City of Devils: A Novel (50 page)

Once criminals have experienced the terrible pleasure of blood, violence becomes an uncontrollable addiction.

Lombroso, 1876 p 66

A few days after Borelli had plunged to his death, Lombroso invited all those involved in the case to dine at his home in the Via Legnano. It was by no means a celebration, simply a way of drawing a line under the whole affair and, unsurprisingly given the circumstances, it was a rather subdued occasion. The one piece of good news was that Ratti had unexpectedly survived, regaining consciousness in time to identify the killer. Machinetti had gone to Lombroso’s home to warn him and, on finding Borelli’s letter, made his way to La Mole. No doubt an interview with Ratti penned by Baldovino would soon appear in the
People’s Voice
– ‘The Last Survivor Tells His Story!’ or some such nonsense.

For James, the occasion was decidedly bittersweet. He had received a letter from his aunt that morning, curtly informing him that his father’s health had deteriorated and that he must return to Edinburgh immediately. Lucy had also written to him, begging him to come back. It was a blow. For many reasons he had hoped to stay longer but he knew that he had no choice in the matter. Lucy needed him and that was all there was to it.

He looked round at his dinner companions as they sat and discussed every other subject except the one that was on all of their minds. Lombroso had, presumably in an effort to keep his enemies as close to him as his friends, invited both Father Vincenzo and Gemelli. They spoke quietly to each other about some lecture or other that was being organised. Ottolenghi and Tullio were chatting about scientific policing and its possibilities, a subject that James had mixed feelings about, given the way his own efforts had been manipulated by Borelli. Lombroso and Madame Tarnovsky were talking animatedly about a research project on female offenders that they were planning.

It was odd, James thought to himself. He had come here to find out whether or not he could have inherited his father’s criminality. Now he was not sure whether the man he had intended to consult could actually give him a conclusive answer. Lombroso had seemed so sure of his theories and indeed, nothing appeared to have changed, judging from the plans he was making with Madame Tarnovsky. But surely Borelli’s actions must have made him wonder why he hadn’t at least suspected him?

Finally, as port and cigars were provided, it seemed that James might be about to find out as the conversation at last turned to Borelli’s murders.

‘I presume that the final victim was an accomplice. What was his name?’ Father Vincenzo asked.

‘Vilella,’ replied Lombroso, sighing slightly. ‘Yes, he was an accomplice. He was also Sofia’s father and her mother’s killer and he had been taking money from her for years in return for staying away. Borelli found out and blackmailed Vilella into helping with the more physical aspects of the killings, although I suspect, from what I know of him, that he was a more than willing assistant. And Borelli also blackmailed Sofia.’

He looked over to James, who nodded in acknowledgement. Clearly Sofia had had little choice but to accept Borelli as a ‘client’. She had lied, but only because she had been forced to do so.

‘What of the woman, Rosa Bruno?’ Gemelli asked. ‘Did Borelli kill her?’

‘Rosa Bruno knew that Vilella was Sofia’s father. I believe she wanted to tell us in order to protect her,’ Ottolenghi suggested. ‘Borelli couldn’t risk Rosa telling us in case we made the connection between him and Vilella and the murders so he murdered her and later tried to kill Sofia. He denied killing Rosa – but why should we believe him? After all, she was a criminal, according to him.’

‘I don’t think that is why Rosa was killed,’ James said quietly.

‘The whys and wherefores are not really the point,’ Madame Tarnovsky declared. ‘The important thing is surely that a murderer has been stopped from killing again.’

‘So, Lombroso, was it really your evidence that convicted Borelli’s brother?’ Gemelli asked.

‘Only in his own mind,’ Lombroso replied, tersely. ‘There was circumstantial evidence as well.’

‘But in the end you were mistaken in your conclusions, Professor, were you not?’ Father Vincenzo added with a thin smile. ‘The brother was innocent. Borelli himself was the killer.’

‘Which of us here can say that we have never made an error in our work, I wonder?’ Madame Tarnovsky said, as ever the peacemaker.

‘I acted in good faith,’ Lombroso said. ‘I believed that I was right.’

‘Hubris and folly! Did I not warn you that your work was dangerous and yet you did not listen?’ Father Vincenzo said, warming to his theme.

‘Indeed, and I am sure that you will accept that caution should be your watch word from now on, Lombroso,’ Gemelli said with a sneer. ‘The university will expect nothing less.’

James thought that Lombroso would fight back at this point, since Gemelli had taken every opportunity to bring him down over the past few weeks. But he seemed strangely disinclined to do so. Instead he sipped at his cognac and remained silent. James could not let him accept this criticism so readily.

‘Professor Gemelli, with respect, you are conveniently ignoring the fact that Professor Lombroso was right about a number of things,’ he said.

‘And what, pray, were those?’ Father Vincenzo asked.

‘The characteristics displayed by the killer were just as he said – a fully functioning member of society motivated by intense hatred, a man with two faces, apparently normal and probably rather charming but with a dark side that allows him to commit his crimes without compunction. That is Borelli to a tee!’

‘Dr Murray is right,’ Madame Tarnovsky said. ‘You must surely accept that, gentlemen.’

There was a long silence.

‘We still do not know who killed DeClichy,’ Tullio said.

‘I thought it was Borelli?’ Gemelli said.

‘Borelli claimed otherwise. He said that he killed only criminals,’ Ottolenghi said.

There was a pause and then Father Vincenzo reached into his jacket pocket and produced a thick envelope which he placed on the table.

‘I was going to give this to you privately, Lombroso, but I think perhaps that you should see it now,’ he said.

Lombroso picked it up and opened it, emptying the contents onto the table. They leant forwards as one to see what was there. There were some yellowing newspaper cuttings, some scribbled notes and an old photograph.

‘What is this? Where did you get it?’ Lombroso asked Father Vincenzo.

‘DeClichy gave it to me. He asked me to give it you in the event of his death.’

‘And you kept hold of it until now?’ Tullio said, incredulously. ‘Why did you not bring it to our attention?’

‘It was given to me in confidence and I promised to give it to Lombroso,’ replied Father Vincenzo.

‘But why did you not give it to me earlier?’ the professor asked.

Father Vincenzo shook his head. ‘I was with you when we found out that DeClichy had died. I almost gave it to you then but—’

‘But you thought that I may have been involved in his death, didn’t you?’ Lombroso asked.

Father Vincenzo nodded. ‘I could not risk it until I knew for sure that you were innocent.’

Lombroso looked at him with contempt and began to examine the contents of the envelope, beckoning Ottolenghi, Tullio and James to join him. The cuttings were from various local newspapers in American cities and James realised that they must have been the ones removed from the volumes he had inspected in the library.

‘What is it, Murray?’ Lombroso asked.

‘I was in the library shortly after DeClichy. I looked at the volumes he’d been examining and some of the pages had been ripped out. I thought it might have been Horton trying to stop us from finding out that he was not a real academic – which is what I suspected. I didn’t think DeClichy would have done such a thing. If I had realised—’

‘Never mind that,’ Lombroso said briskly. ‘Can you translate the gist of these cuttings?’

James nodded and read through them quickly. ‘As far as I can see they are all accounts of unsolved murders,’ he said. ‘The victims are not of one type but the attacks seem to have one thing in common.’

‘Let me guess,’ said Lombroso. ‘They all involved some kind of botched surgical procedure.’

‘Indeed. The considered opinion in each case was that they were the work of a surgeon or doctor. Organs were removed in each case and left arranged on the body . . . Dr Death!’

‘What do you mean, Murray?’ Lombroso asked.

‘DeClichy left some notes behind. They were just squiggles, mostly, but he had written Dr Death at the top of the page. That must have been what he meant.’

‘These mutilations are not unlike the work of Borelli,’ Ottolenghi said.

‘Mmm, similar but not the same,’ Lombroso said. ‘Borelli removed body parts, not organs.’

‘Like Rosa Bruno and DeClichy,’ Gemelli said.

Lombroso looked at him thoughtfully. ‘Borelli did say that he had not killed Bruno.’

‘There is another similarity to our case,’ Father Vincenzo said. ‘One of the articles is an editorial. It describes a letter that has been received by one of the newspaper’s reporters from someone claiming to be a murderer.’

‘Borelli wrote only to me, or so he said,’ Lombroso said. ‘The letters to the
People’s Voice
were the work of someone else.’

‘So who
did
write those letters?’ Madame Tarnovsky asked. ‘Was it Horton? It’s just the sort of mischief he would find amusing.’

‘No, it was Baldovino,’ Tullio told them. ‘After all, what better way could there be to sell newspapers and raise his own profile in the process? He has confessed everything.’

‘So after all that the letters were not real!’ James exclaimed.

‘The letters sent to the
People’s Voice
were forged, yes, and, as he said, Borelli took advantage of the fact and decided to adopt the persona created for him,’ said Lombroso. ‘But the letter sent to me personally was genuine.’

‘A wonder you did not realise who sent it then,’ Father Vincenzo commented.

‘So there never was a real Pilgrim . . .’ James said.

‘Indeed not.’

‘And what of Baldovino?’ Madame Tarnovsky asked.

‘Currently in custody helping us with our enquiries – which could take some time,’ Tullio said, grinning. He turned to James. ‘He had, by the way, been following you around the city in the vain hope that you might provide him with some information.’

‘Was it him in La Capra and the tunnels?’ James asked.

‘We think it may have been, although he has not told us so,’ Tullio replied.

‘He probably stumbled on the body of Rosa Bruno which rattled him so much he ran away. Alternatively, it could have been Vilella, laying a false trail for his master,’ Lombroso said. ‘Vilella almost certainly carved the Devil’s sign in La Capra and I think it is likely that Borelli realised that a fellow murderer was visiting the city because criminals tend to recognise their own type. And it may be that he encountered him during his travels abroad. At any rate, he took the opportunity to use him to confuse us still further.’

‘Do DeClichy’s notes help us?’ Ottolenghi asked.

‘A little, although I can’t quite decipher all of them,’ Tullio said. ‘There’s no name but I see he has put some initials in red. It looks as if DeClichy followed someone here because these enquiries seem to date back several months.’

‘What about the photograph?’ Madame Tarnovsky asked.

‘Of course,’ Lombroso said. ‘How could I not have seen it? I think DeClichy was looking at it when we were at the prison.’

Lombroso held it up. It looked to be of a unit of soldiers from the American Civil War. An arrow pointed to one of the party sitting at the front.

‘There is writing on the back,’ Lombroso said.

‘What does it say?’ Tullio asked.

‘Dr Death,’ he replied. ‘Just as it said on the note you found in the library, Murray. And then WBH – San Francisco.’

There was a silence as they took in this information and tried to work out its meaning. Finally Lombroso spoke.

‘If you read these notes in conjunction with the rest then I think we can see exactly what happened to poor DeClichy and who was responsible.’ He turned to James. ‘I think you know, Murray.’

James nodded. ‘Horton killed him,’ he said firmly.

‘Of course!’ Madame Tarnovsky said. ‘Walter Beresford Horton – WBH.’

‘Why would he do that?’ Father Vincenzo asked, puzzled.

‘Thanks to your own folly and hubris we may never know for sure,’ Lombroso said gravely and Father Vincenzo blushed. ‘But it looks as if Horton killed DeClichy because he feared his true identity was about to be revealed. He took the opportunity provided by Borelli’s slaughter to disguise his own crime, although of course he failed.’

‘How?’ Father Vincenzo asked.

‘He did not know that Borelli had left a signature behind on his victims,’ Tullio said.

‘Indeed,’ Lombroso said. ‘Borelli left a rudimentary carving of an inverted cross, the devil’s sign, on each body. There was no such mark on DeClichy.’

‘Or on Rosa Bruno,’ James added.

‘Yes,’ Lombroso said. ‘It seems that Horton may have murdered her too.’

‘But why?’ James asked. ‘And what did DeClichy discover that made Horton kill him?’

Lombroso held up the notes which he had been reading throughout the discussion. ‘DeClichy started his investigation at Horton’s asylum where, he suggests, there have been a number of suspicious deaths amongst the inmates. On following up his enquiries he discovered that Horton was not his real name. He is in fact a man named Beresford, an exarmy doctor who began his career by performing unnecessary procedures on his unfortunate patients. He discovered he was suspected of malpractice and made his escape, but his appetite for blood had been whetted so he then began a murder spree across America. DeClichy seems to think that he became concerned that he was being followed. To avoid detection he reinvented himself as Horton and founded his asylum as a cover for his activities. He killed because he enjoyed it . . .’

Gemelli shuddered. ‘What kind of a criminal is that?’

‘A born criminal,’ Lombroso replied. ‘A person who is born as a homicidal monomaniac whose instinct is to kill. When he does so, then his intellectual and moral powers are suspended.’