City of Devils: A Novel (33 page)

‘So does the signature, Pilgrim in the first and P in the second,’ Ottolenghi said.

‘Did you see that the word Hell was given a capital letter in both letters? Could that be significant?’ James asked. ‘That would indicate that they were from the same hand or from two people intimately connected, perhaps by the murders, to the extent that they have picked up one another’s habits – a killer and his apprentice.’

‘Or the first letter is a hoax and the second is not,’ Ottolenghi said.

‘Or the second is a hoax and the writer read about the gates of Hell in the
People’s Voice
and decided to put in the phrase, complete with capital “H”, to make it sound more authentic,’ Tullio added.

They sat in silence for a few moments. It seemed that the more evidence was gathered or emerged, the greater the puzzle.

‘Should I inform Machinetti about the second letter?’ Tullio asked.

‘No,’ Lombroso replied firmly. ‘He will only want to retain it as evidence and I think it should remain here – for now, anyway. It is my property, is it not? We do not want it to fall into the wrong hands. Machinetti is a fool. Who knows what skewed conclusion he might reach?’

For a second James again considered the possibility of the professor being involved. He looked at Lombroso as he sat forwards in his chair peering at the letter in his hand. He seemed genuinely puzzled by the case. Either that or his theatrical skills were even more developed than James had thought.

‘What can we do now, Professor?’ James wondered if they were any nearer to finding out the truth.

‘I fear that there is very little we can do on a practical level, Murray. I know for certain that there is something missing, perhaps more than one thing, but alas that is all I know. The answer is lurking at the back of my mind somewhere. It will come to me I am sure but in the meantime I think that we should carry on with our work and hope that this Pilgrim is not moved to kill again.’

‘We still have no real suspects,’ Tullio said glumly.

‘Not yet, but give it time,’ Lombroso said. ‘Now let us go in to lunch. I’m sure it is ready by now. We can discuss the matter further as we eat.’

Was Lombroso still unwilling to investigate? It was almost as if he had given up. This was counter-intuitive to James. He had always been taught that if there was some mystery to be solved, whether medical or criminal, you should keep digging away at the evidence until you came up with something. That, he decided to himself, was exactly what he would do, with or without Lombroso.

Luncheon was prepared and served by Sofia. A table was laid up in the laboratory and James thought how curious it was to dine in the company of the dead. The skulls that surrounded them stared rudely at them throughout, almost as if they resented their presence, but the food was delicious. There were some tender veal cutlets, sautéed with lemon and fragrant rosemary, served with the creamiest saffron risotto James had ever tasted. It was the colour of daffodils and glistened in the sunlight that poured in to the room. Soon Sofia came back with a carafe of cool white wine and a note for Lombroso.

‘Not another letter!’ He opened it and groaned at the contents. ‘That man DeClichy! He is so persistent! He wants to meet me. As if I have time for that.’

‘Will he be at the theatre tonight?’ Ottolenghi said. ‘Perhaps he could see you then?’

‘Theatre?’ James asked.

Lombroso looked over to him. ‘Ah yes, Murray. We are invited to the opera this evening at the Teatro Carignano with some of the other delegates from the symposium. With all this fuss I forgot to say. We are to be guests of the Marchesa. There will be drinks beforehand at the Hotel Inghilterra and dinner afterwards.’

James gave a half-hearted smile. He had a particular dislike of opera. His sister Lucy loved it and dragged him to performances whenever she could but he had never really enjoyed them. They always seemed so overblown – like someone screeching at a deaf person.

‘I am sure you will find it a welcome diversion from recent events,’ Lombroso said. ‘We are to see a new opera by Verdi,
Otello.
It premiered in Milan earlier this year.’

Ottolenghi nodded enthusiastically. ‘It is to be conducted by Arturo Toscanini who caused something of a sensation here last year, so I hear. I’m looking forward to seeing him.’

Tullio laughed. ‘You are all welcome to it. I will be spending the evening somewhere less salubrious.’

‘La Capra?’ James asked.

He nodded. ‘I will be observing the comings and goings. Perhaps Rosa Bruno will turn up and I can finally find out what she knows, if anything.’

‘Do you think La Capra is the key to this puzzle then?’ Lombroso asked.

He, of course, had not been told about their previous enquiries there.

‘It is the last place where Soldati was seen and a well-known underworld haunt. It could be important,’ Tullio said.

‘And this Bruno woman?’ Lombroso asked.

‘A possible informant. She claims to know something about Soldati’s murder but has yet to divulge it.’

The professor nodded vigorously. ‘Well, keep us up to date, Tullio, won’t you.’

‘I wonder what DeClichy is so anxious to talk to you about. It’s the second time he’s tried to see you,’ Ottolenghi said.

‘I can’t imagine,’ replied Lombroso. ‘Still, I doubt I’ll have time this evening. He’ll just have to wait.’

18

A few tenacious passions dominate criminals in place of their absent or unstable social and family feelings. First among these is pride or rather an excessive sense of self-worth, which seems to grow in inverse proportion to merit
.

Lombroso, 1876 p 65

The Hotel Inghilterra was as full of gilt and red velvet as the Marchesa’s palazzo had been but this time they were in a smaller room to accommodate the more select nature of the gathering. Beneath the large window framed by ornate brocade wall hangings sat the Marchesa with Father Vincenzo by her side as if he was her consort. She wore a gown in emerald green with gold embroidery embellishing the sleeves and bodice. James thought that she looked every inch the renaissance monarch, regal and powerful. Father Vincenzo whispered to her every now and then, just as he had at the reception. His eyes were glinting malevolently as if he was Iago pouring a toxic potion into Othello’s ear. Eventually they both rose and began to process majestically around the room with Father Vincenzo presenting each gaggle of guests to the Marchesa. James looked for the sanctuary of familiar faces and before long he saw Madame Tarnovsky and DeClichy, who were standing with Borelli. They seemed to be deep in conversation and he was reluctant to interrupt them.

Madame Tarnovsky, wearing a gown the colour of red wine with a delicate black lace trim, was dressed almost as magnificendy as the Marchesa. There were other women there, wives of academics mostly, and the Delgado sisters who were in matching outfits of a rather drab brown, like two harvest mice. But none could match the Marchesa or Madame Tarnovsky. It was not just the opulence of their gowns, although that attracted the eye, but the way they carried themselves, with an inner confidence, he supposed. He thought of Sofia and her ability to transform the dullest of costumes. He tried to imagine her in a gown that would really do her justice but he couldn’t and he realised that Sofia’s beauty was a rare thing in that it was entirely natural and needed no such embellishment.

The only other person he recognised was Horton who was huddled in what looked to be a conspiratorial group with Gemelli and some of his supporters. Every now and then he turned and James saw a flash of purple silk from the lining in his evening coat. Only a man without any thought or care for the views of others could carry that off, James thought to himself, as he wondered again exactly where the man came from.

Eventually he found the professor and Ottolenghi skulking behind a large flower arrangement. He waved at them and Lombroso beckoned him over.

‘Ah, good evening, Murray.’

He wondered why they were hiding. It seemed to him to be most uncharacteristic. Lombroso was usually only too happy to draw attention to himself, the better to put forward his theories.

‘We are observing the natives, a fascinating pastime, I think you’ll agree. Look over there at Gemelli, holding court like a primitive tribal chief, instructing his subjects.’ He gesticulated towards the group who were all listening attentively as Gemelli held forth, with the exception of Horton who just looked bored and stifled a yawn as if to emphasise it.

‘And we’re avoiding DeClichy,’ Ottolenghi replied with a grin. ‘He won’t leave the professor alone.’

Lombroso nodded ruefully. ‘I’m afraid Ottolenghi is right. DeClichy has been following me round like a lapdog. It is most infuriating.’

‘Still, it must be something important,’ James suggested. He felt rather sorry for DeClichy. He had seemed to be a good man with some interesting ideas but Lombroso continually brushed him away as if he was an irritating insect.

‘I do not wish to listen to him pontificate on the rightness of his theories and the wrongness of mine,’ Lombroso said tetchily. ‘I have heard his nonsensical views too many times already, not least at the debate.’

‘Oh come now, Cesare. If we do not listen to others how are we to learn?’ Borelli had joined them in their corner. It was beginning to get a little crowded.

Lombroso looked at him and scowled. ‘If you must know, it is Gemelli I am avoiding. I do not wish to give him an opportunity to gloat.’

‘Professor, what are you doing? Anyone would think that you were hiding from us!’

It was the Marchesa with Father Vincenzo behind her.

‘I am merely taking stock, Marchesa,’ Lombroso replied.

‘Still, it is not like you to avoid the limelight,’ Father Vincenzo added with barely disguised glee. ‘Even given the circumstances.’

The Marchesa frowned. ‘Ah yes, I have heard of your troubles, Professor. We must see what can be done.’

James watched as the priest’s face fell slightly before he recovered himself.

‘It is just a misunderstanding, Marchesa,’ Lombroso said graciously.

‘Nonetheless, it needs to be attended to,’ she said, with a slight frown. ‘I shall visit soon to discuss it.’

‘We will be honoured, Marchesa,’ Lombroso replied with a deep bow. The Marchesa smiled and swept away.

Father Vincenzo also smiled but his was laced with poison. ‘I would not hold out too much hope, if I were you, Professor,’ he said, as he turned to follow in the Marchesa’s wake. ‘The lady has not visited you yet.’

Before anyone could comment a small gong was sounded. It was evidently time for them to make their way to the theatre. The performance was about to begin, or rather, James thought wryly, a second act, for Lombroso had a talent for drama that was hard to ignore.

A few moments later they were in their seats, having successfully avoided both Gemelli and DeClichy, much to Lombroso’s evident pleasure. They had been given the honour of a box adjacent to that of the Marchesa who sat next to Father Vincenzo, still murmuring in her ear. Gemelli and his colleagues had been relegated to the stalls. Lombroso leaned over and waved regally at them and was rewarded with a scowl from Gemelli. Horton, however, who was sitting with them, smiled and nodded. In the box directly opposite sat a sombre DeClichy and Reiner, deep in conversation. The latter sported a waistcoat of dark pinks and purples which made his pale hair and eyes even more noticeable.

With them was Madame Tarnovsky. James was rather sorry to have been denied the pleasure of her company, for it was always stimulating. Ottolenghi nudged him and whispered, ‘Look at DeClichy.’

James peered over at him and saw that he was still obviously agitated. He was constantly fidgeting and kept looking down at Gemelli and frowning.

James whispered back to Ottolenghi. ‘Perhaps DeClichy will be joining us at dinner. Then he can discuss with Lombroso whatever it is that’s causing him such anxiety.’

Ottolenghi shrugged but before he could add anything the room was filled with the sound of rapturous applause as the young conductor Toscanini entered and the evening’s entertainment began. To his surprise, James enjoyed it. There was something carefree about the performance despite its tragic subject matter. Even the atmosphere in the theatre itself seemed to radiate a certain
joie de vivre
which seemed a million miles away from anything he had experienced in Edinburgh. It was more colourful, more heartfelt somehow. He wondered if it was the fact that he was not at home that merely created the impression of difference. Whatever the reason, he came away feeling that he had witnessed something quite out of the ordinary and he couldn’t wait to put an account of it down on paper for Lucy. She would be quite envious, he was sure, and at least this was something he could tell her about with impunity. Even Aunt Agnes couldn’t object to opera and Shakespeare!

There had been a short interval. Champagne was served and while Lombroso was discussing some abstruse point with Borelli, Ottolenghi and James took the opportunity to further observe DeClichy. He spent the entire time staring at Gemelli and his party as earlier. It was most peculiar. He had shown little interest in the man before and they could not deduce why he would have suddenly become so fascinated now, yet his eyes were on him for the entire interval.