City of Devils: A Novel (6 page)

On the surface he was quite ordinary; a little pale perhaps, and serious, with a shock of dark hair that he habitually pushed away from his forehead. A colleague of his father’s had once told him that he had a noticeable pallor, as if he had rarely seen daylight, and that his eyes had a distant and haunted quality. When he had mentioned it to Lucy she had told him that he looked ‘romantic’ as if he was ‘a man with a past’. He had not said so but, given the burden he carried at the time, he had thought that description was apt and hardly surprising. After all, it was quite possible that his appearance was a mere reflection of the state of his soul.

Finally the cab pulled up outside the museum. As before he knocked at the huge wooden doors and was met by Sofia. Today she was brusque, ushering him in as if she was too busy to pass the time of day with him. James was disappointed. He had hoped for a smile at least. He decided to regard her silence as a challenge.

‘It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it? Is it always like this in November?’ he said as she shut the door.

‘No,’ replied Sofia tersely as she took his hat and cane.

James tried again. ‘So then it usually rains then, does it?’

‘
Sì
.’

‘Heavily?’

Sofia sighed. ‘Sometimes.’

‘How often?’ he asked following her across the hallway. ‘Every day, once a week?’

‘Sometimes,’ she repeated.

‘In Edinburgh it rains all the time.’

There was no reply.

‘Does it ever snow here?’

‘Follow me please,’ she said firmly.

‘Is there ever—’

‘No, never,’ she replied. It was clear that she was not in the mood to talk.

He admitted defeat and dutifully followed her as they passed through various corridors, heavy with the fragrances of beeswax and lavender and just a hint of formaldehyde. Occasionally she would pause outside a door and James would think that they had reached their destination. Then, having waited just long enough to tantalise him, she would spin on her heel and on they would go. There was something sensual about the way she moved. Her bold walk and swinging hips reminded him of the girls who used to come out of the public houses in Edinburgh’s less salubrious areas, once they had closed for the night. And yet her movements had a certain elegance and grace that belied her sordid beginnings. There was something about her that both moved and disturbed him but he could not say for sure what that something might be. He decided that the only way to break the spell she had over him was to try again to engage her in conversation. Besides, there was something he needed to know.

‘Excuse me,’ he said, hesitantly.

Sofia stopped and turned to face him. ‘
Sì
?’

‘I heard you say something about the gates of Hell yesterday. What did you mean?’

She looked at him intently and murmured under her breath as she had done the day before. James didn’t know exactly what she said but it did not sound entirely complimentary. She turned away as if to go and James seized her by her wrist.

‘Wait! Answer me!’

‘No!’ She shook his hand away and carried on, turning left into a corridor. James quickly followed her and was about to try to speak to her again when he noticed that they were not alone. Lining the passageway were full-length skeletons, standing like sentinels guarding the very gates of Hell that Sofia seemed so reluctant to discuss. James halted, staring at them. Then he heard a low laugh. He looked up indignantly. Sofia was leaning against the wall next to one of the skeletons, a wry smile on her face. ‘They will not bite!’

James looked at the nearest one to him and pulled a face at it. ‘Are you sure about that?’

‘
Sì
,’ she said. ‘I will not let them!’

James looked at the skeletons and smiled as a thought entered his head. ‘Does the professor make you dust them?’

She laughed. ‘
Sì
, every day.’

‘And do they have much to say?’

She paused, her head on one side as if she was giving serious consideration to his question. ‘No, they are very boring . . . for criminals.’

‘What sort of criminals?’

‘Murderers, thieves, pimps—’

‘And prostitutes?’ he said without thinking.

Sofia’s smile disappeared and she looked at him haughtily. ‘No, only criminals. Come, signore, we must go. The professor is waiting.’

‘Oh, but can you not introduce me to one of these gentlemen, before we go?’ James asked, in an effort to return the conversation to its previous levity.

‘I will not. For one thing they have no conversation and for another . . .’ She paused.

‘What?’

‘For another they might lead you astray and we cannot have that!’

‘Do you enjoy your work, Sofia?’

Sofia shrugged and started to walk away. ‘You ask a lot of questions. No wonder the professor likes you!’

James realised that she had no intention of answering him but at least they had spoken, which was a start – but of what, he wondered. Finally Sofia paused at a doorway, knocked and ushered him into a room then left.

It was not the one he had found himself in the day before, although it too had shelves from floor to ceiling, but instead of the various artefacts that he had examined, there were what seemed like hundreds of skulls, staring down at him, each with a label attached.

In the centre of the room was a contraption that in some ways resembled the one he had assisted Professor Lombroso with the day before. This one, however, had no straps. There was a platform in the centre and some dials and metal rulers. James had started to examine it, lifting each piece with care and trying to work out exactly what it was for, when the door opened and Lombroso bounded in. He slapped him on the back with such enthusiasm that he almost lost his footing.

‘Ah, Murray, you have returned. I thought perhaps you might have changed your mind and abandoned us!’

‘Not at all, Professor,’ he replied truthfully. ‘If anything I am even more determined to stay, if you will have me, that is. I wanted to ask you about yesterday—’

‘Young man,’ Lombroso interrupted, ‘I am delighted that you are still wishing to assist me! Welcome to my laboratory.’ He beamed at him and shook his hand energetically.

James was somewhat taken aback. It was almost as if the murder had never happened. He wondered whether to mention it again but decided against it. Clearly Lombroso did not wish to talk about it at present and he was hardly in a position to force the issue. He resolved to bring it up later, perhaps over lunch.

Lombroso guided him towards the door. ‘Now, allow me to show you round properly. I will take you through each room and I hope that by the end of the tour you will have reached a full understanding of what I am trying to achieve.’

James nodded. All doubt finally left him. This was where he was meant to be; he had a purpose, and in order to achieve it he knew that he needed to be single-minded in its pursuit.

He looked over to the contraption that he had begun to examine a few moments before. ‘Could I ask you first, Professor, is that machine a Benedikt craniophore?’

Lombroso smiled at him. ‘It is indeed. I am delighted that you recognise it.’

‘I have only seen drawings before, Professor. Do you use it often?’

‘We do, Murray, we do,’ Lombroso said proudly. ‘In fact I would say that this is perhaps the most significant item in the museum.’ He went over to it and began to stroke it, almost as if it were a family pet. ‘As I expect you know, it is used for holding and orienting skulls in order to measure them. I find it rather difficult to use, like so many other instruments. That is one of the areas in which I am hoping you will be able to assist me.’ He paused for a second and looked dreamily into the distance, a soft smile on his face as if he was remembering something fondly. Then all of a sudden he turned and walked away, beckoning to James to follow. ‘Come, young man, let’s us start our tour. There is much ground to be covered!’

The first room contained a number of oversized models of carnivorous plants and Lombroso took great delight in declaring each and every one of them a murderer. James began to laugh and then, seeing the professor’s serious expression, wished he hadn’t.

‘You see this reprobate here, Murray? This is the drosera. When an insect lands here . . .’ He indicated a small leafy disc. ‘Snap! It is immediately enfolded by these tentacles. They compress the poor creature, sucking the life out of it. Lured by a sweet and honeyed promise and then digested to death – it is not a pleasant way to die. If that is not murder then I do not know what is!’

James frowned. He was not entirely convinced by Lombroso’s argument. ‘Don’t plants eat insects in order to survive, Professor? Is that really murder?’

Lombroso peered at him. ‘Survival may be the motive but the intent to kill is still there.’ James looked at him doubtfully. Undeterred, Lombroso went on to describe further acts of carnage in the animal kingdom. ‘Horses, bulls and deer all fight and kill for control of their group. Humans do just the same to further their ambitions. Gorillas kill any male rivals to ensure that there is only one leader – another very human criminal trait. Murder is rife among animals. Cannibalism seems to be a particular favourite.’

James was still sceptical. ‘So, animals can be guilty of crime, just as humans can? But surely it is in their nature. They know nothing else.’

‘Exactly, Murray, you have the point exactly! It is the same for mankind, or some members of it at any rate. Some are born to crime. They have no choice in the matter. There is no question of free will here. Did you know that in ancient and even medieval times it was common for people to convict and punish animals for their actions? It seems that they were right to do so!’

He beckoned James over to the other side of the room and pointed at a large photograph of what appeared to be a series of portraits of dark-skinned men.

‘These are the faces of savages, Murray, and we must equate their crimes with those of animals. They know no better. Our own criminals are just the same. Both are examples of atavistic man at his worst.’

‘What form does this connection take, Professor?’ James asked.

Lombroso turned and frowned at him. ‘Have you not studied the writings of Mr Darwin, young man? Really, I would have thought that you would have acquired at least a basic knowledge of such matters before coming here.’

James had, of course, despite his religious upbringing. His mother had told him that Christians had been forbidden from defending any scientific opinions that contravened the faith. Before he could protest, Lombroso began to sigh and shake his head sadly, muttering under his breath. Then he began to speak slowly and carefully as if addressing a small child.

‘Our origins are in the animal kingdom. It is hardly a leap of faith to suggest that those humans of a more primitive nature might possess similar criminal tendencies.’

Try as he might James could not let that go. ‘But what of free will, Professor? Surely that is where animals differ?’

‘Free will! Absurd! You have much to learn!’

‘Actually, I think he has a point,’ declared a voice in a soft American drawl.

James turned and saw a man leaning on the doorpost, smoking a cigar. He wore an expensive-looking coat with an astrakhan collar. Everything about him exuded ostentatious wealth. Even his thick dark hair gleamed as if he had been anointed with good fortune. It was brushed back revealing a broad forehead, strangely unlined, almost like that of a child. He looked over to them and smiled, sardonically, as if he despised them. He had sharp teeth and even sharper features, giving him an almost lupine quality. His nose was prominent, almost beak-like, but it was his eyes that James really noticed. They were steely grey, cold, almost lifeless, as if he did not, could not, care about anything or anyone and yet, despite this or perhaps because of it, James could not help but look into them.

Lombroso pursed his lips as the man sauntered into the room and handed James a card. It said,

WALTER B. HORTON

ALIENIST
SAN FRANCISCO

‘Dr Horton is from America,’ said Lombroso in a tone that suggested this explained everything. ‘I thought you were arriving tomorrow, Horton. The debate is not until then.’

‘On the contrary, Professor. I have been sampling the “delights” that Turin has to offer for some weeks now.’

‘Debate?’ James enquired.

‘The professor is crossing swords with DeClichy tomorrow evening, to open the symposium. The motion is “Criminals are born not made.” It’s a sell-out, I understand. Should be a good show!’

‘It is a debate, not a circus,’ Lombroso said icily.

Horton grinned. ‘I could say something about clowns but I won’t.’

‘Dr Horton enjoys arguing for its own sake,’ Lombroso said dismissively.

Horton laughed. ‘What he means is he doesn’t like it when someone dares to disagree with him.’

‘I am more than happy to discuss my theories with equals, Signor Horton, but I do not consider you as such.’

‘What about DeClichy? What do you think about him?’

‘I think he is wrong, as you will find out tomorrow,’ Lombroso said, ‘assuming, that is, that you can keep your own views to yourself long enough to hear those of others.’

‘Well, you know, Professor, I have as much right to an opinion as the next man.’

‘You have bought that right, not earned it.’

‘Maybe so, but you don’t have a monopoly on knowledge. Anyone with a brain can read a book!’

Lombroso sighed impatiently. ‘How can I help you, Dr Horton? I am rather busy showing my new assistant round the museum this morning.’

‘I was just being sociable, paying my respects and all. Don’t mind if I follow you around, do you?’

Lombroso gave a look that made it absolutely clear that he minded very much but Horton had already set off to the next room. The professor sighed with resignation and went after him, again beckoning at James to follow.

‘What have we here?’ Horton asked, giving a low whistle.

‘These are examples of criminal pictography,’ Lombroso replied.

‘He means drawings by criminals – quite common, or so I’ve heard,’ Horton said. James thought that the American had a way of expressing himself that made him sound as if he always knew better.