City of Devils: A Novel (5 page)

He stared down at the empty page, unsure what to write. Lucy had a vivid enough imagination and was forever writing stories that would rival the most lurid sensation novel. If he told her all that he had witnessed then who knows what tales she might concoct. James grimaced to himself. He wouldn’t be at all surprised if Aunt Agnes, a devout woman, fervent in her Protestantism, read Lucy’s letters before she gave them to his sister. She had agreed to take care of Lucy only on the basis that her rules were strictly observed.

He knew that Lucy would be waiting anxiously for his news and that she would be more than happy to hear about the museum and all that had happened. But he was protective of her. He could not help himself. She had been very young when their mother died after a long illness but at least she had time to become accustomed to the prospect of her loss. The fate of their father was a very different matter. Its sudden violent and unexpected nature had hit her very hard and James had striven to keep the terrible truth behind it from her, particularly his own part in it. He was all she had left of their closest family and, perhaps as a result, she idolised him and he did not want to alter that. He took a deep breath, picked up his pen and began.

Turin, November 1st, 1887

My dear Lucy
,

I hope this letter finds you well. I arrived safely in the city on Tuesday and have settled into my lodgings which are comfortable. My main news is that I met Professor Lombroso today and he has engaged me as an assistant. I have not yet started work but I am very much looking forward to doing so. My fellow colleague is a man named Salvatore Ottolengbi, who seems a good sort. I know, of course, that were you here you would tell me that I was jumping to conclusions! Anyway, be smiles a great deal which makes me think that he and I will be friends. I am not yet sure what to make of Professor Lombroso himself I find him a little overwhelming and his museum is full of the most bizarre exhibits, beyond anything even you could imagine.

No doubt you will scold me for not describing the appearance of my new acquaintances even though you know of old how difficult I find such an exercise. I dare say that if you were here you would ask me your usual questions – so here are my answers. If he was a member of the animal kingdom then I would say that the professor resembles a wise old owl and Ottolenghi is a taller, thinner version of him!

And Lucy, the city id so beautiful! I really cannot understand why it is not better known. It is full of baroque architecture and broad, shining streets full of grand palazzos. Everywhere I go I see fine sculptures and ornate fountains and there are museums and galleries around every corner.

Now, dear Lucy, please do not reproach me for the brevity of this letter. I assure you there is really not much else to say as little has happened but I will write again soon to tell you more of my adventures. Please give my warmest regardd to our aunt.

Your devoted brother
,

James

He looked again at his final sentence and grinned. Warmth and Aunt Agnes did not really go together. He could picture her now, a thin angular woman with a face that looked as if nothing resembling a smile would ever dare to cross it. The letter was short and somewhat bland but what else could he do? If he told Lucy what had really happened there was a risk that she would never get to read it. Better to receive this than nothing at all. Of course he could have mentioned Sofia, but what could he really say – that he had been attracted to a servant? Aunt Agnes would have a seizure, particularly following his rejection of Elspeth Gibson.

James cringed at the memory. Presumably in an effort to restore some stability to their circumstances, given their father’s fate, Aunt Agnes had taken it upon herself to find him a wife and had engineered a number of meetings with Miss Gibson, a clergyman’s daughter, who was one of the dullest young women he had ever encountered. Every other sentence from her (and there were not that many to choose from) had come from the bible or the prayer book. Lucy had taken to referring to her as ‘Everlasting Elspeth’ as, she said, ten minutes with her seemed like an eternity. Aunt Agnes, however, was a determined woman and, like a spectre at a feast, Elspeth was at every social event he attended and was a constant visitor to their home. His aunt made it clear that it was his duty to make ‘a good marriage,’ as she had put it, and he had almost believed her. Riven by guilt at his part in his father’s fate and uncertain about his own future he was on the verge of doing his aunt’s bidding. But when it came to the day when he was supposed to ask for Elspeth Gibson’s hand he had found that he could not do it. The marriage would have made them both unhappy and what would have been the sense in that? James had inherited a romantic nature from his mother and wanted to follow her example, marrying for love not convenience, no matter what the consequences.

Aunt Agnes had been furious, not it seemed at Miss Gibson’s alleged devastation, which James had somehow doubted as she had never seemed to do more than tolerate him, but at what ‘people would say’. It was at this point that James knew that he had to escape, not just for the sake of his own sanity but also for Lucy’s well-being. It was quite clear to him that if he was ever to forge an independent future for them, away from their father’s legacy, he had to look further than Edinburgh.

As he sat in the fading light of the gloomy afternoon, James resolved to spend the rest of the day with his books. After all, he reasoned, if he was to be a worthy assistant to the professor then he should ensure that he was up to date with current thinking about criminality. He took out a selection of volumes from his travelling trunk and settled down to read.

Hours passed and the day gradually turned to night. Diligently he worked on, poring over his books, determined to be the brightest assistant Professor Lombroso had ever engaged. Suddenly the yellow flame of the gaslight flickered in the draught from the window. He looked up quickly and caught his breath. He thought for a moment that he saw a shadow of something on the wall but it was just his imagination. He sighed at his folly and all at once felt tired; the events of the day had caught up with him and all he could see in his mind’s eye was the mutilated body of the victim and the malicious glare of the stone angel as it looked down upon them.

He went to bed, but sleep did not come easily. He tossed and turned in the darkness, tortured by memories of Soldate’s mutilated corpse and the feelings and recollections that it had produced in him. These thoughts were nurtured by his own night demons until, like a malignant tumour, they had almost completely infected him.

When he finally slept his dreams were punctuated by disturbing images. At first they were disjointed and made little sense. A few of the faces he had seen in photographs exhibited in Lombroso’s museum floated before him. Some of them were cackling loudly as if caught up in some unknown moment of hysteria. Others hissed the words ‘murderer’ and ‘killer’ at him with an intensity so terrifying it made him want to turn and run, though his feet refused to obey him.

Then came the melody . . . the one that his sister was playing on the piano when the police arrived to tell them of what had befallen their father. It was a piece by Chopin. Again and again it played in his dream like a macabre music box. As he heard it he became aware that he was walking along a dark street. It had no ending and the buildings on either side were so tall that they seemed to lean in so that they were almost touching.

Next, he saw a body. It was lying in a pool of blood, a dark figure hunched menacingly over it. As he drew closer he saw the glint of a knife in the figure’s hand. He thought, at first, that it was Lombroso but when the figure turned it had no face at all. He looked over to the corpse. It was his father, looking up at him with lifeless eyes. James tried to go to him but, almost overcome with a feeling of dread and fear, he could not. Then the faceless figure came towards him. It lifted the knife as if to strike and then looked up at him. And suddenly it had a face. It was his own.

James woke with a start, his nightshirt damp with sweat, his heart pounding. Would he ever be able to leave his past behind? He went to the window and threw it open, taking gulps of the cool night air in an effort to calm himself. Gradually he felt better. It was only a dream after all. Given what he had seen it was hardly surprising that he had reacted to it. Indeed, Lombroso had also seemed to be badly affected by the sight. Was it possible that the professor had become unhinged by his own work? Obsession was not uncommon amongst academics, particularly scientists. He knew that much from bitter experience.

But then whoever had done this must surely be cruel and merciless and Lombroso did not seem to be either of these things. The note, of course –
A Tribute to Lombroso –
meant there had to be some connection. But James could not imagine Lombroso committing such a hideous crime. Admittedly they had only met once and so he had little of substance to assist him in assessing the professor’s character. And that note was odd to say the least.

James closed the window and went over to his shabby armchair in the corner of the room. He sank down in it and closed his eyes, the better to analyse the matter. It was perfectly true that he did not want his new employer to be involved – and it was very clear that the killer had sought to implicate Lombroso, which suggested strongly that the professor was unlikely to be the murderer. What needed to be established was
why
the professor had been drawn into the crime in this way. If this could be discovered, it would surely be a simple matter to identify the culprit.

Having clarified things in his mind, he made the decision that he would offer his assistance in the matter. It was imperative that this crime was solved so Lombroso could continue with his experiments, unfettered by suspicion. Either that or be prevented from killing anyone else, whichever it turned out to be. Satisfied that he had reached a conclusion of sorts, James went back to his bed and fell soundly asleep.

3

Impulsive crimes among animals, as among humans, are frequently prompted by love.

Lombroso, 1884, p 171

The next morning James made his way through the streets of Turin to Lombroso’s museum. It was a beautiful day, unseasonably warm, sunny and bright, with the snowy peaks of the Alps clearly visible in the distance, watching over the city like a group of guardian angels. But weather and the scenery were wasted on James. He sat in a cab as it clattered through the unfamiliar streets and stared into the distance. The dream was still haunting him. He had so many questions and only Lombroso, it seemed to him, would be able to answer them.

He fingered his starched collar nervously. Was this whole enterprise a foolish mistake? Should he leave the city now before Lombroso found out his secret? And what if the professor turned out to be a killer? Where would that leave him? A chill travelled through his body as he realised what was at stake.

He leaned back and clenched his fists as if he was about to engage in hand-to-hand combat with his own fears. Breathing deeply, he tried to steady his nerves. The smell of the cab’s interior combined unpleasantly with the odour of the many bodies that had sat there before him. Suddenly it swerved to avoid a handcart being pulled slowly across the road by an elderly man who gesticulated angrily. He was so close that James could see his hostile glare and the spittle seeping from the corners of his snarling, toothless mouth as they drove past. The sight of it jolted him back to reality, reminding him of his purpose. It was then that he knew that he had no choice but to go on, for if he turned back now he would never be complete. It was a risk. He realised that he might not like what he discovered, but it seemed to him that not knowing was even worse.

Everything had now become further complicated by the murder. If he was innocent, James assumed that Lombroso would wish to give its investigation priority, given the use of his name on the note. It would be interesting to see him apply his theories to an actual crime and he hoped that perhaps the professor would allow him to help, even if that meant that he would have to wait a little longer to address his own problems.

James looked out of the window again in an effort to find some distraction and soon lost himself in the bustle of the city. Watching the Torinesi going about their business, he thought to himself that, at first glance, this place was not so very different from home. As in Edinburgh there were two contrasting sides to the city: both were built on old ground, one with broad, clean and straight streets and another of winding narrow lanes and alleyways. Here too street traders shouted out at passers-by in an effort to persuade them to buy their wares. The gentry strolled past, their noses high in the air as if trying to avoid the city smells that inevitably surrounded them – sewage, animal and human, sweat and filth; the stink of people, the stink of life.

In Turin, though, the odour was different from Edinburgh’s. It had a slight undertone of fresh herbs, garlic and olive oil, wafting over from stalls that nestled under the walkways that lined the streets. How easy it would be for the uninitiated to see only the acceptable side of the place, the almost exotic golden glow of the piazzas and archways shining in the pale morning sunlight. One could simply brush aside the sight of the filthy beggars or the sharp-faced con men, ignore the bright-eyed thieves or the snarling pimps and their blousy prostitutes, turn away from the hidden grotesques of the city, lingering in dark corners waiting for night, all the sinister undercurrents that would sweep a man away in its filthy waters given half the chance. It was too late for him. He had already witnessed Turin’s less salubrious side at first hand and knew that beneath this shining surface lay a darker underbelly of shadows and secrets. And he also knew the raw truth: that he was no different.