The Strings of Murder (29 page)

‘That ring may have an inscription,’ I told McGray. ‘But I would prefer to have the whole scene photographed before moving anything else.’

We ordered McNair to fetch the photographer and the young man made haste to his horse. Less than half an hour had passed when he came back, followed by a small cart loaded with the bulky camera and a box of plaques. I did not see it at first because of the fog, but behind them came a large, luxurious coach. The driver halted and hurried to open the door, and I immediately recognized the silhouette of Superintendent Campbell.

The officers bowed before him as the man approached. Campbell had a slight limp and walked aided with a cane. Only then I realized I had never seen him standing, for he’d always been sitting at his desk during our meetings.

He came towards the scene in utter silence, but that made his presence all the more intimidating. He peered over the pool of blood and stared at the burned hand for a moment. Then he clicked his tongue in a reproving manner.

‘Another death … Connected to this violin, I suppose?’

‘Ye would think so,’ McGray replied, his chin up high.

Campbell shook his head. ‘When will you two begin your actual work? One would think that you are waiting for the murderer to knock on your front door.’

‘Sir, we mobilized as many agents as we could, and interrogated –’

‘Oh, but of course!’ Campbell interrupted me with a mocking scowl. ‘You interrogated
everyone
at that funeral, kept people waiting around for hours, and now you have kept half of New Town awake with your search.’

‘Sir –’

‘Does your pompous brain not understand that we want this matter dealt with quietly?’ He spat those words in a cruel hiss, giving me a killing stare. Then he looked at McGray. ‘You should be aware of that too, McGray. Do not forget that you are supposed to be in charge here.’

For a moment neither McGray nor I said a word, but as soon as I opened my mouth Campbell interrupted again.

‘One more death,’ he said. ‘
One more death
, Inspectors, and your careers are over. Did you hear? O-V-E-R. I hope that is clear enough even for your sluggish brains to grasp.’

Before we could say anything he was already walking back to his coach.

I was red with anger and my mood would not improve for a good while, but McGray only had to spit a couple of coarse remarks to be back to normal. He had a way of following his own road, no matter who objected.

We had the whole area photographed and then thoroughly cleaned. McGray himself picked up the ghastly hand with meticulous care and placed it in a leather bag. By the time we were done it was already mid morning. I
did not realize it was quite so late until we saw a funeral cortège on our way to the City Chambers. It was, of course, Wood’s, and they were carrying his body down south to Grange Cemetery.

There were thick clouds in the sky, and another thundering storm began before we arrived at the City Chambers courtyard.

We went straight to the morgue and showed the hand to Reed. The young doctor was appalled by the sight, but carried out a thorough examination nonetheless.

‘I can’t tell you much more than you probably deduced yourselves. The hand belonged to an adult man; the bones look rather young to me, but it is so badly burned I can’t place the time when it was cut – or
how
it was cut.’

‘Can ye show us the ring?’

‘Of course. I will try to pull it off.’

Reed removed the golden ring with tweezers. As he did so, the burned flesh tore, some of it stuck to the gold.

‘Like burned bacon in the pan,’ McGray remarked.

Reed had to use a scalpel to scrape the shreds of charred skin off the metal before handing it to us. McGray took it without the slightest hesitation and even scraped the inner side with his nail.

‘Ye were right, Frey. There’s an inscription, but –’

He said no more.

Slowly, he handed the ring to me. I borrowed Reed’s tweezers to hold it, and had no difficulty in reading the inscription, for black ashes had encrusted into the fine engraving.

My heart leaped when I saw that the words were not English, and even though I managed to decipher the
meaning, one did not need to understand it to know who the ring had belonged to.

Con questo ricevi il mio cuore, mio amato Danilo
.

I took a deep breath before translating the line out loud:

‘“With this receive my heart … my beloved Daniel”.’

25

‘Caroli is dead! This is his hand!’

‘Poor Mrs Caroli,’ McGray murmured. ‘Her husband dead the very night she gives birth to their child.’

I kept shaking my head. ‘I did not expect another murder …’

‘
We were so stupid!
’ McGray cried as he kicked a chair, smashing it against the wall. His eyes were bloodshot.

I cleared my throat loudly, for I did not want Reed to hear the most morbid details of our investigation; the young man looked anxious enough. ‘McGray, we should discuss this in the office.’

We thanked Reed for his services, and before we left he handed me a file.

‘Here, Inspector. This is the first batch of analyses I’ve done on Mr Wood’s stomach.’

‘Can you summarize it?’ I asked him; my eyes were too tired to read anything.

‘The stomach was empty, as I told you, and I found none of the most common poisons: I looked for mercury, arsenic, cyanide, the usual agents. I will search for more obscure substances if you think it necessary. Also, I shall test his blood samples.’

‘So up to now you would say that the man died of natural causes.’

‘Indeed, sir.’

‘Good work. Send us word immediately if you find anything.’

‘Yes, sir.’

When we got back to the filthy office I sank onto my hard wooden chair and gave in to the widest yawn in the history of mankind.

‘There’s something that doesn’t quite fit here,’ McGray snapped, pacing around the room like a caged lion. ‘There’s something we’re not seeing.’

‘You are a master of the obvious, Nine-Nails,’ I said, all drowsiness.

McGray was too euphoric to mind my sarcasm. ‘Caroli was taken by the same person that killed Fon-teen,
that’s
obvious. Everything was the same: The same mark, the pool o’ blood …’

‘Everything but one thing,’ I said. ‘The burned hand. There were no burned pieces of Fontaine in the previous scene.’

‘D’ye still have those photographs?’

‘I do.’ I opened the nearest drawer and produced them. ‘Here, but I do not think a piece of human flesh could have …’

‘It was burned,’ McGray interrupted me, although he’d only seen two photographs. He showed me an image and I understood immediately.

‘The fireplace.’

‘Aye. Remember Reed’s report: Fontaine was missing not only a good chunk of intestines, but also his heart and liver.’ McGray ran to a bookshelf and pulled out a tattered volume. He found a page and scanned it within seconds.
‘Everything fits: murder yer victim, draw the symbol to summon Satan, then burn an offering to make ’im happy.’ He ran his finger along the lines. ‘Any flesh from a victim’ll do, but the most precious organs are heart, liver, eyes.’

I nodded. ‘Very well, but how does that fit in the puzzle? I do not see how that gives us any new information.’

‘It confirms that the killer did not just want the fiddle, but the intestines too. Caroli
must
have gone the same way as Fon-teen, but the killer didn’t have time to do the whole ritual in the middle o’ the street; he simply murdered him, made the offering (a hand would be much easier to chop off than some organ) and then took the body somewhere else to work in peace.’

‘But where? We made a thorough search.’

McGray shook his head. ‘It’s not hard to guess, but leave that to me, Frey. What really intrigues me now is that the bastard decided to kill again even though he already had Fontaine’s guts … how many more murders has he got in mind?’

I groaned. ‘There doesn’t need to be a number. He might be planning to keep doing it again and again …’ I kneaded my temples with frustration: ‘God! As if things were not bad enough already!’

‘Don’t get so whiny. Things can
always
get worse; but we’ve still got some trails to follow. I’ll take another look at that street where Caroli died.’

‘A waste of time, I must say.’

‘Perhaps. But I think I can get a better idea now in the daylight.’

‘If this sickly, murky Scottish gleam can be called daylight …’

‘Och! Look who’s talking! Yer London’s skies are smokier now than right after the 1666 Great Fire.’

‘Oh, shush! You are right; we should follow whichever trail we … h – ha –’ I yawned again, my mouth open so widely I could have swallowed McGray. I was so tired my eyes were itching.

‘Ye look as battered as a canary caught in a cockfight. We better go home and get that maid o’ yers to make us something to eat. Then I want ye to rest; I need ye to go to the ball o’ that bitch Lady Ardglass. Ye better have yer beauty sleep before that.’

My exhaustion was turning into apathy, so I did not even bother to contradict McGray. I simply followed him when he had our horses fetched.

Even though the worst of the storm had passed, the shower was still persistent as we rode back to Moray Place. I saw murky rivers of rain flowing down the slopes of Princes Street Gardens. The city’s main railway ran along the deepest point of the indented lawns, where huge storm drains kept the endless Scottish rain from flooding the rails.

Joan had not been expecting us to return so soon but she quickly improvised a wholesome meal: fried eggs with thick slices of crispy bacon, fresh bread, black coffee for me and thin ale for McGray – I could not help noticing that she served him the thickest rashers of bacon.

We dug in happily – it still surprises me how much a good, fatty serving of meat can do for the mood.

‘Och, there’s something else I must do!’ McGray said, the corners of his mouth peppered with breadcrumbs and egg yolk. ‘I must tell Mrs Caroli about her husband.’
He shook his head, a sombre look on his face. ‘That isn’t going to be easy.’

I decorously wiped my mouth with the napkin. ‘In fact, I would like to be there as well; the prospect is gloomy to say the least, but it is a matter of honour.’

George was coming in to pick up our dishes: ‘An honourable Englishman! I thought I’d never get to see one!’

Sadly, Joan was standing right behind him. ‘
Don’t talk to my master like that, ya creased sack of spuds!
’

McGray and I exchanged tired looks and left the breakfast room before our servants’ rants turned into carnage.

Just as McGray was opening the back door to the stable, Joan ran towards him carrying a freshly pressed overcoat. ‘Master McGray, take this! ’Tis freezing out there!’

I could not tell whose eyes were more bewildered, mine or McGray’s.

We made swift progress to Hill Street to see Mrs Caroli, and as soon as one of the servants opened the door we heard the newborn crying – or rather roaring – in the most desperate manner.

‘Are they doing well?’ McGray asked, while the servant led us to the stairs.

‘Our lady’s fine … well, as good as she could be after all that’s happened. But the poor baby is ill; feverish. The doctor came and told us to keep the boy cool … but there’s nothing else he can do.’

‘So it was a boy,’ McGray said.

‘Aye, sir. It was a boy … Just like master Caroli wanted.’

Before going upstairs I had a glimpse of the main
parlour, where the youngest maid, the one who’d talked to me the night before, was beginning to remove the flowers from the funeral. The half-withered petals hung languidly from the bent stems, as if to announce that death had truly arrived in that house.

‘I told you babies don’t do well in this family,’ she murmured as she worked.

I grimaced as soon as we walked into the upstairs bedroom, for it had the characteristic reek of illness, and then I almost shivered when I saw the poor woman lying on the bed.

Her face was simply ghastly: her skin as pale and dry as parchment, her dark hair utterly dishevelled, and her eyes, bordered by dark rings, were misery itself. It was as though giving birth had drained half her life. When she saw us she frowned in the most awful sorrow; she understood that our presence meant harrowing news.

McGray kneeled by the side of the bed and carefully held one of her hands. The contrast between her stiff, twisted fingers and his thick, strong hand could not have been greater. ‘Mrs Caroli, we hope yer not goin’ through a lot o’ pain.’

‘I can get through this,’ she said, with a firm voice which did not match her fatigued looks. ‘There is just one thing I need to know. Pray tell me; where is my husband?’

‘I mustn’t lie to ye …’ Tenderly, McGray turned her hand and laid the golden ring in her palm. ‘In the early hours we found yer husband’s ha– … We found evidence to indicate that …’ McGray inhaled deeply, ‘he’s been murdered.’

There was a horrible silence. It must have been a matter
of seconds but it felt like painful hours. Then, putting her elbows together, Mrs Caroli covered her face with her clenching hands and began to shudder until the bed shook. From between her hands came a low, desolate wail, and soon her fingers were soaked with tears.