The Strings of Murder

  Oscar De Muriel

  THE STRINGS OF MURDER

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Author’s Note

  Epilogue

  Follow Penguin

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  THE STRINGS OF MURDER

  Oscar de Muriel was born in Mexico City and moved to the UK to complete his PhD. He is a violinist, translator, chemist and author who now lives in Lancashire.

  The first one is for the Torcacitas

  Oh, that I could find myself for one short day a partaker of the secret arts of the Gods, a God myself, in the sight and hearing of enraptured humanity; and, having learned the mystery of the lyre of Orpheus, or secured within my violin a siren, thereby benefit mortals to my own glory!

  Madame Blavatsky, Nightmare Tales

  Prologue

  23 June 1883

  Dr Clouston could barely keep himself on the seat. The wheels of his carriage kept cracking over humps and puddles, breaking the night’s silence as they rode frantically towards Dundee.

  Throughout the journey he’d been bouncing and banging his head against the carriage’s roof. However, the physical discomfort was nothing compared to his state of mind; the news he’d received was too dreadful, too monstrous to sink in, and Clouston struggled to keep the faintest spark of hope.

  All he had read, he told himself, was a hasty telegram sent by the servant, and old George had always been prone to overreact. He searched his breast pocket and reached for the crumpled note; only a few smudgy lines, but they included the words berserk, suddenly, dead, and the names of every single member of the McGray family. How could such a little piece of paper carry such a horrifying message?

  Clouston shuddered again. In vain he tried to divert his mind by looking through the windows, but the sky was shrouded with thick clouds that made the road dark like an endless abyss. In the last hours of the trip, he even found it preferable to focus his thoughts on the stumbling of the carriage and the slight nausea that it gave him.

  At last, when he felt like he’d been travelling for ever, he saw the broad country house emerge. The early summer dawn was already throwing its first rays over the fields, but it was still dark enough for Clouston to see the dim glow of a fire through one of the house’s windows.

  The carriage had barely stopped when Clouston kicked the door open himself and jumped onto the muddy ground. The horses were neighing and snorting; that and the rattle of the hooves were the only sounds he could hear.

  ‘What a cheerful sight,’ he muttered. Thomas Clouston was a sturdy middle-aged man; for ten years he had been Physician Superintendent at Edinburgh’s Royal Lunatic Asylum, and the post was not for the faint hearted.

  He walked briskly towards the house and almost immediately somebody slammed the front door open. Two figures came out to greet him, and he instantly recognized the only servants who joined the McGrays on their summer trips: George and Betsy, both aged and hardened by the country work.

  Their faces were lit by a single candle that the hunchbacked Betsy held with a steady hand. Once he drew closer, Clouston saw the hot wax dripping on her bare fingers.

  ‘Good heavens, use a candle holder!’

  ‘ ’Tis all right, sir,’ she replied with her thick Scottish accent.

  ‘So good ye came, sir!’ George said. There were swollen bags under his eyes and his thin grey hair was a mess. ‘We didn’t expect ye so soon. God bless! Do come in …’

  In fact, Clouston had not stopped at all and was already past the doorframe. ‘Where are they?’ he urged.

  The icy, darkened hall made him think of a crypt. Only a faint light came from the adjacent parlour, which was the one lit room Clouston had seen from the road. The door was ajar.

  ‘We’re keepin’ them there,’ George said in a whisper, as if he were afraid of waking them up.

  Clouston gulped as Betsy slowly pushed the squeaking door and led him in. He saw that just one log burned pathetically in the fireplace, casting trembling shadows all around … and then his heart skipped a beat.

  Right in front of the fire, silhouetted against the weak glow, there were two wooden coffins.

  ‘Oh, my Lord …’ Clouston let out. He drew closer with faltering feet, a chilling fear expanding in his chest.

  Only when he peered over the open coffins did he believe what George had told him. The sight was so appalling that Clouston instinctively covered his mouth, repressing a sudden retch. For a moment his mind went blank, trying desperately to take in what he was seeing.

  ‘So – when did – did it happen?’ he finally uttered. It was hard to speak with that painful lump in his throat.

  ‘Last night,’ George said, his voice almost a moan. ‘The undertaker got ’em ready two, three hours ago.’

  Clouston nodded and took a deep breath. That always helped him. ‘Was it you who sent for the undertaker?’

  ‘Nae. The boy Adolphus did,’ George replied, swiftly wiping the tears he could not repress any more. ‘Och! The poor laddie … Dunno where he got the strength from; he called the undertaker, sorted out all the papers … he even bandaged himself after –’

  Then George shuddered visibly and said no more.

  ‘He’s resting now,’ Betsy added, ‘if ye can call it rest …’

  ‘I need to see him,’ Clouston said promptly, and George and Betsy led him to a nearby studio – the one that had belonged to the now deceased father, James McGray.

  Slowly, George opened the door, trying not to disturb his young master, and Betsy walked in bringing the candle – she had just stuck it in a filthy saucer. Clouston snatched the light from her and walked ahead with careful steps.

  His heart sank even deeper as soon as he saw the miserable young man resting on a ragged couch. The tall, brawny son of the McGrays lay there looking as though he was also dead: his cheeks were ghastly pale and the rings around his eyes were almost as red as a wound. Young Adolphus inhaled in deep, painful breaths, and his pupils stirred madly under his eyelids. Occasionally, his chin and hands would jump in small spasms. Clouston had seen that sort of troubled slumber in more patients than he could remember, but he had not even dreamt he’d ever see McGray’s son, otherwise handsome and cheerful, thus broken.

  ‘I don’t think he’ll manage to sleep well ever again …’ Clouston whispered. ‘I do hope I’m wrong …’

  Adolphus’s hand had another spasm and then Clouston saw the bulky bandaging around it. He drew the candle nearer to find that the material was damp and stained, a dark spot of half-dried blood spreading on one end. It looked as though Adolphus had helped to carry the coffins himself.

  ‘You need to change his bandaging,’ Clouston snapped.

  ‘Och, I’d rather not, sir,’ Betsy said quickly. ‘The poor laddie’s not slept since it all happened
. Only when the boxes arrived he dropped here –’

  ‘Good woman, he needs clean bandages! The last thing your chap wants now is an infected hand!’

  Betsy curtsied clumsily and left the room, groping about to find her way in the darkness. Clouston turned to George and asked the question whose answer he dreaded the most:

  ‘Where is the girl?’

  The butler’s face lost what little colour it had left. ‘We … we had to lock ’er up, Doctor. She’s gone completely berserk!’

  Clouston patted the man’s shoulder. ‘Do not feel guilty. You did what you had to.’

  ‘But, sir …’ George began weeping miserably, this time quivering from head to toe. The wrinkles in his face looked sore from frowning. ‘Miss McGray! Our Miss McGray! Our wee lass …’

  Betsy returned, bringing clean bandages and shedding copious tears. She hurried towards Adolphus, trying to conceal her grief.

  Clouston knew that he had not yet faced the worst horror of the night. He followed George upstairs, where the sun, rising but still gloomy, lit a long corridor through a cracked window. All the rooms were shut, but the last door had a key stuck in the lock.

  ‘How did you manage to get her in there?’

  ‘Och, sir, we didn’t! ’Twas two gardeners, the constable an’ me, and we couldn’t pin her down! Nae, she ran into her room herself. All we could do was lock her in once she got in there. Nobody could control her; ye saw what the lass did!’

  Clouston shuddered merely from thinking of the bloody bandages Betsy was changing right then. Everything was as bad as George had painted it in his telegram after all.

  As soon as Clouston stretched a hand to turn the key, George leaped to seize his arm.

  ‘Will ye just go in? Just like that? Ah’m tellin’ ye, sir, the lass is –’

  Had it been any other man, Clouston would have simply pushed him aside, but instead he patted George’s back and gently pulled his own hand away.

  ‘Good George, I have dealt with very sad things in my career. Believe me, I can handle this.’

  For a moment George would not move, until Clouston slowly began to turn the key. The old butler instantly backed off.

  Clouston opened the door just enough to pass through, and a sudden gush of icy wind hit his face. Once inside, he closed the door behind him. As soon as he heard the click of the latch, he felt strangely vulnerable. The bedroom was so silent that the buzzing in his own ears became a persistent clamour.

  The east-facing window was wide open, and the dreary, dawning sky was the first thing Clouston saw. Amidst the shadows, he found the slender figure of Amy McGray.

  She was sitting on the bed, hunched and slowly rocking backwards and forwards. Her white summer dress seemed to glow in the dim sunlight, and a glance at it was enough to tell him that the poor sixteen-year-old was beyond redemption. The soft, bright fabric was stained with blood, all over Amy’s chest, belly and thighs.

  Clouston gasped and stepped forward, thinking her injured, but halted at once when he saw that she was holding a knife, the blade glinting in the sun.

  Clouston thought it must be the cleaver that Betsy used in the kitchen to cut through bones. The girl’s thin, pale finger slowly caressed the blade. Her hands were smeared with dry blood that had begun to flake off.

  Clouston felt like dropping to his knees to cry. This was the girl who had played the most beautiful carols last Christmas; the girl who still smiled excitedly at whisky fudge; the girl who could snatch a smile even from her grumpy father – God rest his soul – with only a playful hug. Her parents and brother called her Pansy because her wide, almost black eyes, framed by thick lashes, made her slightly resemble her mother’s favourite flowers.

  Right then, though, she looked more like a spectre than a blossom. She was looking intently at the cleaver with a sharp yet somehow absent stare. Clouston could not help thinking of an eerie porcelain doll, and had to summon the strength that more than twenty years of practice had given him. Again he inhaled deeply and walked closer. He extended his palm and only then did he notice how much he was trembling.

  ‘Amy …’ he said in his kindest manner, ‘give me the knife …’ She did not reply. ‘Please, will you –’

  Pansy moved, but only to turn her back to him. Her glassy eyes reflected the sun and Clouston noticed that she was dehydrated; she must not have eaten or drunk at all for almost two days. She kept caressing the blade slowly … so gently that she did not cut her tender skin.

  Clouston walked a step closer, his heart pounding. He had to gulp twice before his voice came out.

  ‘Pansy …’ he whispered, resorting to the family nickname. ‘Give me that, please. Betsy needs it in the kitchen.’

  The rocking stopped. Pansy turned around and rose up on the bed, facing Clouston. The stare was not absent any more; the eyes, dark like wells, were burning with inexplicable rage.

  ‘You think I’m mad …’ she hissed, and then, slowly, lifted her arm, wielding the cleaver. Her pupils trembled, frenzy taking over.

  Clouston did not retreat, not even when he saw the girl tensing her calves, ready to leap forward.

  ‘Give me that,’ he insisted, kindly but firmly. No patient had ever gotten their way with him yet. ‘Betsy will clean you up … and we’ll get you something to eat …’

  ‘I’m not mad!’ she muttered, her chest heaving, ‘What’s happened to me is much worse …’

  There was a deep silence, just the rustle of the curtains moved by the morning breeze … and then she laughed. It was the most poisonous noise Clouston had ever heard from a human being; an otherworldly cackle that grew louder, stabbing his ears.

  ‘What is it?’ Clouston asked, standing his ground. ‘I can help you!’

  Pansy inhaled deeply and uttered the last words the world would ever hear from her:

  ‘ ’Tis the Devil …’

  Then Pansy let out an anguished, piercing howl, and hurled herself onto the startled doctor.

  1

  Perhaps the best moment to begin my telling is the evening of 9 November 1888, the day when it all started to tumble down.

  I had just received an urgent message from Commissioner Sir Charles Warren, the head of Scotland Yard, asking me to meet him in the first row of pews of St Paul’s Cathedral.

  The message was not that surprising, for we were living through days of upheaval. London was getting ready to celebrate the investiture of a new mayor, but the festive mood would soon be tarnished: I’d heard that, on that very morning, yet another murder had been perpetrated by Jack the Ripper, or at least the latest reports suggested so. I assumed that Warren’s unusual summons must be related to that – I would be only partly wrong.

  My carriage took me from the Scotland Yard headquarters to St Paul’s in what seemed an unduly long time; it had been a rainy day, so the streets were covered in mud and the drivers had to move at a sluggish pace.

  Through the windows I saw that the roads were bustling despite the hour and the relentless rain. Countless soaked umbrellas marched up and down the road, looking like black seashells gleaming under the yellow lights of the gas lamps.

  I thought bitterly that this was no longer the town where I had loved to spend wintertime in my childhood years. I now lived in a London crowded by ill-treated workers and seamen and scavengers, blackened by the smoke from the coal-devouring factories … and haunted by the Ripper and a thousand lesser rascals.

  The cathedral’s dome rose like an unyielding guard, its once white surface now blackened by the fumes of industry, and as gloomy as the darkened sky. Soon my driver halted in front of the long atrium. I walked past the white columns and went into the temple to find it utterly silent; my swift steps on the marble floor echoed throughout the nave.

  St Paul’s was usually bright and airy, its imposing arches extending in perfect symmetry under the light streaming through the stained glass. That day, however, the miserable November evening made the place look dim, even sinister.

&
nbsp; There were only two people in the cathedral: a young sacristan lighting the candlesticks, and a dark figure seated right in front of the altar – the latter was, of course, Sir Charles Warren, crouching and clenching his hat with shaky hands. Anyone who’d seen him would have thought that he was a lonely mourner.

  His white, thin hair and bushy moustache contrasted with his raven black suit. I recognized the old-fashioned cut of his jacket, as conservative as the chap himself. It was no secret that Sir Charles Warren was a quaint gentleman, strongly set in his ways, and thus highly criticized. His greatest fault was exerting full control over the police force, refusing any autonomy to the assistant commissioner or the superintendents. To make matters worse, he was also unable to delegate any duty he considered vital; no wonder he wanted to see me in person.

  ‘I never knew you were a religious man,’ I said, startling him though I spoke softly.

  He looked up at me and straightened his back at once, casting me a cold stare.

  ‘You are late, Frey.’

  ‘The roads are impossible. I do apologize.’ I had to reply with the same formality, even though Sir Charles and I had been close acquaintances for the past seven years.

  There was an ominous air around him, an almost tangible wall that even our old friendship could not breach.

  I sat at a prudent distance. ‘What can I do for you, sir?’

  Warren cleared his throat. ‘Two terrible murders have taken place, Frey. The first, I am sure, you have heard of …’