The Strings of Murder (20 page)

‘By all means, Inspector. I like telling that story.’ Caroli cheerfully bit into a slice of bread soaked in olive oil before beginning the tale. ‘Well, Giuseppe Tartini was one of the chief composers of the baroque period. Early eighteenth century, I’m talking about. The man was gifted, but, at least in my opinion, far from being the best of ’is time; ’e began to play the violin at a late age, at about twenty, or so I read, and then spent several years without being very successful. This sonata changed it all, not only because of the music, which is extraordinary by itself, but
also because of the way ’e came to compose it. One night Tartini dreamt that the Devil appeared to ’im and took up ’is violin to play. According to ’im, it was the most intelligent, most beautiful music ever ’eard. When Tartini woke up ’e tried to write it down and then composed the sonata from those notes. Until the day of ’is death Tartini claimed that what ’e wrote is not even a shadow of what the Devil played in ’is dream.’

McGray spoke before I could even scoff at that last remark. ‘But there are other versions of that story, ain’t there?’

‘Oh, yes. The grim one. Some people say that it was not a dream; that Tartini in fact sold ’is soul to the Devil in exchange for the best violin piece ever written. It’s also said that the Devil put a curse in the music itself.’

‘A curse?’ I repeated. ‘What sort of curse?’

‘It’s a curse on anyone attempting to play it. And there is some basis for that belief: the last movement is fiendishly difficult to play, even for the maestros … And also, there are some passages – the Trills – that can give you cramps in the wrist after playing them for a long while. I’ve ’eard of violinists who even damaged the nerves of their ’ands from playing this sonata – and never played again!’

I pondered for a moment. Under any other circumstances I would have thought it an old wives’ tale, but it actually gave some shape to all the tangle of evidence – a morbid shape, in fact. ‘What is your … opinion of those tales, Mr Caroli?’

He started by saying what I was already thinking. ‘Well, you can always believe that Tartini made it all up to give some distinction to ’is music, or that the Devil’s dream
came from a drunken night or terrible indigestion …’ then he showed a hint of a smile. ‘Still, I sometimes want to believe it’s true. The story does ’ave its charm.’

‘Charm!’

‘Yes, Inspector. Well, at least for us violinists. The Devil’s Trill Sonata was the first truly virtuoso piece written for an instrument. See, instrumentation was nothing but an accompaniment for singers before that; very simple and very dull to play. The Devil’s sonata drew attention to the beauty of abstract sounds instead of the words and the voice. Personally, I think it’s exciting to believe that all the rich instrumental music that we ’ave today was triggered by a gift from the Devil.’

McGray and I exchanged puzzled looks. For a moment his eyes flickered, giving away how troubled his thoughts were.

Mrs Caroli noticed it as well and rolled her eyes. ‘You must excuse my husband. All musicians have their share of insanity; it comes with the profession.’

‘Ey!’ Caroli protested, playfully patting his wife’s cheek. By the way they looked at each other I could tell how much he cared for her.

McGray put down his glass of wine. ‘Erm … Mr Caroli, would ye do us another favour? Can ye play a wee bit o’ the piece for us?’

‘Oh, I can’t play the complicated passages without practice; this is one of the most difficult pieces ever composed. But I can try some bars of the first movement, the Larghetto. Let me bring my violin.’

Caroli left the room and Lorena attentively offered us more wine, which I refused.

‘How do you find Edinburgh, Inspector Frey?’ she asked then. Some small talk to show she did not mind my peeping, I supposed.

‘Tolerably well, Mrs Caroli,’ I lied, ‘thank you. Have you been living here for long?’

‘Danilo indeed has – almost seven years now – but not me. My father is a Venetian trader so he splits his time between London and Italy. My sister and I were both born in Venice, but received most of our education in London. I only moved to Scotland after marrying Danilo, a little more than three years ago.’

‘That explains the perfect English that you speak,’ I said.

‘I appreciate it, but I would be a stupid woman if I could not speak properly, after being educated here since I was eleven.’

I winked at McGray. ‘Do you see? Perhaps if we take you to London
now
, in about ten years’ time you will be able to imitate something that resembles actual English.’

‘And maybe if I start kicking yer crotch
now
, I’ll take the dandy jabber outta yer mouth by Christmas time.’

Caroli came back bringing his violin and a music stand on which McGray placed the score. After quickly fine-tuning the instrument, Caroli inhaled deeply and began playing.

After listening for a moment I wondered how anyone could relate that music to the Devil. It was the sweetest melody. Written in a six-eight tempo, it almost felt like a waltz – one-two-three, one-two-three. Beautiful notes moving rhythmically like the gentlest swell, I thought they were exactly what the weeping of a fallen angel must sound like.

‘I’m afraid that’s all I can play.’

McGray assented. ‘That’s all right. Can we borrow the sheets for a wee while?’

‘By all means, if you think they might help you.’

Caroli offered us yet more wine and food, but this time both McGray and I refused. We could have stayed chatting in that house well into the night, such was the Carolis’ hospitality, but the streets were getting dark already, so McGray politely refused.

Before we made our way to the entrance, Mrs Caroli set one of her stiff hands on McGray’s arm. She had an apprehensive look.

‘Aye, Mrs Caroli?’

Lorena bit her lip, but then inhaled deeply and spoke. ‘Inspector, I wanted to … plead with you to do all you can to find the person responsible for Guilleum’s death.’

‘What –’

‘Nobody has told us anything, but everybody knows by now that poor Guilleum was … murdered. Why else would you be questioning people? I am sorry I am so forward, but … oh, he was the most extraordinary man, and I do not say it because of his talents – genius seldom does people any good – but because he was so, so compassionate. He befriended my husband and me … I think he was our only true friend in town; he understood perfectly what it was like to be a foreigner … an outsider … to be different.’ Her eyes were tainted with sorrow, and she looked down. ‘He was an old friend of my father; in fact he was the one who introduced me to Danilo. Oh, poor Guilleum did so much for our families … More than I can say. He did not deserve such an end. Please, bring him justice.’

McGray kindly pressed her hand and gave her a long, reassuring look. ‘We’ll do everything we can, be sure o’ that.’ He smiled at her and then tried to ease the mood. ‘So when do ye expect to deliver?’

I frowned, for in London it is considered terribly inappropriate to ask such questions of a lady. Nevertheless, Mrs Caroli was happy to reply.

‘It could happen any moment now. I am looking forward. This is our first child.’

‘Merry, merry! D’ye have names in mind?’

‘If it is a boy, I was thinking I could call him Giacomo.’

Just as he heard that, Caroli choked and almost spat out the olives he was eating. ‘
Giacomo!
Ma
sei pazza, Lorena?
’

Mrs Caroli blushed visibly, but then went on as if her husband had not spoken. ‘And if it is a girl I would like to call her Lucía, like my late sister.’

Caroli only shook his head. Apparently neither name pleased him much.

Finally they saw us out, and Tucker ran out of the house as one of the servants opened the door. The poor retriever looked relieved as soon as its paws were on the muddy streets.

Caroli said goodbye with another inappropriate hug and then yelled deafening farewells.

‘How annoying these Italians are,’ I spluttered as soon as we were out of their hearing range. ‘They think they can throttle with hugs and suffocate with kisses everyone they stumble across. And do they have to be so unbelievably loud?’

McGray chuckled. ‘Aye, for youse English the Frenchman is a stinky clown, the Scotsman’s a wild dog, the Spaniard’s
a mighty fool, the Italian’s a bandit … Aye, only Englishmen are the pinnacle o’ perfection!’

‘But of course! Why else would God let the English rule an Empire upon which the sun never sets?’

Nine-Nails chuckled with pleasure. ‘Cos even God himself cannae trust leaving an Englishman in the dark.’ McGray looked at his pocket watch. ‘It’s too late to see that Fiddler laddie.’ He shrugged. ‘Nah, we’ll do that tomorrow afternoon.’

‘Afternoon? Do we have something scheduled in the morning?’

To my surprise, McGray did not reply, but simply rode on, pulling his horse a little further away from mine. I would have pressed for an answer, but there was something strange in his sudden silence; he was frowning, with his shoulders slightly hunched and an evident discomfort in his stare. It was as though he had wrapped himself in a bubble I should not even attempt to burst.

17

McGray’s foul mood would take a while to vanish.

The next morning he refused breakfast, even though Joan’s bacon had filled the house with delicious smells. I could not eat much either, for Nine-Nails soon came to rush me. I nearly choked when I saw him: he was wearing a clean shirt (well, cleaner than his usual one) and an overcoat that could almost be described as decent.

‘Get ready, lass,’ he said instead of good morning. ‘It’s late.’

He was carrying some items I would have never associated with him: lavender soaps wrapped in ribbons, a package of whisky fudge and a small bouquet of white roses.

‘Are you taking that for an investigation? And
I
am the lass!’

‘Oh, shut up and move yer royal arse! The coach I called is already waiting.’

‘Coach?’ I asked. ‘The weather is not that bad yet.’

‘Aye, but I don’t fancy riding today. Not to where we’re heading.’

‘Are you at least going to tell me where that is?’

‘Ye’ll see.’

‘
The case of the haunted house!
’ I roared as the coach took us down south across Lothian Road. ‘I cannot believe you! We are in the middle of a case that –’

‘Oh, shut up, ye’ve been whining all the way! I’m sick o’ yer accent! Why do youse Southrons talk as if youse got a piece o’ hot spud in yer mouths?’

I grunted. ‘Do
not
get me started on irritating accents, please!’ I banged my fist on the carriage’s door. ‘I cannot believe your attitude. We have no clear trails on Fontaine’s case so far, yet you decide to wander about Edinburgh. What is there so important in this other case?’

‘A man named Brewster died in that house. He was frightened to death one day in his own cellar, or so the post-mortem suggested. And his wife went mad without explanation, but a few weeks later, in the same room. Nobody in the CID cared about their case. Who would care about an elderly man who died without leaving much wealth? Or his lunatic widow? But those people deserve a proper investigation as much as Fon-teen does.’

Had my entire career not been depending on the success of Fontaine’s case, I perhaps could have agreed with McGray … but not right then.

‘So where is this “haunted house” we are going to?’

‘Up north, just off the Botanical Gardens, but we’re not going there today. We’re going to the Royal Lunatic Asylum, to find out more about Mrs Brewster’s condition.’

‘And I suppose you are taking flowers for the mad lady …’ I said bitterly, glaring at the bouquet and box of sweets McGray was carrying. He went silent in the same odd way he’d done the day before, which made our way all the more uncomfortable.

The ride took us a good while, for the Royal Lunatic Asylum was at the southernmost edge of Edinburgh. We crossed Castle Rock, the Old Town, a huge green area
imaginatively called The Moors, and kept going south until the neighbourhood of Morningside. For the rest of the ride I remained silent, arms crossed and frowning, hating every minute I wasted with such nonsense.

Finally, when my bad temper was reaching its peak, the carriage descended beside a bright green lawn towards the asylum, which turned out to be the complete opposite of what I expected.

Most asylums I’d had the chance to see (because of my profession) were filthy gutters; museums of madness. Basically, places to dump the lunatics somewhere to keep them out of sight. Edinburgh’s asylum, in contrast, was a wide, very pretty building with brown sandstone walls and many chimneys. The driver took us around it and I saw nothing but lawns: very well-kept gardens with some pine trees and oaks and birches, and a good number of benches evenly distributed. A few patients were pacing about while some male nurses looked after them.

The carriage stopped by the main entrance and when the horses’ hoof beats died out, the most peaceful silence came to my ears; only the soft wind, birds twittering and the very occasional voice of a lunatic or a nurse. Even to me, that garden felt like a nice place to have a pleasant read.