wide around the waist, and he had a curly beard, grey only at the middle, which cascaded all the way to his wide belly. He spoke in grunts too, even if his eyes were as gentle as Tucker’s. He rummaged through a carpet bag even wider than him, and handed me a note from a former colleague in Scotland Yard. The giant – called Athanasios Something-topoulos – had just emigrated from Greece and spoke no English at all, but he was the only Orthodox priest they’d been able to locate in London. More importantly, he was happy to impart Katerina the last rites.

  McNair also gave me a note from Katerina’s servant. That one, unfortunately, bore very sad news. I could only fold it and put it in my pocket.

  I then led the priest to Calton Hill Jail. The poor man gasped as we walked along the esplanade ; there were men already working there, hammering wooden beams and iron rivets to assemble the gallows.

  We found Katerina feasting on roast pork, rye bread, gravy, mashed potatoes and some slimy, yellowish mass I could only assume was pickled cabbage. Katerina clearly adored the latter, smacking her lips and grinning as she looked up at me.

  ‘Last supper, son. What a pity you can only die once!’

  Her hair was braided differently, now with white and violet ribbons, so I assumed Mary had also been around today.

  When Katerina saw the priest her eyes brightened as if suddenly lit by the sun. She went to the man, knelt and kissed his hand. The man patted her head very gently, talking to her in warm mumbles nobody except him could understand. He helped Katerina rise, steered her back to her chair and made signs for her to resume her meal. He then sat on the bed and began mumbling prayers, as he opened his carpet bag and pulled out a Bible, incense and a heavy stole.

  I put the wine on the table and the spark in Katerina’s eyes was comparable to that ignited by the prospect of eternal salvation.

  ‘Tell me you brought the good one this time.’

  I could not help but smile. ‘The best one in my cellar, madam. I even kept this one from my father.’

  Katerina snorted. ‘Is that supposed to be a compliment?’ She reached for my hand then, so suddenly I almost twitched. ‘Come, drink with me, my boy,’ and she shouted at the grumpy guard. ‘Oi! Fetch us three glasses!’

  He brought three scratched tumblers soon enough, while I opened the bottle. Katerina snatched the cork and sniffed it whilst I poured the drink, moaning in ecstasy as she exhaled.

  ‘Ahh! Beautiful! Not like the stinking, watered-down shite I sell.’

  Again, I had to smile. ‘You said, under oath, you never do that.’

  She eyed the priest. ‘Aye, and I’m so glad he won’t understand me. He’ll just have to absolve me.’

  I offered a glass to the priest, who accepted it without fuss, and we three clinked our glasses in the strangest toast of my life.

  Katerina savoured the wine, swirling it in her mouth like the expert I knew her to be. ‘If someone told me I’d have my last drink with the likes of you!’

  I let her drink and eat for a little longer, before I had to go to the bad news.

  ‘Katerina,’ I said, after emptying my glass. ‘There is something I need to tell you. I just had a note from Johnnie.’

  ‘Aye. The bastard’s not come to see me. Is he well?’

  ‘I suppose he is, but he tells us – well …’ I took a deep breath and delivered it as fast as possible. There was no way I could soften it. ‘Your son will not make it in time.’

  Katerina’s face froze for a moment, her lips still relaxed in a smile, but all the spark had gone. She blinked as if I’d spoken in dialect.

  ‘W-what?’

  ‘I am so sorry,’ I added, the words sounding terribly silly.

  Katerina opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She reached for her glass, but she could not even bring herself to touch it. Her eyes flickered as if lost in the dark.

  ‘Johnnie received a telegram from the boarding school,’ I said, unable to stand her agonising silence. ‘They could not apologise enough.’

  She swallowed painfully. ‘But … But we sent for him with plenty of time!’

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘According to the headmaster there was some issue with the stagecoaches. The earliest he could arrive is Tuesday.’ I instantly regretted giving her the vexing detail. Her eyes opened wider, and I could not face them. ‘I am so sorry. I have nothing else to tell you … I am very, very sorry.’

  It was the first time she truly crumbled. Very slowly she brought her hands to her face, and then broke into the most distraught, most tearing wails. The laments bounced between the walls, at once angry and desolate, making her entire body shake.

  The priest prattled at me, obviously wanting to know what was wrong, and the scant Latin I learned in Cambridge came in handy
for the first time.

  ‘Filius … erm … non venit.’

  The man nodded immediately. He went to Katerina and placed his enormous, hairy hand on her head, whispering ever so tenderly. His voice was deep and soothing, with a gentle warmth that made words unnecessary.

  It took her a while to calm down, and I waited patiently in my seat.

  I suspected the headmaster had consciously chosen not to send the boy. The news – and Katerina’s reputation – had travelled fast. He’d probably thought it was best that the child did not get to see his cunning, murderous mother as she was about to be executed.

  Katerina finally uncovered her face, mumbling miserably.

  ‘I made my hair for him. And my make-up. I wanted him to see I wasn’t the witch everybody thinks I am.’

  Ironically, her face was now a mess, her rouge and mascara smudged all over. I offered her my handkerchief and she took it with utmost gratitude.

  What a simple, universal gesture of compassion. It made me feel slightly better too ; able to offer at least a drop of comfort. I pity a world where handkerchiefs are no longer in fashion.

  ‘I always thought one day I’d meet him … I would explain everything. I’d tell him how sorry I was, but that I had to let him go! I was waiting for him to get a wee bit older, so he might understand … But now …’

  She pressed the cloth against her face, in a renewed wave of tears.

  ‘How old is he?’ I asked, attempting to take the edge off her grief.

  ‘Eleven,’ she whispered. ‘My Michael. He must be so handsome already. At least he’ll have an education … More than I ever had.’ She then took her glass, and I poured her some more. ‘Thank you for bringing me this, son. It was very nice of you.’

  I took the hint. She clearly wanted to deal with the news on her own. And she also needed some privacy to … ready herself. I stood up, but she spoke before I could utter any farewells.

  ‘Tomorrow … Please, don’t come.’

  ‘E-excuse me?’

  She rose too, and held both my hands. ‘The fewer who see me, the better.’ And even then she managed a playful smile. ‘I prefer you remember me looking pretty like this.’

  I stammered, not knowing what to say.

  ‘Adolphus will be here,’ she added. ‘I told him not to, but you know what he’s like.’

  ‘Yes …’ I mumbled. ‘Yes, I do.’

  She then raised a hand and patted me gently on the cheek. Her smile widened.

  ‘You will be happy, my son. You may not believe it now, but trust me. I can see it in your future.’

  I could not believe my eyes were pooling tears.

  ‘I … thought foresight was considered blasphemy, madam.’

  She winked at me. ‘I know you won’t tell him.’

  And then she kissed my hand and said nothing more. She turned away and knelt by the priest, who was already burning incense and chanting in Latin from a prayer book.

  I stepped out, but before I left I took a good look at her ; her hands pressed together, her finest purple shawl, her intricate hairdo, her lips moving slightly as she prayed.

  And then the guard closed the cell door.

  45

  I felt as if I walked into a cavern.

  The Ensign pub was lit only by a couple of gas lamps, which cast sharp shadows on an assembly of sagging faces. They were all inebriated enough, but instead of the usual racket and dances, they sat around the fire. Most of the men were chanting a slow Scottish lament, swaying dreamily with their tumblers and pints in their hands, their glasses occasionally catching the glow from the flames. Those who did not chant were humming the deep, dark melody, and the few women around simply drank in silence. At least the place was much warmer than the damp streets.

  Nine-Nails was at his usual table, his feet up and nursing a generous measure of whisky. The bottle – from his late father’s distillery – was already half empty, and Tucker and Mackenzie dozed underneath the table, lulled by the gloomy song.

  He only saw me when I blocked one of the gaslights, and gazed languidly at me. At first I could not tell whether he was depressed or irreparably drunk. I then remembered how much alcohol it took to knock him out.

  His look went from lazy to bewildered. ‘Och, what happened? Ye look like someone squashed yer crotch.’

  My innards heaved at the mere memory, but I forced myself to feign a smile.

  ‘I ran out of lavender for my baths.’

  ‘Aye, that explains.’

  ‘May I join you?’

  Nine-Nails did not answer. He simply groaned and kicked a nearby chair in my direction, which to him was the equivalent of a red carpet. He offered me his own glass, poured more whisky in it, and then went on drinking from the bottle.

  We drank in silence for a while, listening to the men’s chants (I would have wiped the tumbler’s rim, but I’d given my last handkerchief to Katerina). McGray spoke when the laments reached a particularly low passage.

  ‘I went to see Doctor Clouston.’

  The sentence took me by surprise. I asked the first question that came to my mind.

  ‘Did he give you any news on your sister?’

  McGray shrugged. ‘He said the new medicine didnae work.’

  Tears had built up in his eyes, reflecting the erratic twinkle of the hearth, but somehow he managed to keep himself from shedding them.

  ‘But that’s nae why I went to see him.’

  Right then my attention was caught by Mary, who emerged from the backrooms, carrying a tall tankard of ale. She nodded at me respectfully, and then installed herself in one of the benches closest to the fire. Men made room for her, and then the humming shifted, spontaneously following the rhythm at which the young woman swayed. She began singing with a sweet, tremulous voice :

  ‘I’ve seen the smiling

  o’ fortune beguiling,

  I’ve tasted her pleasures

  and felt her decay.

  Sweet is her blessing

  and kind her caressing,

  but now they are fled

  and fled far away.’

  McGray spoke on only when Mary began repeating the verses.

  ‘I begged Clouston he signed a certificate of insanity for Katerina.’

  ‘What?!’

  I regretted the hysterical pitch of my question. Fortunately, Mary’s singing had obscured it.

  ‘What … what did he say?’

  I knew it was a pointless question.

  ‘Refused, o’ course,’ McGray grunted. ‘I kent he would, but I still had to try. He said—’ Nine-Nails had to take a long swig, letting the fire of the spirit overpower his pain. ‘He said he’d never done that while consciously knowing it was a lie … And I—’

  He said nothing more, his eyes fixed on Mary as she delivered her tragic song, allowing tears to roll freely down her freckly cheeks.

  ‘Did you say something you should not have?’

  Again, a silly question.

  McGray drank without answering, but I could picture the scene : Nine-Nails knocking over furniture, punching walls and throwing files in the air, while the good doctor stood stoically, letting him release all his frustration. I pitied Cassandra Smith and the other orderlies who’d have to clean up the mess.

  ‘Doctor Clouston is a reasonable man,’ I said. ‘I am sure he will understand.’

  Nine-Nails nodded, though not looking terribly convinced. After a few songs and many swigs, he said, ‘See ye at Calton Hill tomorrow?’

  I exhaled and stared at my drink, feeling both guilty and relieved. Mostly guilty. ‘Katerina asked me not to be there. She said—’

  ‘I believe ye,’ he interrupted, reading my discomfort. ‘Sounds like her. She tried to convince me too.’

  Tucker emerged from under the table and lay his dribbling muzzle on McGray’s knee. His whimpers were strangely in tune with the sad singing.

  ‘I failed her,’ McGray sighed, scratching the dog’s ears.

  ‘Excuse
me?’

  He was misery itself. No wonder the dog had felt it.

  ‘I failed Katerina. Just like I failed my parents. Just like I keep failing my sister.’ As he kneaded Tucker’s neck, I caught a glimpse of the stump on his right hand. ‘The more I care about someone, the more shambolic the way I fail them.’ He gave me a wry smile. ‘Ye should still be fine, Percy.’

  ‘Thank goodness,’ I mumbled after a chuckle, and then raised my glass, suddenly feeling as dejected as Nine-Nails. ‘Cheers to the Great Parade.’

  ‘Whah?’

  I shook my head. ‘Never mind.’

  And we drank on in silence, listening to the slow ballads until there were just a few drops left in the bottle.

  There are times when words are pointless.

  46

  I lay in bed for hours. Tossing, turning, throwing the sheets aside only to pull them back a moment later, my mind besieged by the myriad of possibilities I should have considered, people I should have interrogated, questions I should have asked, documents I should have consulted …

  And that torrent of thoughts paralysed me.

  I imagined Katerina at her cell, perhaps on her knees and praying, perhaps writing one last farewell letter to her son, perhaps drinking the last drops of the Bordeaux I’d given her. I was sure she was not sleeping ; in a few hours she’d have an eternity of that.

  That thought made me jump off the bed. I wrapped up in my dressing gown and went to my parlour. After opening the curtains, I sat down on my favourite armchair and stared at the droplets that peppered the window, looking like golden stars under the glow of the street lamps.

  They made me think of a gold-rich ore, the night behind them the dull gravel from which the metal had to be extracted. I pictured the three diggers and their African workers, sweaty, diseased and covered in soot, as they leant over the melting—