City of Devils: A Novel (3 page)

James didn’t know how to greet this information. He had been so caught up in his own misery recently that he had become accustomed to thinking that his suffering was unique. To hear of someone else’s unsettled him. Lombroso went on.

‘I brought her with me when I took up my position here in Turin. At first my wife refused to have her in our home. Sometimes I wonder if she was right. Women usually are, don’t you find?’

James smiled. ‘My sister would certainly agree with you, Professor, though perhaps she is too young to be right about everything.’

‘Indeed, but in my experience it is always a mistake to tell a woman what she should be thinking, as your father has no doubt told you.’

James was silent for a moment. He hadn’t expected the subject to come up so quickly and now it had, he was not sure how to respond. Eventually he found the words though they were difficult to utter. ‘My father is dead . . .’ He peered down at his glass, lost in its golden depths, as if he was remembering, when in fact he would sooner forget. When he looked up he saw that Lombroso was staring at him, his brows furrowed.

‘Please forgive my clumsiness,’ he said gently. James gave a small tight smile. It was all he could manage under the circumstances, Lombroso patted him paternally on the shoulder. ‘Well, young man, I hope that if I take you on, your studies here will enlighten you and give you at least some of the answers you seek. Am I correct in thinking that you studied with Dr Joseph Bell in Edinburgh?’

‘Yes, Professor, I did.’

‘
Eccellente
! He is, I understand, an exacting tutor. I have read several of his monographs. He is an active supporter of the use of science in criminal investigation, is he not?’

‘That is correct, Professor. I was fortunate enough to assist Dr Bell in one or two cases where he was consulted by the local constabulary. I was his clerk.’

Lombroso looked at him with fresh interest. ‘Ah, I see . . . you worked and studied. That takes some fortitude.’

‘My financial position demanded it,’ James said, hoping that the professor would probe no further.

Lombroso smiled. ‘So tell me, Murray, what did you learn from Dr Bell?’

James paused, trying to recall some of Bell’s favourite phrases. It was a difficult question to answer in the space of a sentence or two but he knew that he must try. ‘I learned to use all my senses in diagnosis, to deduce the facts from the evidence before me.’

Lombroso nodded. ‘Ah yes, a valuable lesson in both medical and criminal matters, I am sure you will agree.’

After that they sat together in silence. It was strange but James felt somehow at home in the professor’s company. It was his first opportunity to study the great man more closely. On the surface he looked avuncular and jolly and seemed as if he would be excellent company. There was, however, just a hint of a darker side to him. Perhaps it was in his eyes or his tone, James could not say exactly but it was there – a suggestion that the professor was a man whose mood could change without warning.

Lombroso held his glass up to the window and studied its amber contents in the autumn sunlight. James did not notice at first that he was being studied too, through the glass.

‘There are clearly unresolved matters about your father’s death. Your eyes tell me so.’

James looked at him, startled. He wondered if Lombroso could read his mind. He decided that his best strategy was to say as little as possible but he had to say something. Hopefully it would be enough to satisfy the professor and prevent further enquiry.

‘My father was a doctor. He had an interest in neurology, particularly in relation to criminality. I wish to . . . to carry on his work, to find out more about criminals, Professor. I want to know what makes them the way they are.’

Lombroso stroked his beard thoughtfully. ‘Such strong motives for gaining knowledge could, of course, be a good thing. It might make you a very useful assistant indeed, but it could also make you rash in your conclusions and that would not do.’ He paused and sighed. James braced himself for rejection. ‘Still, young man, you have managed well so far. I think that you have earned a fair chance.’

James sighed with relief and allowed himself to smile. The fact that he had been less than frank about his motives became a mere detail.

‘Welcome to Turin, Dr Murray. And you have arrived at the right time. Our annual symposium on Criminal Anthropology starts in a few days – I think you will learn much from it. Many distinguished speakers will be present and –’ here Lombroso raised his eyes heavenwards, as if in prayer ‘– some not so distinguished, of course – but these things are sent to try us.’

James could hardly believe his luck. To be here at such an auspicious time was surely a good omen.

Lombroso warmed to his subject. ‘We have scientists coming from all over Europe. I am looking forward in particular to hearing Madame Tarnovsky discuss her work with prostitutes in Prague.’

‘Anna Tarnovsky?’ James said eagerly. He had read some of her work and greatly admired it.

‘Indeed. A delightful woman and highly intelligent – unusual for her sex.’

James thought this comment somewhat unfair but he was hardly in a position to argue. ‘Will DeClichy be coming from Lyon?’ he asked. He had also read of this man’s work and knew that he had, in the past, been critical of some of Lombroso’s views, believing environmental factors to be more of an influence on criminality than a natural inclination towards crime. James had dropped the name into the conversation in an effort to impress and was unprepared for Lombroso’s reaction.

‘That charlatan!’ he spat. ‘We are, unfortunately, to be subjected to his ridiculous outpourings. I hope you don’t give his ludicrous ideas too much credence, young man. If so, our relationship will be brief.’

‘Not at all, Professor,’ James said quickly. ‘I just wondered if he might be one of the not-so-distinguished speakers that you mentioned.’

‘Quite so, young man, quite so.’ He took a large gulp from his glass as if trying to rid himself of the taste of Dr DeClichy and others like him then turned to James and smiled. His good mood had returned as swiftly as it had left.

The large ornate clock that stood in the corner of the room suddenly chimed the hour. It was twelve o’clock. James had been in the museum for almost two hours, though it felt as if only minutes had passed.

Lombroso checked his pocket watch. ‘Would you like to see some more of the museum? Then perhaps we could lunch later if you would care to join me? And Ottolenghi too – provided he has finished checking those skulls, that is.’

He was about to accept Lombroso’s invitation when there was a knock at the door. It opened to reveal Ottolenghi and Sofia, who ushered in a young man in a blue and red uniform. He bowed to Lombroso, who leapt to his feet.

‘What is it? What has happened?’ he said in a sharp tone.

It was then that James realised that the young man in uniform was an officer of the carabinieri.

‘Professor Cesare Lombroso?’ the young man asked hesitantly.

Lombroso nodded. ‘Has there been some progress on the burglary? That was unusually quick. Indeed, I am surprised to see you at all. There was little interest expressed when I first reported it. I am gratified that it is being taken seriously.’

The officer looked confused. ‘No, Professor – not a burglary . . .’

‘Then what is it?’ Lombroso said with alarm. ‘Has something happened?’

‘I am Lieutenant Giardinello, Professor. There has been . . . an incident.’

‘What kind of incident? Has someone been hurt? My wife, my daughters?’

‘No, no, Professor, nothing like that. Marshal Machinetti sent me.’

‘Machinetti! What does that fool want?’

‘I have been told to ask you to accompany me, Professor.’

‘Accompany you where?’ Lombroso asked.

‘I cannot tell you, sir. I have been told not to give any information and that you will find out when we get there.’

‘Where the devil is
there
?’

‘I cannot say.’

‘I am not going anywhere until I am told!’

There was a short pause as the young policeman appeared to consider exactly how much he was permitted to reveal.

‘You’re going there anyway, Lieutenant Giardinello. You might as well tell us,’ Ottolenghi said gently. Giardinello nodded.

‘There has been a murder. The body was found in the Piazza Statuto.’

Sofia gave a sharp intake of breath. ‘The gates of hell . . .’ she murmured. She crossed herself and looked up to the heavens, as if for guidance.

Giardinello went on, ‘There is a connection with you, Professor . . . with your name . . .’

Lombroso raised his eyebrows. ‘Now I am intrigued! How am I connected?’

‘I am not permitted to say more, Professor.’

Lombroso snorted. ‘Well, I think that you had better say something, young man. Otherwise you will find me less than cooperative.’

Giardinello’s face reddened. ‘I really cannot.’

‘Am I a suspect?’ Lombroso asked, incredulously.

There was a pause. ‘I do not think so, Professor.’

Lombroso peered morosely at him. ‘Your hesitation speaks volumes, Lieutenant. Machinetti will answer for this impertinence!’ He pursed his lips. ‘Well, just for your records –’ Lombroso leaned over to Giardinello until their faces were only inches apart – ‘I did not do it – whatever “it” turns out to be!’

He turned to James and Ottolenghi and shrugged his shoulders. ‘I suppose I had better do as I am told. Marshal Machinetti is a typical Sicilian, a dangerous man who is proud and stupid in equal measure, so not someone to be trifled with. Would you both mind accompanying me? Other eyes and ears might be useful.’

Both readily agreed and they all left the relative warmth and comfort of the museum for the chill autumn air. It was cooler than James had thought. Somehow the name Italy had conjured an expectation of heat and light in his mind. This had been confirmed, or so he had thought, by the sunny days which had met his arrival and indeed until now it had been mild, even at night. But now there seemed to be a change in the weather. The sun had long since disappeared behind threatening-looking clouds and he was unprepared for the cold and damp that now surrounded him. He pulled his thin coat around him as he walked. The smell of rotting leaves and wood smoke hung in the air and mingled incongruously with the underlying stench of the city.

The Piazza Statuto was in the older part of Turin, an area of the city that most respectable residents avoided. It was a harsh contrast from the broad straight roads and magnificent architecture that James had seen on his way to the museum. He took an inward breath and smelled the fetid air as they made their way along the narrow, dark streets. Then he shivered. It brought back memories of his father, memories that he would rather forget.

‘Are you all right, Murray?’ Ottolenghi asked.

James nodded and pointed ahead. A small crowd of onlookers was gathered around a large sculpture, surrounded by a small area of shrubs and grass and then a set of iron railings with a gate, which had evidently been opened for the purposes of accessing something within.

Ottolenghi turned to Lombroso. ‘I think we are here, Professor.’

Lieutenant Giardinello pushed through the crowd and then through the gate, followed closely by Lombroso, Ottolenghi and James. There was a group of carabinieri forming a semi-circle round a body. To one side, precariously balanced on a shooting stick, perched a short round figure resplendent in a dark blue uniform with silver braid around the collar and cuffs, scarlet-trimmed edges and a large cocked hat with a black and red plume at the centre. He had an enormous bushy moustache, waxed at the ends but now slightly drooping, and an extremely self-important air. He reminded James of a walrus.

‘Machinetti – it has been a while since we last met,’ Lombroso said, making it clear in his tone that he did not regret that this was the case.

‘Professor,’ acknowledged the marshal abruptly. ‘I had no choice other than to summon you. You will see why shortly.’

He nodded at the semi-circle of officers who quickly stepped aside. There were some cries of horror from the crowd who, although more than ready for a grim sight, were insufficiently prepared for what they saw. Lombroso gulped. Ottolenghi put his hand to his throat as if to quell an urgent need to vomit. James stared, hardly believing what he was seeing. Before them stood a large sculpture; at first glance it seemed to be nothing more than a mound of earth but when one examined it more closely one could see that intertwined within its base were writhing bodies of men, their faces contorted in pain and anguish. At the top of the mound stood an angel, looking down on them with an expression that was the closest to a depiction of pure evil that Murray had ever seen. As if this in itself was not horrific enough, at the foot of the statue, in full view of the angel, was a body.

A small pool of sticky blood surrounded the corpse, shining blackly. James immediately recognised the smell of death, a kind of earthy sweetness underwritten by putrefaction, a foul odour that could be nothing else. He had experienced it often enough in the course of his studies.

He looked at the corpse again and saw that there was a dark red line running along the throat. The man had clearly been garrotted. But the worst of it was the way in which the corpse had been mutilated. The ears and nose had been removed with almost surgical precision and left on the victim’s chest, and a note, balanced carefully on the severed ears, was held in place by the large flat nose, acting as a kind of macabre paperweight.

They stood transfixed, staring at the body. The lips were drawn back in a silent scream and the bone and gristle where the nose used to be were clearly visible. James desperately wanted to avert his gaze but found himself quite unable to do so. Despite his initial disgust at what he had seen there was an element of excited fascination that kept welling up in him. He was ashamed of his feelings but powerless to change them.

Ottolenghi, though apparently equally appalled at what he was seeing, was more clinical in his outlook. James observed him as he looked carefully at the scene, his head moving this way and that, his brows furrowed in deep concentration. It was clear that he had immediately begun to assess what he could see: the position of the body, the mutilation, blood patterns and so on. It was as if James was back in Edinburgh, listening to lectures at medical school from Dr Bell. He too had appreciated the importance of such traces of evidence.