The Strings of Murder

Oscar De Muriel

THE STRINGS OF MURDER

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Author’s Note

Epilogue

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THE STRINGS OF MURDER

Oscar de Muriel was born in Mexico City and moved to the UK to complete his PhD. He is a violinist, translator, chemist and author who now lives in Lancashire.

The first one is for the Torcacitas

Oh, that I could find myself for one short day a partaker of the secret arts of the Gods, a God myself, in the sight and hearing of enraptured humanity; and, having learned the mystery of the lyre of Orpheus, or secured within my violin a siren, thereby benefit mortals to my own glory!

Madame Blavatsky,
Nightmare Tales

Prologue

23 June 1883

Dr Clouston could barely keep himself on the seat. The wheels of his carriage kept cracking over humps and puddles, breaking the night’s silence as they rode frantically towards Dundee.

Throughout the journey he’d been bouncing and banging his head against the carriage’s roof. However, the physical discomfort was nothing compared to his state of mind; the news he’d received was too dreadful, too monstrous to sink in, and Clouston struggled to keep the faintest spark of hope.

All he had read, he told himself, was a hasty telegram sent by the servant, and old George had always been prone to overreact. He searched his breast pocket and reached for the crumpled note; only a few smudgy lines, but they included the words
berserk
,
suddenly
,
dead
, and the names of every single member of the McGray family. How could such a little piece of paper carry such a horrifying message?

Clouston shuddered again. In vain he tried to divert his mind by looking through the windows, but the sky was shrouded with thick clouds that made the road dark like an endless abyss. In the last hours of the trip, he even found it preferable to focus his thoughts on the stumbling of the carriage and the slight nausea that it gave him.

At last, when he felt like he’d been travelling for ever, he saw the broad country house emerge. The early summer dawn was already throwing its first rays over the fields, but it was still dark enough for Clouston to see the dim glow of a fire through one of the house’s windows.

The carriage had barely stopped when Clouston kicked the door open himself and jumped onto the muddy ground. The horses were neighing and snorting; that and the rattle of the hooves were the only sounds he could hear.

‘What a cheerful sight,’ he muttered. Thomas Clouston was a sturdy middle-aged man; for ten years he had been Physician Superintendent at Edinburgh’s Royal Lunatic Asylum, and the post was not for the faint hearted.

He walked briskly towards the house and almost immediately somebody slammed the front door open. Two figures came out to greet him, and he instantly recognized the only servants who joined the McGrays on their summer trips: George and Betsy, both aged and hardened by the country work.

Their faces were lit by a single candle that the hunchbacked Betsy held with a steady hand. Once he drew closer, Clouston saw the hot wax dripping on her bare fingers.

‘Good heavens, use a candle holder!’

‘ ’Tis all right, sir,’ she replied with her thick Scottish accent.

‘So good ye came, sir!’ George said. There were swollen bags under his eyes and his thin grey hair was a mess. ‘We didn’t expect ye so soon. God bless! Do come in …’

In fact, Clouston had not stopped at all and was already past the doorframe. ‘Where are they?’ he urged.

The icy, darkened hall made him think of a crypt. Only a faint light came from the adjacent parlour, which was the one lit room Clouston had seen from the road. The door was ajar.

‘We’re keepin’ them there,’ George said in a whisper, as if he were afraid of waking
them
up.

Clouston gulped as Betsy slowly pushed the squeaking door and led him in. He saw that just one log burned pathetically in the fireplace, casting trembling shadows all around … and then his heart skipped a beat.

Right in front of the fire, silhouetted against the weak glow, there were two wooden coffins.

‘Oh, my Lord …’ Clouston let out. He drew closer with faltering feet, a chilling fear expanding in his chest.

Only when he peered over the open coffins did he believe what George had told him. The sight was so appalling that Clouston instinctively covered his mouth, repressing a sudden retch. For a moment his mind went blank, trying desperately to take in what he was seeing.

‘So – when did – did it happen?’ he finally uttered. It was hard to speak with that painful lump in his throat.

‘Last night,’ George said, his voice almost a moan. ‘The undertaker got ’em ready two, three hours ago.’

Clouston nodded and took a deep breath. That always helped him. ‘Was it you who sent for the undertaker?’

‘Nae. The boy Adolphus did,’ George replied, swiftly wiping the tears he could not repress any more. ‘Och! The poor laddie … Dunno where he got the strength from; he called the undertaker, sorted out all the papers … he even bandaged himself after –’

Then George shuddered visibly and said no more.

‘He’s resting now,’ Betsy added, ‘if ye can call it rest …’

‘I need to see him,’ Clouston said promptly, and George and Betsy led him to a nearby studio – the one that had belonged to the now deceased father, James McGray.

Slowly, George opened the door, trying not to disturb his young master, and Betsy walked in bringing the candle – she had just stuck it in a filthy saucer. Clouston snatched the light from her and walked ahead with careful steps.

His heart sank even deeper as soon as he saw the miserable young man resting on a ragged couch. The tall, brawny son of the McGrays lay there looking as though he was also dead: his cheeks were ghastly pale and the rings around his eyes were almost as red as a wound. Young Adolphus inhaled in deep, painful breaths, and his pupils stirred madly under his eyelids. Occasionally, his chin and hands would jump in small spasms. Clouston had seen that sort of troubled slumber in more patients than he could remember, but he had not even dreamt he’d ever see McGray’s son, otherwise handsome and cheerful, thus broken.

‘I don’t think he’ll manage to sleep well ever again …’ Clouston whispered. ‘I do hope I’m wrong …’

Adolphus’s hand had another spasm and then Clouston saw the bulky bandaging around it. He drew the candle nearer to find that the material was damp and stained, a dark spot of half-dried blood spreading on one end. It looked as though Adolphus had helped to carry the coffins himself.

‘You need to change his bandaging,’ Clouston snapped.

‘Och, I’d rather not, sir,’ Betsy said quickly. ‘The poor laddie’s not slept since it all happened. Only when the boxes arrived he dropped here –’

‘Good woman, he needs clean bandages! The last thing your chap wants now is an infected hand!’

Betsy curtsied clumsily and left the room, groping about to find her way in the darkness. Clouston turned to George and asked the question whose answer he dreaded the most:

‘Where is the girl?’

The butler’s face lost what little colour it had left. ‘We … we had to lock ’er up, Doctor. She’s gone completely berserk!’

Clouston patted the man’s shoulder. ‘Do not feel guilty. You did what you had to.’

‘But, sir …’ George began weeping miserably, this time quivering from head to toe. The wrinkles in his face looked sore from frowning. ‘Miss McGray! Our Miss McGray! Our wee lass …’

Betsy returned, bringing clean bandages and shedding copious tears. She hurried towards Adolphus, trying to conceal her grief.