The Strings of Murder (26 page)

‘We know,’ I said. ‘What do you reckon, McGray?’

He was stroking his stubble in deep thought. ‘Those are very normal wills … and both take us to dead ends.’ He seemed half absent as he muttered, but then came back to his senses. ‘Mr Downs, would ye mind if
we
give Caroli some o’ the possessions that Mr Wood left for him?’

‘Not at all, Inspector. I would only ask you to tell me, if possible, which possessions you are talking about, so that I can cross them off the list of goods that I must deliver.’

McGray’s eyes were fixed on Downs’s as he spoke. ‘Not much. Just the cursed fiddle … and some strings.’

Both McGray and I looked at him intently, waiting for the slightest hint of a reaction. However, Downs simply nodded and jotted down the items on a piece of paper, his face devoid of emotion.

‘That
must
remain confidential, Mr Downs,’ McGray said.

‘But of course, Inspector,’ he replied, his expression as blank as before.

22

Elgie was finding his way in Edinburgh as if he’d spent half his life there. We inquired for him at the New Club, only to be told that he was already rehearsing at the Royal Lyceum Theatre. The imposing white building was very close, almost at the foot of Castle Rock, so our horses took us there in less than fifteen minutes.

I was pleasantly surprised as we walked in. Though not large, the main hall was of impeccable taste: the domed ceiling was richly decorated with gilded plaster surrounding a wide, sumptuous chandelier. Equally impressive plasterwork embellished the balustrades of three levels of balconies, and the rows of velvety red seats faced a wide, deep stage. I could picture my father and Catherine twisting their mouths in begrudging approval.

We found Elgie at the orchestra pit, and were lucky to arrive just as the very grumpy director allowed them a rest. Elgie recognized my graveness and led us to one of the highest balconies that overlooked the stage, where we could talk in privacy.

‘It is a very nice place,’ he said, grinning. ‘Do you not think so?’

‘Too glittering for my taste,’ said Nine-Nails. The cushioned seat appeared to be giving him a rash.

‘I thought Sullivan would be conducting,’ I said.

‘Not right now.
Macbeth
premiers in London on New
Year’s Eve, so he is busy with that, but he will come when they bring the play here next year. I hope he is not as cantankerous as this one; the man is wearing us out!’

I noticed that Elgie’s neck was quite reddened. ‘Indeed, I can see it from your skin. Are you not using that cloth?’

‘I left it in my room this morning, but I will definitely bring it tomorrow.’

I gave him my own handkerchief. ‘Use this in the meantime. I have seen how nasty those, er, “fiddler’s hickeys” can become, and I do not want Catherine telling me how bad I –’

‘Och, save the clishmaclaver for later, Frey,’ McGray urged. ‘Laddie, we need some information from ye.’

Elgie’s eyes opened in excitement. ‘Oh, do you? Will I help you convict another Jack the Ripper?’

I almost shuddered at his enthusiasm.

‘No. It is rather trivial,’ I lied, producing the small ebony box. ‘What can you tell us about this and its contents?’

Elgie examined the box, running his fingers on the violin carving. ‘It looks like an expensive little thing, and the violin is perfect.’

‘Perfect?’ McGray repeated.

‘Yes. Perfect proportions and every part where it should be. I’ve seen preposterous paintings of violins with six strings or no bridge. To me it is like painting a man with three arms. Whoever carved this was either very observant or had an exceptional knowledge of violins.’

McGray nodded, recording every word in his memory.

Elgie opened the box. ‘Violin strings. Again, expensive ones.’

‘How d’ye ken?’

‘They’re catgut, and of very good making. Most likely Italian.’

McGray looked up. ‘Italian?’

‘Yes. The best strings come from Italy. Some people say that making catgut is almost an art. It takes years of practice to perfect the method.’

I pondered. ‘Do you know how they are made?’

‘Well, the basics of it. First they soak the guts in brine for a day or two so they don’t rot. Then they scrape off the fat, and treat them with lye until the gut becomes translucent. That takes about a week of constant work. Then they cut them into thin ribbons and twist them like rope, before leaving them to dry. That can take another week. Finally, they sand them and polish them with a mixture of grass and olive oil.’

‘Very long-winded,’ I said. ‘I assume the guts have to be fresh?’

‘Yes. You can imagine that intestines are not the cleanest of organs, so the brine bath has to be done as soon as possible.’

‘And it is not a craft you could hide easily.’

‘Why, no! You need a large workshop to stretch the strings, and I understand that the guts in lye give off a horrible smell.’

I assented, already thinking of the possibilities. ‘I think that is all we needed. McGray?’

He leaned towards Elgie and lifted one of the strings. ‘Strings are made out o’ goat, aren’t they?’

‘Mostly goat or lamb, yes, but also horse or hog. Some musicians say that cow gut is the absolute best.’

I could see where McGray was going, but could not stop him.

‘Laddie, can ye tell if this is made o’ goat or – something else?’

Elgie must have sensed something in McGray’s tone, and immediately put the string down, looking slightly revolted.

‘No, I could not. If you saw a drop of blood you could not tell whether it is man or beast.’ He closed the box. ‘The sound does differ, which could give you some guidance, but my ear is not trained enough. One of the maestros at the Conservatoire might be able to help you.’

McGray mumbled so that only I could hear him. ‘Perhaps Fon-teen would have known.’

‘I’m glad we talked to the laddie,’ McGray said as we left the theatre. ‘If it takes more than two weeks to make strings, the murderer must be working on Fon-teen’s guts as we speak. That gives us another trail to follow.’ He noticed my deep frown. ‘What is it now? Ye didn’t like the questions I asked him?’

I shook my head. ‘No, he will be fine. It is looking for foul, corroded intestines that worries me. I see this case becoming increasingly messy.’

Nine-Nails cackled. ‘Och, we’ve not even started, Frey, so ye better prepare yer puny stomach. A cat in mittens won’t catch any mice.’

23

‘I thought ya didn’t like black, master,’ said Joan as she passed me the only black jacket I’d asked her to bring.

‘Indeed. I avoid it whenever I can. This time, however, I cannot. I am attending a wake.’

‘Oh my! I hope it wasn’t one of your friends!’

‘No, no. This is work. I only saw the man once in my life, but I still must show some respect. The hosts will be two Italians, and I suspect they are very religious people. The wake will be in their old Catholic ways; open coffin and all, the burial itself tomorrow morning. Why they like to stare at their deceased ones all night, I cannot fathom.’

‘Italians! You must be talking about Mr and Mrs Caroli.’

I dropped my tiepin in surprise. ‘How do know about them?’

‘Oh, well, I was in the market this morning and met this very chatty girl that works for them. The poor thing was carrying a mountain of baskets with onions, and carrots, and parsnips, and the most dreadful little tomatoes I’ve ever –’

‘Joan, unless you have a point, I do not care how many bloody turnips she was carrying.’

‘Well, I know ’cause the girl tripped and dropped all her baskets. Mighty scene, vegetables rolling all over the place! And can you believe that I was the only person who helped her? We had to chase her onions across the road!
We chatted a good deal while I caught my breath, and she told me people here don’t like her household at all. Not the masters, not the servants. I felt so sorry for her.’

I arched an eyebrow. ‘Why, you
are
good at gossip!’

‘Oh, sorry, master. I know you don’t like all this chatter. I’ll leave you to –’

‘No-no-no, wait! Why do people dislike them? Did she tell you?’

Joan started giggling like a mischievous teenager. ‘Oh, I’ve stirred your curiosity now, haven’t I?

‘
Joan!
’

‘Oh, well, she wasn’t very clear. She said that people are afraid of her mistress – that they call her “witch-fingers” and children run away from her when she’s in town. They say it’s some curse running through her family. Some people even say they’ve seen demons lurking around their home at night.’

I shook my head. ‘Jesus! How can people be so bloody cruel? That poor woman is ill, not cursed!’

Then I understood why their social circle was so reduced. I had found it strange, given their loud hospitality. McGray and I were strangers to them, yet they had smothered us with attention. They surely were desperate to find some company. I also understood Mrs Caroli’s affectionate speech about losing Fontaine, the only person who befriended them despite her illness, and why they had befriended Wood despite his peculiar character.

I decided not to tell the story to McGray, whose alienated and tragic situation – and fingers – were awkwardly similar …

A thick, heavy fog fell over Edinburgh during the evening, and when we rode to the Carolis’ household McGray and I could hardly see each other. The almost-full moon shone above us like a blurry lamp, and under its light the fog looked like silvery streams of smoke dragged by the wind.

I was happy to see the house emerging from the mist, for the night air was icy and damp, and the yellow lights coming from the windows spoke of warmth. The door was decorated with a wide wreath of yew and laurel tied with black ribbons.

Our knock was answered by a young maid (probably the one Joan had helped in the street), who took our coats and offered to hold the violin case that I carried, wrapped in an old cloth.

‘That won’t be necessary,’ I said. ‘Can you announce us to your master?’

The girl nodded and then led us among a sea of people clad in black.

This was no moment for fashion: the men wore lacklustre jackets, and the only fabric allowed for the ladies was that dreadful crêpe, which has a flat, lifeless quality. The only specks of colour were the white handkerchiefs of the weepers, but etiquette demanded that even those were edged in black. The funeral was better attended than I expected, given the taciturn nature of poor Wood. We were surrounded mostly by musicians, but there were also a few people from the guesthouse and a couple of neighbours. The whisky coffees passed around as they all chattered about the deceased, his life, his talents and his doings; Wood’s colleagues were taking turns to play his
favourite pieces by the coffin, and as we entered, a violinist and a cellist were improvising on one of Mozart’s masses. It is at moments like this when I get perplexed by how intricate the web of life is. Even the seemingly dullest, most inconsequential person can gather a little crowd at his funeral. In my experience, lonely funerals speak of even more complex stories. Good Mary Brown, for instance, did not have a single mourner.

The undertaker had certainly made an effort, for the parlour looked like a wilderness with white flowers and green foliage. All the mirrors had been covered with drapery, for people still believe that the departed soul can become trapped in the glass. There were so many candles spread all about the room that there was no need to light the candelabra, and the house was so full of people that setting the fire would have only smothered us.

One of the drooling hounds was pacing carelessly in between the guests, and right behind it I saw Mrs Caroli. She was all dressed in mourning black, like the last time we’d seen her, and like the last time she tried to conceal her arthritis, her hands in black mittens and clasping a Bible close to her stomach. I saw more than a few morbid eyes trying to catch a glance at her knotted fingers.

‘Inspectors!’ she said, a hint of a grunt in her voice. ‘Good evening. What can we do for you?’

She sounded polite enough, but her slight frown gave away how uncomfortable she really felt.