The Strings of Murder (8 page)

I brought a dismayed hand to my brow when I saw another granite townhouse with half its windows blocked out with the most disgraceful red brick. The tax matter was more than a century old and the tax itself had been repealed more than thirty years since – yet these people had not even attempted to restore their houses.

That could only remind me that I should not be fooled. Refined and stately as the place looked, it was far, far away from the world I was used to. This was Scotland.

My toothless coachman drove around the circus and halted in front of number twenty-seven.

‘Nine-Nails McGray’s residence, sir,’ he announced.

It was not the grandest house in the circus, its façade only three windows wide, and right on a corner, but there was a certain charm to it (the fact that all its windows remained intact was certainly an important factor).

I climbed down from the cart and knocked on the oak door. As I waited, I had a closer look. It seemed like a well-kept place; clean windows with white frames, through which I saw green velvet curtains.

Nobody answered the door and the rain was beginning to dampen the hem of my trousers, so I had to knock again. The driver brought my suitcases. ‘No one in the house?’ he asked.

‘There must be at least a blasted housekeeper!’ I grunted, knocking much harder than before.

I was not finished banging when a coarse voice shouted: ‘
I’m coming, hold your bloody horses!
’ A moment later an old man opened the door. ‘Whit’s so fuckin’ urge–’

He shut his mouth as soon as he saw me. The man was rather short, with jutting cheekbones and a round nose; untidy locks of grey hair grew only on his temples. He was wearing a stained apron and clenched a greasy rag in his hand. Even though the man had a reddened face, as if he’d just come out of a steam room, the colour faded away in a second.

‘I’m sorry, sir! I didn’t know who was calling!’

‘Save the apologies,’ I replied dryly. ‘My name is Ian Frey. I am looking for Inspector Adolphus McGray.’

‘Oh, Mr Frey from London! O’ course! We didnae expect ye so early, sir. I’m afraid Mr McGray isn’t at home now.’

‘I suppose I can find him at the City Chambers?’

The man shook his head. ‘No, no, I’m afraid. Mr McGray must be at the lunatic asylum as we speak.’

I lifted my eyebrows in surprise. ‘Oh! Well, I really cannot say that it surprises me. Do you know whether he is receiving proper care?’

Now I thank Heaven that the butler’s eyes were not daggers. ‘Mr McGray
doesn’t
go as a patient! He’s visiting someone.’

The driver let out a muffled giggle. All I could do was clear my throat and change the subject quickly. ‘I understand that I am supposed to be accommodated here.’

‘To whah?’ The butler frowned in incomprehension.

‘To be accommo – Jesus, I’ll be staying here.’

‘Oh! Aye sir! Do gimme yer bags. D’ye wantae wash yer face or something?’

It was tempting to bathe and change clothes, but I thought that it would be better to report my arrival to the CID as soon as possible.

‘I’d like to but I cannot. Do you know whether Inspector McGray will be at the City Chambers at all during the day?’

‘Aye, I think so. Mr McGray told me he needed to sort out two or three wee things for ye. Bring some papers for ye to sign, I think.’

‘Fine. Perhaps I will meet him while I am there.’

Saying no more, I jumped back into the cart, followed by the driver. ‘Take me to the City Chambers.’

His eyes glowed at the promise of more of my money. ‘Aye, to High Street, master.’

We headed south, towards Princes Street and the main railway terminus, which effectively cut Edinburgh in two: the opulent New Town and Calton Hill to the north, and the cluttered slums of the Old Town and the castle to the south.

An offensive stench hit my nose as soon as we entered the bustling High Street. This looked more like the image of Edinburgh I’d had in mind: precarious buildings of many storeys with brown, smoked walls. Some of those lodgings had more than ten levels, cramming entire families in each room.

Such overcrowded slums make me loathe our industrial age. Manufacturing has done little else than snatch people from our countryside, locking them in claustrophobic little factories, making them breathe foul smoke and forcing them to live all hugger-mugger with less space to move than pigs in a slaughterhouse … all for a few more pennies a week. It strips their dignity, I believe, and I wonder what this insatiable hunger for profit will make of our world.

Projected above the tall constructions I saw the steeple of St Giles Cathedral, looking like a blackened crown, and not far from there was the Royal Exchange, the building occupied by the City Chambers.

An arcade of grey stone gave way to a small courtyard, where carriages plied to and fro throughout the day. When we arrived there were another four carriages in line, so we had to queue for a few minutes. Meanwhile, I saw that on the other side of the road, right in front of the chambers, was the ancient Mercat Cross. Centuries ago that elevated
spire would have been used for public executions, where the convicts would not only be hanged, but also burned, impaled, skinned, mutilated and disembowelled in ways that would make Jack the Ripper’s work look like that of a novice.

Once I managed to descend from the cart and pay the toothless driver, I inquired after Inspector McGray.

‘He’s not in the building,’ a young officer told me, ‘but he’s expected today.’

‘What time does he usually arrive?’ I asked, and the chap whistled.

‘Well, ye never know with that laddie. Some days he’s here before dawn, some days he doesn’t appear ’til supper time.’

I cursed inwardly and thought of leaving, but it would not be a bad idea to report my presence to the chief, whose name I had learned from Warren’s file. ‘Can you take me to Superintendent Campbell, then?’

‘Uh, I dunno. Mr Campbell’s always busy.’

‘I am certain he will be willing to have a word with me,’ I assured him, and gave him my name. He led me two storeys upstairs and then to the west side of the building, where Campbell’s office was. The officer announced me to the superintendent’s assistant, who only dared enter the office after my sharp insistence.

To the men’s astonishment, Campbell bade me to enter without delay.

The office had a wide window with a privileged view of the highest towers of the castle, but the weather was so bad the room needed four oil lamps burning in order to be properly lit. Behind a wide oak desk, settled back with
the tips of his fingers resting on the polished wood, was Superintendent George Campbell.

He was around sixty, or so I had heard, but for his age and rank he looked rather … wild. With his whitish hair fluffed up, a thick moustache and the corners of his grey eyes slightly tilted upwards, Campbell seemed very leonine to me.

‘You are early,’ he said in a deep voice with a very smooth accent. I could tell he had studied in the south.

‘Yes. Inspector Ian Frey, at your service, sir.’

As I spoke I offered my hand to shake, but Campbell ignored it. ‘I know who you are,’ he replied sternly, while searching through his piles of papers.

I swiftly pulled my hand back and adopted the same stern tone. I have never been one to beg for sympathy. ‘I thought it proper to report my presence to you.’

‘Indeed,’ Campbell muttered as he drew some sheets and scanned them with his cat-like eyes. ‘I see you used to have a very good reputation …’ He emphasized the
used to
.

I refused to reply and simply planted myself on the floor with firm feet. After reading the documents Campbell proceeded to scan me. His stare was penetrating.

‘So, Mr Frey, I suppose that you know what this is
really
about. Am I correct?’

So he did not even dare to mention the matter out loud …

‘I do,’ was my dry answer.

‘Good. Good.’ Campbell nodded slowly, still examining me, not even blinking. ‘Now, before you start, let me make something clear: I am not happy with your presence. At all. I have a list of first-class inspectors who’d
already be working on the scene, had London trusted my judgement; however, they think they know better than us poor provincial folk, and sent me you – a frivolous-looking chap whose only good reference is that press-overblown frippery of Good Mary White –’

‘Brown.’

‘Whichever bloody colour she was! We need results and we need them soon, no excuses. And we also need someone to compensate for the unconventional nature of your new department. I will not trust you until you bring me proper results. Do you understand?’

I was grinding my teeth. ‘Yes, sir. If may add –’

‘You may add all the gibberish you want after you bring me the culprit. Now go, and do
not
disappoint Her Majesty’s realm, Inspector Frey.’

I did not bother to say another word and walked out, my heart rapping furiously.

Before leaving I approached the officers and inquired after McGray one more time, but the man had not arrived yet.

I blew out my cheeks. There was nothing else I could do but return to Moray Place and wait for the elusive McGray there. Having to wait when such an important case lay on my shoulders! It was frustrating, but at least I would have a chance to wash and change.

I was about to seize a cab when I heard the young officer shouting at me. ‘Sir! Look, sir! There’s Nine-Nai – Ah … I mean, Inspector McGray!’

I turned quickly and saw a rider halting in the middle of the courtyard.

As he dismounted, I had my first glimpse of Adolphus ‘Nine-Nails’ McGray.

7

I first noticed his horse. It was a splendid animal with a chestnut coat, muscled legs and a solid back. I thought that it was either an Arabian or an Anglo-Arabian breed, for it had a long sloping neck and a deep chest. A long, strong hand patted the horse’s head. That hand was missing a finger.

‘Nine-Nails …’ I whispered, remembering the words from the toothless driver and almost uttered by the officer a second ago.

Then I looked at the man himself. He was a little taller than me, so his head stuck out quite a few inches above the crowd. His shoulders were very broad, his limbs long and brawny.

‘Inspector McGray!’ the young officer called. ‘This gentleman’s been looking for ye!’

McGray approached with firm steps and I had time to study his face. His square jaw and wide blue eyes suggested that he had once been a handsome Scot, but somehow had become haggard: he had dark rings and premature wrinkles around his eyes, the most unkempt stubble and grey speckles peppering his dark hair. Despite his receding hairline he had an abundant mane, which apparently he seldom combed.

However, the most striking feature – besides his lacking a finger, of course – were his clothes. McGray wore
tartan from head to toe: brown tartan trousers and green tartan waistcoat. His only garments without a pattern were his creased shirt and ragged overcoat; the latter looked as though moths had been feasting on it for years.

The man was soaking wet, his hair and clothes dripping copiously, as if he had ridden through half of Edinburgh under the heavy rain. He stretched out his right hand – the four-fingered one – in a sudden movement that spattered huge drops all over my chest. I brushed the water off my coat and took off a glove before saluting.

‘Inspector Ian Frey,’ I said, consciously avoiding the words ‘at your service’.

He shook my hand mightily and I felt (as well as heard) a couple of phalanges cracking. Despite my best efforts, my face betrayed my discomfort.

McGray chuckled and then spoke with a rich, rough voice, as Scottish as his dreadful garments. ‘Oi! They sent me a soft southern dandy!’ He turned to the young officer. ‘See, McNair! How long d’ye think he’ll last?’

McNair looked at me awkwardly but was wise enough to remain silent.

‘Tucker! Come here!’ McGray yelled.

Tucker turned out to be a playful golden retriever that came running from the road. The dog was quite rangy for its kind and had an unusually bright fur of a creamy colour. The animal approached me to sniff my clothes, and all of a sudden it rose on its hind legs, trying to lick my face.

I stepped back, seeing with appalled eyes how its muddy forepaws smeared my jacket, shirt and silk tie with Scottish filth.

‘Oh, Christ Jesus!’ I cried, but Tucker took my screeching as an invitation to play and kept jumping up and pushing merrily at my chest.

McGray was laughing loudly, his mouth open at maximum, and within seconds everyone in the Royal Mile stared at my disgrace. McGray at last showed some compassion. ‘All right, Tucker! Leave the London lassie alone!’

The dog did retreat, but so brusquely that its paws got snagged on my clothes and I heard my tie and jacket tear.

‘
Bloody hell!
’ I howled before having a chance to think.

Tucker paced around its master, dragging pieces of French silk that still hung from its feet. Its tongue hanging out, the animal’s muzzle looked like a mocking smile to me.

I produced my handkerchief again and stoically wiped the mud off my clothes. ‘I would appreciate it if you refrained from calling me a “London lassie” in the future.’