Something happened.
As the droplets fused and rolled down the window, I evoked a forge : the shining metals emerging from crushed rock, pooling at the bottom of a crucible as they went from solid to liquid … and then becoming …
My entire body went cold, my hands grasped the cushioned arms of the chair, and as if pushed by an invisible force, I jumped on my feet.
‘Of course!’ I shouted, and with the image still vivid in my mind I ran to the downstairs parlour – the one I never used and whose walls were lined with Lady Anne’s books.
My hands trembling, my heart pounding, I went desperately through the shelves.
There was no rhyme or reason in their display. They were all second-hand and most likely bought by weight, just for decoration.
‘There must be a bloody encyclopaedia here …’ I grumbled, and I began throwing tome after tome onto the floor.
Layton came soon enough, bringing a candlestick with five lights.
‘Sir, are you all right?’
‘Have you seen an encyclopaedia?’
Bedazzled and still half asleep, he pointed at the top shelf. I saw the twelve matching volumes, bound in green leather, faded and crumbling at the edges.
I had to pull one of the armchairs over and jumped on it. Layton brought the light closer and I picked the fifth tome, marked FEL – GRI. Still standing on the chair I turned the pages frantically, tearing a few, until I found the entry for gold.
My eyes flickered through the lines and I became conscious of my loud breathing. If I did not find what I was looking for, I’d need to break into the Advocates Library, or any—
‘Gold extraction!’ I read out loud, but with the excitement I lost my balance and nearly fell on my back. I dropped the book and Layton miraculously managed to hold me in place.
I jumped down, picked up the tome and read the now creased page.
My eyes opened so wide they could have fallen onto the open book, and then I let out one of the most despicable syllables in the English language.
‘Shit!’
47
‘What time is it?’ I spluttered.
Layton shed light on the pendulum clock. ‘Just before five, sir.’
‘Damn!’ I yelled, running to my room.
I had exactly three hours to prove my theory right, gather the evidence and take it to Calton Hill. One minute too late and Katerina would be dead.
My heart skipped a beat at the thought. I donned a pair of trousers, did not bother putting a shirt over my union suit, and only put on a jacket because Layton ran to me with one.
Philippa would not thank me.
I woke the moody mare with hysterical cries, and soon enough we were galloping towards Albany Street. We reached the Shaws’ house within minutes, and as I jumped off the mount I thanked God they lived so close to me.
I banged their door, my frantic voice echoing across the still darkened street. There were only a couple lights at the neighbours’ windows ; servants readying their masters’ fires and breakfasts, probably.
The Shaws’ house, however, appeared deserted.
I felt a cold fear, thinking they might have left town. I had no time to go anywhere else. I would never make it to—
The door finally opened, the terrified maid struggling to put on a brave face.
‘I’m from the police,’ I snapped before she could utter a word, and made my way in despite her protests. ‘I must talk to your master or mistress right now. It is urgent.’
‘Sir, they’re asleep!’
‘Then wake them! Someone is going to die!’
The poor woman tried to pull me by the arm, but I walked undeterred towards the staircase.
‘Mrs Shaw!’ I shouted. ‘Harvey?’
The maid pulled desperately, begging me to leave. I did my best to calm her down, until I heard a cry.
‘What is it?’
It was Eliza Shaw, rushing downstairs in her nightdress and wrapped in a ragged blanket.
‘Ma’am, I need to ask you some questions. It is about—’
‘Get out!’ she snarled, rushing in my direction to push me to the door. ‘I know what it is about and I don’t care. I’ve answered all your questions already!’
I held my ground despite their pushing and shoving. ‘Ma’am, I must—!’
A throaty, blood-curdling growl interrupted me.
‘She said get out!’
It was poor Harvey Shaw, coming from a downstairs bedroom. His legs useless, he dragged himself across the floor, grasping a handgun.
I put my palms up. ‘Harvey, I mean no harm!’
‘Get out! This is my home!’
‘Put that down, I’m only here to ask a few questions.’
He kept aiming at me, but with a flimsy, quivering hand, his eyes about to burst in tears.
I took my chances, leapt in his direction as the women behind me screamed, and snatched the gun from his hand. I shoved it in my pocket and then lifted the poor man.
Harvey was as light as a feather, his legs mere bone and sinew. He did not even struggle as I carried him to the nearest parlour. I deposited him carefully on a sofa, seeing the anger and humiliation on his face.
I spoke as soothingly as I could. ‘It is all right. I need your help.’
He covered his brow, suddenly crying like a little child. ‘I’m no man!’ he spat. ‘I can’t even protect my own home …’
His mother came in and sat next to him, casting me a murderous look.
‘I am so sorry I had to barge in like this. You are the only relatives of Alice I can still talk to.’
That much was right. Mrs Cobbold would never receive me after the episode with her grandson. And Walter – well …
‘I was hoping the gypsy would be dead now,’ said Mrs Shaw.
‘In a matter of hours, but—’ there was no time for explanations. ‘Harvey, I need to know how your father died.’
The young man cried on and on, and I felt desperate. I wanted to shake him until he spoke, but I had to restrain myself.
I appealed at Eliza. ‘He got poisoned in the mines, did he not?’
She nodded, still glaring at me.
‘He was weakened?’ I asked. ‘Felt pins and needles in his limbs? Found it more and more difficult to breathe? Trembled and twitched all the time?’ The poor woman looked down and covered her mouth. ‘I am sorry. I did not mean to—’
‘Yes, all that,’ she blurted out through her hand. ‘From working in the mines.’
Harvey uncovered his face, taking in sharp, deep breaths, his face terribly flushed.
I placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘Now, tell me, how did your grandmother die?’
‘Grannie Alice?’ he asked, looking confused, and I nodded. ‘She … she just collapsed.’
‘Was anybody with her?’
‘No … no. She … she had just gone for a walk.’
‘The doctors said it was natural causes,’ Eliza intervened. ‘Why? Do you think—?’
‘Did she want to gather the family to conduct a séance?’
They lifted their faces in utter shock. Neither said a word.
‘I know Alice wanted to see the family together just before she died,’ I added. ‘But the meeting never took place. Did she intend to hold a séance?’
Eliza Shaw did not even blink. She stammered before saying, ‘How on Earth could you know that?’
I did not. It was my best guess, but I did not tell her that.
‘So it is true,’ I pressed.
Eliza barely managed to mumble. ‘Yes. To talk to her dead children. She wanted all those who had something to do with their deaths to be around. She said they owed an apology.’
I rose then, my chest swelling in agitated breaths.
‘It is true …’ I whispered. ‘Dear lord …’
Eliza was on the edge of the sofa. ‘But as you said, it never took place. My mother-in-law died the day before.’
I nodded, the entire picture finally taking shape
in my head.
‘I will need you to sign that in an official statement,’ I said. ‘The apology part in particular. You two may be the last living people who can testify to that.’
‘What do you mean? Why is that so—?’
But I did not hear the rest of her sentence. I was already running to the door, which the maid had left open.
Philippa twitched when I touched her, and then stepped sideways when I attempted to mount.
‘Oh, Father is right,’ I shouted, ‘you are as stubborn as me!’
I pulled the reins firmly and jumped up with one swift impulse. Philippa neighed and jerked, refusing to go where I wanted.
‘Oh move, you silly thing! You’re not the bloody queen of the Alps!’
She did move, though very slowly at first, as if doing me the world’s greatest favour, and only after much spurring did she speed up into a nice gallop.
It was already six when I darted into the Royal Mile, the street already abuzz with workers and carts. I imagined one of them might be the undertaker’s, on its way to Calton Hill, carrying Katerina’s coffin.
As I tethered Philippa I pictured the poor gypsy. By this time she’d be getting dressed, perhaps helped by Mary, while the Greek priest chanted unintelligible prayers just outside her cell. And McGray must be there already, dejected and kicking the dust.
I ran to our office, feeling breathless and making a mighty racket. Just as I went past the door to the morgue, a puzzled Doctor Reed peered out.
‘Inspector? What are you doing here? I thought—’
‘Oh, you’re here!’ I cried, elated, and grabbed the young man to plant a noisy smooch on his forehead.
‘What? Are you drunk or—?’
‘Follow me,’ I spluttered, though not giving him much of a choice. I pushed him into the cellar and the poor doctor nearly tripped on a ghastly Peruvian idol as tall as him.
‘Inspector, I’m running some urgent tests for—’
‘Shut up and listen! We have a chance to save Katerina!’
Reed snorted. ‘Really, are you drunk? They’ll execute her in less than two hours.’
‘I know how bloody long we have!’
I went to the box with all the evidence from Miss Leonora’s house and emptied the contents on the floor. The two items I was looking for rolled away and I chased them. One was Leonora’s journal. The other was a little bundle of brown paper.
‘What’s in there?’ Reed asked, rather perplexed by the care with which I unwrapped the items.
I pulled out one of the candles. ‘I need you to test this for mercury. You will find the protocol there.’ And I pointed at Battershall’s guide of legal chemistry, which still sat on my desk.
Reed stumbled, and for a moment I thought he’d faint. I had to hold him by the arm.
‘The can— the candles …’ he stammered. ‘Of course! Mercuric fumes would kill instantly! Before even causing any anomalies we could detect! But how can you be sure that—?’
‘Use as little sample as you can. I will need the candles as evidence. And if you have time, test the bodies’ samples for mercury residue as well.’
‘I … I …’
‘Oh, don’t tell me you got rid of them!’
‘No, no. Inspector McGray told me—’
‘Then go!’ and I pushed the book against his chest, steering him towards the stairs.
It would be foolish to expect he’d have the tests ready in time for me to rush to Calton Hill. Even at full gallop it would take me nearly half an hour to get there and then make my way through the morbid crowd.
I could imagine the crass, illiterate mass of onlookers, gathering at the gates of the jail, some even installing picnics at the higher points of Calton Hill, all eager to see the wicked gypsy dead. They must be there already, jubilant, as if it were a midsummer holiday.
I tossed the candles and the journal on my desk and sat down, forcing myself to take deep breaths. I would have to piece the full story together, prevent the execution, and only show the forensic results later. But for that I needed to think clearly. I had to focus.
The journal first.
I went to the entries preceding the séance, recognising the paragraphs I’d read a dozen times. McGray had added quite a few notes in pencil, especially when the late girl’s handwriting was not particularly clear. I thought he’d be holding Katerina’s hand right now, as she knelt down and let the priest pray for her.
I was thankful for his notes, for they saved me precious time. I went through the pages, my pulse raising as I got closer to what I looked for …
Madame Katerina is a very patient tutor. She told me Grannie Alice’s spirit is very elusive and angry. It will take especial offerings and rituals to summon her …
We’ll need to cleanse the rooms somehow …
Another entry, from a few days later, made my heart jump. It read ;
I found Grannie’s old candles in the cellar. The receipt was still in the wrappings. It told me all I needed. Grannie Alice blessed the sticks herself.
I mentioned them to Madame Katerina and asked if we could use them to cleanse the room.
She said they’d do.
To think they sat there, forgotten, all these years! What better way to link us to dear Grandmamma!
I turned the pages, scanning at full speed, but found nothing else. ‘What better way to link us to dear Grandmamma!’ That was the last mention of the candles.
‘Suspicious but not conclusive enough,’ I grunted. ‘Not without the forensics …’
I picked up the candles and pulled them from the wrapping. There I found the yellowed, faded receipt. I remembered seeing it weeks ago – it felt like years – and very carefully I brought it to the light ; I did not want to scorch what might be the most crucial piece of evidence.
Some of it was written with ink, but mostly pencil, barely visible, and penned by a very shaky hand. To make matters worse, the writing was tiny.
I jumped to McGray’s desk, rummaged through his drawers and pulled out his thick magnifying glass. I looked again, squinting, and after a seemingly never-ending time I managed to decipher a handful of words :
36 blessed candles …
Mrs Alice Shaw
£15.00 …
‘Fifteen pounds for candles!’ I cried.
I read on. On the very edge of the sheet, in even smaller writing, there was a signature I could not read, but also …
31b, Mary King’s Close
I looked up, gasping.
‘Mary King’s Close!’
It all came back to me in a rush. I instinctively reached for my breast pocket, looking for my little notebook, before realising I was still wearing my nightclothes. I’d left the tiny booklet at home. I could even picture it on my bedside table. Fortunately, I remembered those lines well ; Katerina’s words when she’d touched Martha’s pearl choker and Bertrand’s shilling.
There is a sound … It’s like she’s whispering. Just one word, over and over …
Mary …
And then I looked at the family tree, at the dates when the Grenville children had been born. I remembered Martha Grenville, unable to conceive for eight years, had turned to her grandmother for help. Grannie Alice giving her remedies … Herbal teas ‘from the black market’, as Eliza Shaw had told me. What better a place to conceal a witchcraft shop than the depths of Mary King’s Close!
I glanced at the other side of the family tree. Alice’s eldest daughter, Prudence, had had the same troubles. She’d given birth to seared-skin Walter in 1851 and would not become pregnant for the next eighteen years, just before her death. With the aid of her mother’s remedies.
‘Alice knew her occult arts very well,’ I mumbled.
I stood up, ready to make my way to Calton Hill, but then hesitated.
I looked at the evidence at hand : a few cryptic entries in Leonora’s journal, some candles, and a faded receipt from an establishment that now was most likely rubble buried underneath Edinburgh�
�s High Street. The executioners would laugh at me if I showed up at the foot of the gallows with that.
‘Think, Ian, think!’
I massaged my temples, but for a moment all I could see were the gaolers already bringing out the noose and testing the platform’s trapdoor. I’d seen on many an occasion people begging for mercy, for more time.
You’ve had plenty of time, they’d tell me.
I needed something else – a more conclusive document. Perhaps a proper description of the candles … Or …
‘Dammit!’ I groaned. It was the same predicament we’d had for six weeks. How on earth would I find something else now? It was not as if the answer were standing right in front of my—
And then I remembered young Eddie’s voice, hissing and unnerving, his childish features lit by candles that had made him look like a ghoul.
It’s thin like paper …
I looked at the wall behind McGray’s desk, and recalled the many times I’d caught him pressing a stethoscope against it, listening for ghosts. I’d never done so myself, but …
It’s thin like paper … The wall to the underworld.
Cross.
Be not afraid …
My entire body shivered.
I went to McGray’s desk, picked up the old stethoscope and listened through the wall. I had to hold my breath, for my panting was obscuring the faint noises.
It was like pressing my ear against a conch shell ; rushes of air whistling through what must be a cavernous void, only they came and went at erratic intervals. I could tell the wall was very thin, the whistles sometimes sounding eerily clear, like actual human laments. No wonder Nine-Nails spent hours there, imagining they were the breaths of spirits trapped underground.
I tapped at the wall with my knuckles, paying attention to the hollow sound. The damp plaster was flaky, and I began scratching it with my fingers. Then I looked at the room behind me, and wondered if this very office had been part of the convoluted lattice of streets, now buried under the City Chambers building.
‘It might well be,’ I mumbled, ‘added to the complex as an afterthought …’
I stared at the wall and its spots of mould, indecision corroding me. I’d need tools …
The Darker Arts Page 31
