The Darker Arts

by Oscar de Muriel

  ‘This is for you, my boy.’

  It was Pratt’s tiny gold tooth.

  I barely saw it, for he swiftly closed his hand around it and shoved it in his pocket.

  ‘Och, Katerina, ye should nae—!’

  But he was fooling nobody. He was as delighted as her.

  ‘I hear he’s wearing a lead one now,’ she said with a wink. ‘Nobody to bribe him with gold anymore.’ Then we heard the sharp steam whistle. ‘That’s me,’ and she walked proudly to her first-class compartment.

  McGray opened the door and helped her step in. ‘Going to see yer wee Michael?’

  ‘Yes, but not right away. I’ll visit him as soon as these fade,’ and she pulled down the tight collar less than an inch. The skin was still blackened, even after all this time. ‘And I need to settle down first.’

  She offered me a hand and shook mine with true affection.

  ‘Thank you – Frey. Thank you very much. I will never forget what you did for me.’

  She settled on the cushioned seat, struggling a little with the frills of her skirts, and smiled at us as McGray closed the door. She then perched on the windowsill.

  ‘If you two ever need something …’ she chuckled, ‘I shall know!’

  The train set in motion then, and we saw the infamous, jubilant Madame Katerina be taken away to her new life in England.

  ‘Durham, she said?’ I asked.

  ‘That’s where her son lives. I don’t think she’ll settle there.’ He gave me an impish look. ‘Why? Ye want another candlelit dinner?’

  ‘She is not that fortunate.’

  McGray laughed, crossed his arms and watched the train move on. He let out a long sigh.

  ‘What did she tell ye?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘The woman thought she was going to die. She must’ve told ye one last prophecy.’

  He was right, and I saw no point in hiding it. ‘Something nice and vague, as usual. She said I’d be happy.’

  McGray looked down, kicking the dust on the platform.

  ‘Why? Did she tell you something too?’

  He twisted his mouth. ‘She said there’s a wee part of Pansy’s mind that still loves me …’

  I was expecting him to say more, but he simply raised his chin, his eyes on the railways. He noticed my puzzled look

  ‘That’s it. That’s all she said.’ He shook his head. ‘I ken what it means.’

  I knew what he was going to say. No wonder it took him a moment to let it out.

  ‘Pansy will never be cured.’

  The sentence lingered in the air, the racket of the station suddenly sounding dull.

  ‘Katerina has been wrong before,’ I said, and McGray simply sneered. ‘Nine-Nails, she could not even predict her own death! How amateurish is that for someone who boasts having the eye!’

  At least that made him smile a little.

  ‘I better go, Frey. I need to apologise to Clouston. And pay him. I made a right mess o’ his study. See ye later for a dram?’

  ‘Yes. I will meet you in a few hours. I still have to arrange the orphanage for the “Mary King” girl.’

  ‘That creature was a girl?’

  ‘Yes. Underneath all that grime. And as soon as that is sorted, I have to see that they release Holt.’

  ‘They’re letting the weasel out?’

  ‘Yes, but with a hefty fine. Do you mind if I give him that gold tooth?’

  McGray begrudgingly agreed.

  ‘Some sods are so lucky …’

  It was the first time I saw Eliza Shaw in a proper dress. However, she looked weaker and paler than ever when she received me. Her parlour was crammed with boxes and trunks ready to be taken away.

  ‘Are you moving, ma’am?’ I asked as I dodged the luggage.

  ‘We’re selling the house, inspector.’

  ‘And you are vacating the place already? It must have been a very quick sale.’

  ‘Yes. The good Lady Anne heard of our misfortunes. She came personally and made us a very generous offer.’

  I could not help shaking my head. Lady Glass had most likely been preying on their property for a while, and her ‘generous offer’ was, surely, nowhere near the house’s real value.

  Mrs Shaw read my expression. She cast me a reproachful look as we sat in her small parlour. It looked like they were not taking the furniture with them.

  ‘Don’t twist your mouth like that, sir,’ she said. ‘Lady Anne is a pious woman. We needed the sale. We couldn’t even have afforded to heat the house this winter.’

  ‘I am so sorry to hear that.’

  Mrs Shaw looked as if about to cry. Fortunately her maid brought in a tea service, and the simple task of pouring the brew seemed to calm her down.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she mumbled. ‘We are not the first family to fall from grace.’ She cleared her throat. ‘What can I do for you, inspector? I thought the case was closed.’

  There was a clear hint of resentment in her voice.

  ‘Indeed, ma’am. I only came to give you this …’

  I searched in my breast pocket and pulled out Leonora’s gold nugget. I placed it on the tray, next to the sugar bowl.

  Mrs Shaw stared at it in confusion.

  ‘What … what is that?’

  ‘You must recognise it, ma’am. Miss Leonora wore it all the time, did she not?’

  ‘Well … yes. I meant to say … why did you bring it here? If anyone should have this it would be Walter Fox.’

  I sat back after refusing the teacup she offered.

  ‘I had another person in mind. Mr Holt.’

  Mrs Shaw twitched. ‘Grenville’s valet?’

  ‘Yes. Were you aware of their liaison?’

  The woman slightly shook her head, but then had the good sense to tell the truth.

  ‘Leonora mentioned it once. I kept it quiet for her reputation’s sake. You’ll understand. If I didn’t mention it, it was because it had nothing to do with her death.’

  ‘Indeed I do. And indeed it did not, however …’

  From the same pocket I pulled out a few torn sheets which Mrs Shaw seemed to identify at once.

  ‘What is that?’ she asked nonetheless.

  ‘Sheets from Miss Leonora’s journal,’ I said, displaying them on the table. ‘Mr Holt has been letting the truth out … in trickles. He only just told me that Miss Leonora tore these pages out and gave them to him on the day of the séance.’

  Mrs Shaw gulped at once. ‘Does she … does she mention their affair?’

  ‘Indeed, ma’am, and in torrid language. That is the reason she gave them to him.’

  She forced a nervous smile. ‘What … I mean, why are you telling me this?’

  For a moment I looked at her in silence, seeing how her anxiety grew.

  ‘I think you know, ma’am.’

  The woman tightened her hands around her teacup. ‘I’m afraid I don’t.’

  I flipped the first page of the lot.

  ‘Miss Leonora wrote on both sides of the sheets. When she tore out her musings on carnal love, she also tore out the entry of the day before. When she was here.’

  ‘She was—?’

  ‘She came to see you. To thank you for your advice.’

  ‘She did not—’

  ‘You refused to see her, ma’am. Miss Leonora says that you asked your maid to send her away. She heard you give the instruction, and she also says how intriguing your behaviour was. Especially after you’d been so kind to her in the previous month.’

  Her lips quivered.

  ‘I … I was ill. I could not receive her.’

  ‘Most unfortunate. Miss Leonora wrote she regretted not being able to thank you for not throwing away … Grannie Alice’s possessions.’

  The cup began to rattle in the saucer, and Mrs Shaw had to put it down.

  ‘The next thing,’ I said, ‘I’ve had to deduce myself. Upon Alice’s death the family would have given away her belongings. You and your sons were
struggling, so perhaps the Grenvilles thought you’d appreciate the items. Say … a few old perfume bottles, a silver hairbrush … a … box of old candles?’

  There was a deep silence, Mrs Shaw slowly clenching the folds of her dress, almost digging her nails into her legs.

  ‘Those candles were in your possession,’ I went on. ‘They were in your hands for a long time, along with other belongings. You must have gone through them. You must have found in them evidence of what the candles contained ; evidence of Alice’s intentions.’ Mrs Shaw looked down, unable to face me. ‘You know of which intentions I speak, do you not?’

  Mrs Shaw shook her head, a first huge tear rolling down her cheek.

  ‘You were not connected to any of the victims – the intended victims, I mean. Who would have died that night? Your father-in-law? Your sister-in-law and her daughter? The even more distant Willbergs and the colonel? You did not share blood with any of them, but you did hold them responsible for your husband’s demise.’

  She gulped again, the veins on her clenched hands popping out.

  ‘You instigated the séance,’ I said. ‘Walter’s actions may have led to it, but it must have been you who suggested it. And then you had to distance yourself from it. You knew you could not be seen with Miss Leonora just before she died ; it would only invite suspicion.

  ‘Sadly, by doing so, you did not hear of the change of plans. You did not know about the change of location, which meant Mrs Cobbold had to take the children away, which resulted in Bertrand having to take her place. You, ma’am, by attempting to avenge your husband, inadvertently caused the death of your own son.’

  Mrs Shaw was struggling to breathe. She drew in short, throttled breaths, swallowing painfully. I thought she would choke to death before my eyes. I even leaned forwards to help her, but then she let out a hiss.

  ‘Even if I had … you have no proof!’

  ‘Indeed, I have nothing but my own deductions. Leonora never mentions the candles specifically in these pages. You could always argue she was referring to other items. It is a shame most of this happened so many years ago, and all the people who could have confirmed my suspicions are now dead.’

  She gave me a wicked smile, far more disturbing than a twisted hand emerging from a flame. ‘You cannot touch me with your deductions!’

  I nodded, and just as soon stood up. ‘I cannot, and I do not, intend to. Ma’am, you have punished yourself enough already … trying to play the judge.’

  There was a moment of silence, and then, in one swift movement, Mrs Shaw brushed the tea service off the table. Silver, china and brew shattered and splattered mightily all over the nearest wall. The tea was still dripping on the patched-up carpet when I heard the metallic squeak of Harvey’s wheelchair.

  ‘What is it?’ he barked. He looked at the mess and then glared at me. ‘Is this man troubling you again?’

  Mrs Shaw said nothing. She slouched miserably on her seat, pressing a handkerchief against her face.

  ‘I was just leaving,’ I said at once. I walked to the hall, put on my hat and buttoned my coat as I cast one last look at the sorry pair. ‘Good luck to you both.’

  And I meant it, for their future was most uncertain.

  So many things in this case would remain forever so.

  As I walked down the street, I recalled Alice’s portrait ; that firm, mysterious stare, surrounded by black cats and arcane symbols.

  I already knew I could never silence that annoying shade of doubt, telling me that she had indeed orchestrated all this from the grave. Coincidences, I’d told myself again and again, or perhaps she’d left things – her notes, the candles – in strategic places, to be discovered even in the event of her death. A contrived explanation, McGray would say, albeit not impossible.

  I also thought of the … treasure. Perhaps Alice had indeed told young Eddie where the deeds were. Perhaps there had been gold hidden somewhere. Perhaps the child had seen more than he’d admit during that séance. I pictured him at his grandmother’s lawns in Kirkcaldy, digging up a little hole, retrieving shiny gold nuggets or a tiny chest with the coveted documents.

  And I recalled that fleeting image of Uncle Maurice, conjured so vividly, right before my eyes, in that haunted room. Whether it had been the flicker of the candles, my own grief, or something else, I would never know for certain.

  I shrugged, lit up a cigar and turned my attention to the tangible world around me ; the muddy cobbles under my feet, the cold wind, the drizzle, the gloomy clouds … but also the snug shoes and the warm clothes that shielded me from it all. And I already savoured that drink I’d share with McGray later on.

  It was good to be alive.

  Author’s note

  Pharaoh’s Serpent – mercuric thiocyanate – is one of the strangest substances in Christendom. Its combustion is not only disturbing to watch, but it also produces extremely poisonous vapours and solid residues, making it sound more like something out of the seventh-level spell section in the Dungeons & Dragons manual.

  Even though it was officially discovered in the early nineteenth century (briefly sold as a party trick, until users began to drop like flies), there are a few intriguing documents that suggest the compound may have been known – and used – for centuries.

  If you want to see just how blood-curdling the reaction truly is (my description may not have done it justice), there are many online videos performed by people who know what they’re doing. I can’t stress enough how dangerous this compound is and I’d strongly discourage the amateur chemist from trying it out – sticking one’s head in a gas oven would be a comparatively milder experience.

  As mentioned in the text, this poisoning would have been difficult to detect in 1889, unless one knew exactly what one was looking for. Forensic and analytical sciences have gone a long way since then, and mercury and cyanide in the lungs are now very easily detected – just saying.

  Now that we’ve all (hopefully) had some fun, I would like to draw some attention towards artisanal gold extraction, and the extremely worrying figures I found whilst researching for this book.

  The process – like many extraction methods – has hardly changed over the centuries. The method described by Frey was already ancient back then, but it’s still widely used today, particularly in developing countries, where the bulk of gold supply comes from. In fact, artisanal gold extraction still causes more mercury pollution and poisonings than any other human activity. Statistics differ, but at the time of publication it is estimated that as many as nineteen million people worldwide rely on unsafe gold mining as their main source of income.

  Meanwhile, in Windsor …

  11 December, 1889

  The Queen’s parlours always reeked, the rose water unable to mask the stench of damp tweed, old flesh and wet dogs.

  The Prime Minister Lord Salisbury could sense it even from the corridors, doing his best to ignore the odours, while waiting in the small oak-panelled antechamber.

  There was nobody around, so he allowed himself a long, weary sigh, which condensed in a steamy cloud before his eyes. The Queen always kept her chambers a little too cold for anybody’s taste – even now, when the fields of Windsor Castle were already covered in snow.

  Lord Salisbury detested these secret summons, sent out in little slips of green paper, so small that once folded there was scarcely enough space for the wax seal. He always had to burn them at once, and halt all his ministerial duties. Little did it matter that the Anglican Church was still waiting for a successor to Bishop Lightfoot, or that the tensions between the German Kaiser and his chancellor had many British interests at a stand-still. Everything became trivial as soon as one of Queen Victoria’s little green notes arrived.

  As usual, the message had only read ‘The Queen needs you at once’, but Lord Salisbury knew very well what would be discussed. He thought of the dreadful news he was about to deliver, and for an instant even the stout legs of the most powerful politician in the British Empire trembled.<
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  He then heard a soft metallic jingling, now familiar throughout the halls of the royal residences, accompanied by slow, hefty steps.

  The door to the Queen’s parlour opened, and out came a towering, wide-waisted, dark man swathed in all manner of tunics and pashminas, with an extravagant turban and gaudy strands of gold and pendants around his neck.

  ‘The Queen can see you now,’ he said in a haughty voice, and after a rather long pause, added a mocking, ‘sir.’

  Lord Salisbury did not even look into the Munshi’s eyes. He simply walked past him, making an unnecessary racket with his walking cane, and shut the door himself, lest the nosey Indian fellow might ‘forget’.

  As soon as he looked ahead, Lord Salisbury felt a chill.

  Entering those rooms was like walking into an icy, half-dead world. The curtains only let in a sliver of dim daylight, cast over a ludicrously small table where a young maid-in-waiting was arranging a silver tea set, the tray bursting with cakes and sweet treats. Next to it, and out of reach from the thin ray of light, sat Queen Victoria.

  The monarch was a round mountain of mourning crêpe and black furs ; layer upon layer of lace, taffeta and gold. A pair of chubby hands, every single finger bejewelled with at least one ring, were demurely folded on her lap. Her face, almost as white as her thinning hair, was partly concealed by the frills of tulle from a tiny black hat.

  One of the chubby hands waved curtly at the maid. ‘Get out. I can pour my own tea.’

  The young woman curtsied, cast the Prime Minister a nervous look, and then quit the room.

  Lord Salisbury, as was customary, gave a low bow and waited to be addressed. He heard the tinkling of silver and china, and smacking lips devouring pastries, before Victoria spoke to him.

  ‘The witch has not come. What is the silly meadow flower up to?’

  Lord Salisbury rose then and spoke firmly, albeit a little too fast.

  ‘I am terribly sorry, your Majesty. Your contact has died.’

  A clump of pastry fell into the teacup, splashing hot brew onto the royal hands.

  ‘Died?’ she echoed, placing the cup and saucer on the table with a clatter. ‘Good Graces! How very untimely!’