City of Devils: A Novel (29 page)

‘Murray could not know of this, Professor. It was before he arrived,’ Ottolenghi said, defending him.

‘What was? I don’t understand,’ James asked.

‘It was some work the professor and I were doing a few months ago. We were comparing the characteristics of epileptics and criminals. They share a number of anomalies including—’

‘Overly acute eyesight, dullness of hearing, taste and smell,’ Lombroso interrupted. ‘Yes of course, that’s what I was thinking of, naturally. Still, clever of you to make the connection.’

‘The point is,’ Ottolenghi said patiently, ‘that we made a much fuller list of anomalies for a new edition of the book.’

‘So?’ James thought he knew what was coming.

‘The list includes all of the mutilations we have seen so far – the tongue and nose included – taste and smell.’

‘So this could be a real tribute, then,’ James said.

‘Well, it could be except . . .’ Ottolenghi looked at him, frowning. ‘We had not publicised our findings so how could the killer know what mutilations to conduct?’

‘You are forgetting something,’ Lombroso said. ‘The burglary.’

‘I thought not much was taken,’ James said and then he realised. ‘Except some notes. And the list was among them, I suppose.’

There was a brief silence and then Lombroso stood up and went over to the blackboard. He picked up a cloth, rubbed out some of the scribblings and, taking up the chalk, began to write. When he had finished he turned towards them. ‘This is our true motive. I knew it in my heart but I didn’t want to acknowledge it. Now I think I must.’

He stood aside so that they could read the board. He had written the words,

TRIBUTE = TEST

‘This monster is no admirer of mine and his handiwork is not any kind of tribute. He is using the term ironically. His true motivation is to present me with a challenge.’ Lombroso paused again but this time it did not seem as if it was for mere dramatic effect. ‘This challenge is one I must meet head on or who knows how many more he will kill.’

‘What exactly is the challenge?’ James asked.

‘Why, to catch him, of course,’ Lombroso said. ‘Our killer wishes me to use my skills to track him down.’ He turned towards them. ‘Gentlemen, it is time for the science of Criminal Anthropology to come into its own. Lombroso must act as a detective and hunt this beast down. My theories are to be put to the test.’

15

The seeds of moral insanity and criminality are found in man’s early life
.

Lombroso, 1884 p 188

That evening James left the museum feeling distinctly unsettled. He still could not quite believe in Lombroso’s theory of what was motivating the killer. Why should anyone wish to test him in such a violent way? He simply could not begin to imagine the thought processes of such a person.

He was on his way to see Sofia. It was only a day since he witnessed Lombroso leaving her rooms and there was still some doubt in his mind as to the nature of their relationship. She did not seem to have even a vestige of servility towards her employer. She did as he asked, but in such a way that made it plain it was what she would have done anyway. She was more like a dutiful daughter than a maid or a housekeeper . . . or a wife.

James sighed. He wanted to know more about her relationship with Lombroso – in fact, he
needed
to know. He also wanted to ask about Rosa Bruno and Reiner. But it was plain to him that to confront Sofia would be a mistake. They were not close enough for him to start making demands even though he felt in his heart that he had known her forever. He smiled at his arrogance. As if a woman like Sofia would ever listen to demands. She had a kind of inner strength that he found both enticing and unsettling. He got the feeling that she would always do whatever she thought was best. It seemed to have worked for her up to now, so why should she change?

He walked happily through Turin, smiling at those who passed him on their
passeggiata,
the Italian evening stroll. It was raining, as James had been told it often did in the city, but its baroque architects had thought of that. They had designed magnificent covered walkways and it was possible to walk for miles without getting the slightest bit wet. He thought what a pity it was that Edinburgh did not have the same amenity, given the frequency of rain there. It was dark but the lights from the shops and cafés lit up the way and it seemed almost festive, though Christmas was more than a month away. He felt a pang of guilt. He knew that he really had no right to be so happy when his mentor was in such difficulties, but he couldn’t help himself.

Soon he arrived at Sofia’s rooms and this time he was the only visitor. She smiled her slow, half smile as she greeted him with a candle in her hand and led him up the stairs. Her hair was pulled loosely back from her face and as she turned to look at him for the first time he saw just a hint of fragility in her eyes. But then he remembered what he had seen the night before. Sofia put the candle down and enfolded him in a passionate embrace. Suddenly he felt almost overwhelmed and he found himself drawing back from her. All that was going through his mind was whether the professor had been given the same reception when he visited her.

She broke away and looked at him with a puzzled expression. ‘Your desire has been quick to cool.’

James shook his head but found that he could not meet her gaze.

‘So – now you think you have me and already you are bored. How typical of a man.’ Sofia sighed and turned away from him. He noticed how she emphasised the word ‘think’.

He could see that she had gone to a considerable effort to prepare a meal. There was a white cloth placed carefully over her rickety little table. Cutlery gleamed in the candlelight. He suspected that she had borrowed that from Lombroso’s kitchen for he doubted that she earned enough to own silver such as this. There was a ham and some cheese and a freshly baked loaf. A bowl of figs stood in the middle and there was a carafe of wine, no doubt from Lombroso’s cellar. She had taken such risks just to please him. How could he reproach her for something that might not even have happened?

James went over to her and pulled her to him. She was stiff and unresponsive at first but slowly she relented and allowed him to kiss her. ‘Forgive me. It has been a difficult day.’

‘You are not tired of me?’ she asked, raising her eyebrows.

‘Never! How could any man become so with a woman such as you?’ he murmured.

They kissed again but then James pushed her gently away and held her at arm’s length. He wanted her, it was true, but not like this. She was better than that.

‘
Caro
, what is it?’ she asked.

‘There is no rush,’ he replied. ‘We have the whole night. Why don’t we talk a little? You said you had something to tell me?’

She frowned. ‘Is that the only reason you are here?’

‘No, no,’ he said hastily. ‘You can tell me whatever it is later. I just want to get to know you better. I don’t even know your full name.’

‘My last name is Esposito. It means abandoned. There is nothing more to know.’

James looked at her standing before him, proud and strong, but he knew that behind this façade was a kind of vulnerability that drew him to her. Sofia Esposito . . . even her name sang to him and the sadness of its meaning made it even more poignant. But he could see that she did not understand. He thought that he had gone too far and wondered whether he should pursue this. It occurred to him that she might not be used to love. After all, what did he really know of her past?

He put his arms around her. ‘Forgive me, Sofia Esposito. As I said, it has been a long day and I am tired. That is all there is to it, I promise.’

Sofia smiled at him. ‘I see the professor is working you too hard. I will have to talk to him about that.’ She led him over to the table. ‘Let us eat, have some wine.’

‘Yes, but on one condition,’ James said, pulling her to him.

‘And what is that?’

‘You tell me something – just one memory – from your childhood.’

She shook her head slowly. ‘I have nothing I wish to remember.’

‘Then tell me of something or someone you prefer to forget.’

There was a long pause. Then she looked at him, her eyes half closed as if she was trying to reach a memory. ‘It is difficult,’ she said sadly.

‘I will go first then.’ James was determined to find out more about her past even if it meant probing some of his own dark memories. He wanted to know all that there was to know about Sofia. There seemed to be a bond of sorts between them but they needed to know more about each other – their likes and dislikes, their past memories, good and bad. Their backgrounds were so different, and yet James sensed that they shared something, although he could not say what that was. It seemed to him that exchanging bad experiences could tie them together even more effectively than talking of their better moments. He led her over to the old green sofa that squatted in the corner of the room. They sat side by side. James took her hands and held them gently as he began to talk.

‘For as long as I can remember, I wanted to be like my father. He was a hospital doctor and as a child I used to watch him set off for work with his big leather bag. I longed to go with him and work at his side.’

‘You were lucky to have someone like that,’ sighed Sofia. ‘How I wish . . .’ She stopped and stroked his hand. ‘Go on,
caro
.’

‘He encouraged my interest in medicine. Sometimes, when I was a little older, I was allowed to accompany him on his rounds at the hospital. It was then I learned that he was employed in a mental asylum rather than an ordinary general hospital.’

Sofia shuddered. ‘I have heard of these from the professor. They are terrible places!’

‘Yes. The insane are treated as outcasts and are often housed in filth and squalor. I thought that my father was attempting to change that in some small way because he seemed really to care for his patients. Unlike the other doctors, he would take time to talk to them. At home he would pore over books about their conditions. I remember looking at pictures in them when he had left them open in his study. I could not have been more than about ten years old but I was not afraid. I can see them now – pictures of brains sliced in two and diagrams picking out different sections – like the professor’s phrenology heads.’

‘I do not like to go near those. They look as if they are watching me!’ said Sofia, shuddering again.

‘I found his work fascinating and I decided that I wanted to follow in his footsteps. That is why I studied medicine.’

‘You must miss him very much.’

James looked into her beautiful dark eyes and wondered how much more he could tell her. Should he leave her with the impression that he was a loving son, tragically parted from his idolised parent or could he expose her to the terrible truth about what had happened on that dreadful day?

‘I do miss him, of course, but it is more complicated than that . . .’ He paused, unable, for a moment, to continue.

He heard Sofia sigh as if he had given her his own burden to bear. ‘I understand,
caro
. There is more to tell but you are not ready . . .’

James took her in his arms and held her. He felt understood, somehow, and he knew then that he would be able to tell her everything. The relief was almost overwhelming. He had found it easier to talk of than he had thought. Whether it was because he loved Sofia but did not know her well or because she was part of a different world to the one he had come from, he did not know. But he felt liberated and he wanted more than anything to give Sofia the opportunity to feel the same way.

‘You are right, my love,’ he murmured. ‘But now it is your turn to tell me something of
your
past.’ He felt her stiffen in his arms and then she moved away from him a little as if being close to him might cloud her thoughts. Then she began to speak.

‘No doubt the professor has told you something of my story already,’ she said, in bitter tones. ‘He loves to do that. Sometimes he forgets that I am not an exhibit in his museum.’

James remembered Lombroso telling him of Sofia’s father who had beaten her mother to death. Sofia was right. Lombroso
had
seemed oddly dispassionate, as if she was merely a patient. ‘He told me about your father and what he did. That must have been so hard for you. Did you ever hear from him again?’ James asked.

Sofia narrowed her eyes suspiciously. ‘You ask a lot of questions. I am not one of your case studies.’

‘I know!’

‘Since you ask, I despise my father more as each day passes. He was a drunkard and a thief. The bastard stole my mother from me. She was the only person who ever cared whether I lived or died.’

‘Until now,’ he said gently.

‘Perhaps . . .’

He felt her relax slightly as she fell silent and they sat together quietly, holding tightly on to one another as if doing so would put up a protective barrier against their past lives. James did not know what to say to her but he could sense that something had changed between them. He felt somehow that they were closer, as he had hoped they would be, although he had not expected such extremes of emotion from her. But then it was hardly surprising that she found it difficult to trust people after such a betrayal.