The Strings of Murder (21 page)

A thin, middle-aged man came out to greet us. Dressed in a spotless black suit and walking in a gentlemanly manner, he looked more like the kind of experienced, confident doctor I would have wanted to find in the morgue. His skull was as bald and smooth as a peach, except for dark, neatly combed hair on his temples, and a long, yet very well-trimmed beard.

‘Good day, Mr McGray! I was expecting you.’ He looked down at McGray’s flowers and effeminate gifts. ‘Why, I see you’ll seize the day and pay a visit to Miss McGray too!’

I blinked in puzzlement. Who on earth was Miss McGray?

‘Aye, but we’ll see Mrs Brewster first. Ye ken … business is business. This is Inspector Frey, freshly arrived from London to assist me.’

‘Thomas Clouston, the asylum’s superintendent, at your service,’ he said with a firm handshake. ‘Please, follow me.’

He took us along the asylum’s spacious corridors towards one of the rooms in the West House, which apparently was the side of the building reserved for working-class and pauper patients. Mrs Brewster’s room was on the second level, and when we got there a nurse was leaving with an empty tray.

‘Did she eat well, Cas?’ Dr Clouston asked.

‘Aye, Doctor. But I had to force her a bit. She wouldn’t have the stock. Thank God she’s resting now.’

‘Good work, lass.’

We walked into a small, austere-looking room with just the essentials: a narrow bed, a ewer and a basin, and the smallest cupboard and night table. A bony, elderly woman was sleeping on the bed, her grey hair carefully tied back. Far from being relaxed, her lined face wore a deep frown and she breathed in sharp inhalations. She almost looked as if she were on her deathbed.

McGray leaned over her. ‘Is she unwell?’

‘No, she is sleeping,’ Dr Clouston replied. ‘She sleeps a lot these days, but apparently it is helping her. She still is
deeply unsettled, but her physical health has definitely improved.’

‘How long has she been here?’ I asked.

‘Next week it will be three months, Mr Frey.’

‘Not a terribly long time,’ I said. ‘Considering how long a lunatic can be stranded in these places.’ I noted uncomfortable looks from McGray and Clouston.

‘The symptoms remain the same?’ McGray asked.

‘Yes, Mr McGray. As I told you in my last letter, she is a typical case of general breakdown, although the symptoms have diminished to an extent. During her first weeks she was in a state of constant anxiety; the nurses would find her utterly distressed in the mornings, gazing upwards and clenching the rail of the bed. She manages to sleep now, but as you can see, it is an unquiet slumber.’

‘So … her case is similar to …’

‘Yes, Mr McGray.’

‘Similar to what?’ I asked, but McGray just shrugged.

‘She hasn’t spoken yet?’

‘Unfortunately, not a word yet, Mr McGray.’

I paced around the bed while Dr Clouston continued describing Mrs Brewster’s condition in detail. He was indeed a very professional man.

‘So what is your theory, McGray?’ I asked at the first chance. ‘The woogyman in the cellar? What is there so incredible about an elderly widow collapsing?’

‘There’s nothing in her medical history to hint she’d lose her wits like this,’ McGray said.

Dr Clouston nodded. ‘That is right. Nothing I can trace from her way of life. Her husband was retired, and even though they had little wealth, Mr Brewster had saved
enough to maintain himself and his wife without any privations. I could, however, attribute her state to the strain of losing her husband.’

I lifted my eyebrows. ‘I think we have our answer, McGray.’

He shook his head. ‘Nae, it’s not that simple. She lost her only son many years ago. The laddie was an army cadet in India, only nineteen. Then she lost her parents and three sisters over the years. I think she was prepared to deal with losing a loved one. Besides, that house has a dark history; tragic deaths, one after the other …’

‘It is not the same as facing tragedies when one is young and strong. If, as you said, she had lost all her loved ones, it is not hard to imagine her dismay when her husband, her very last companion, left her.’

‘And how d’ye explain her losing her mind in the exact same room where her husband died?’

‘Why, I do not know! Anything sounds more likely than some ghost scaring this woman’s husband to death … and her to insanity. Shall we go now?’

McGray looked at me with just as much impatience. ‘Is that how youse Southrons work out all yer cases? No wonder Jack the Ripper is still as free as a bird!’ He turned to the doctor. ‘I think there’s not much we can do right now. Dr Clouston, if she ever speaks send someone to fetch me, no matter what time or day.’

‘I will, Mr McGray.’

‘Can ye give her files to Frey? I’d like to have a closer look. Ye ken, when nobody’s rushing.’

‘By all means, I shall fetch them. Will you please wait for me?’

‘Frey can go with ye. In the meantime, I can see Pansy.’

‘Very well, then. Do you want me to walk you to –’

‘Nae, don’t ye worry, I ken the way.’

McGray pulled a couple of roses from the bouquet and laid them on the woman’s night table. Then he left the room quickly.

As Dr Clouston led the way to his office, curiosity finally betrayed me.

‘Doctor, may I ask who is this … Miss McGray?’

He cast me a perplexed look. ‘Has he not told you?’

‘Well, we have not had many chances to chat.’

Dr Clouston took off his spectacles. ‘He is visiting his sister. Miss Amy McGray. He calls her Pansy, like their late parents used to.’

My mouth must have been a perfect O. Until then I had not realized how little I knew about McGray.

‘Well, erm … What is her condition?’

Clouston’s eyes became sombre. ‘General breakdown, like Mrs Brewster, and equally unjustified. One day, without any apparent reason, her mind simply snapped. The one difference is that Miss McGray also had paroxysms of rage.’ He sighed. ‘Poor girl … she has been here for five years.’

‘Five years!’ No wonder McGray had cast me scornful glares when I mocked his flowers and when I remarked how long-lasting mind disorders can be. I cannot express how guilty and embarrassed I felt; I can only say that my cheeks became suddenly hot.

‘Are you well, Inspector?’ Clouston said. To his eyes I had simply blushed without reason.

I shook my head dismissively. ‘Yes, yes. You said five years. Without any improvement at all?’

‘Oh no, she improved tremendously during the first few months. She never had violent fits again, and she doesn’t tap her head against the windows any more. After six months or so she even began to show some occasional lapses into sanity’

‘Oh, really?’

‘Yes – well, petty things to the untrained eye. We have a suicidal lord among our patients, and I encouraged him to read aloud to her. Sometimes she seemed to understand and follow the plots: I once saw her biting her fingernails at the climax of a Wilkie Collins, but I am afraid that is all we will ever get from her.’

Something in Clouston’s manner had changed. The man had talked about Mrs Brewster’s symptoms in a neutral, merely scientific approach, yet he seemed deeply, personally concerned for Miss McGray’s state. He was trying to hide it, but that slight tension in his eyes and jaw simply betrayed him. Years of questioning witnesses and suspects had given me the knack of telling when someone was holding something back, yet at that time I preferred not to question him any further.

Once we arrived at his neat office he gave me a thin file. I went through it quickly and saw that it was a typed copy. ‘I see McGray had already asked you to have a copy ready for him.’

‘Indeed; as soon as he knew about the case. My clerk now keeps track of any new developments and types them with carbon paper so Inspector McGray can have a look too. We used to do the same for his sister up until last year, I think.’

‘Oh, why did you stop?’

Clouston shrugged. ‘There had been nothing new to report for two whole years, so McGray himself decided to put an end to it.’

Two years reading his sister’s medical files without seeing any change … the very thought made me shiver. I walked out of Clouston’s office in a sombre mood, wondering whether my grip on reason would hold if something like this were to befall Elgie …

‘Would you like me to show you the way to Miss McGray’s room? You can wait for your colleague.’

I nodded without paying much attention … All too soon I would regret that.

We were walking silently through the wide corridors of the west wing, when suddenly a horrendous howl echoed behind us. It sounded like the desperate groaning of a gagged man. Clouston turned faster than me, and he was already pulling me aside before I’d even looked.

There was a deranged inmate running along the hall, wearing only a torn nightgown and snarling like a wild animal. He ran past us and I had a glance of appalling, bloodshot eyes, and pieces of torn cloth jutting out of his mouth.

Behind him came three male orderlies screaming frantically. They managed to catch him only a few yards away from us. The man twisted madly and roared so savagely that even I felt disturbed.

As the orderlies dragged him back to his room, one of them pulled repulsive strips of cloth from the man’s mouth.

‘Poor Johnnie,’ said Dr Clouston after a sigh. ‘He suffers from an extreme case of delusion. He believes that there
are foul vapours in the air, which, in his very words, “waste his insides”. He stuffs his nose and mouth with rags or paper to “protect” himself – actually, once he even stuffed his … well, I should not tell you such revolting things. You must excuse me; I become passionate about my job.’

‘You must indeed,’ was all I could say amidst the enraged roaring.

‘Fascinating phenomena, delusions,’ Clouston went on, his enraptured eyes on the patient. ‘I have always wondered how fervently these people must fear or yearn for something … how
desperately
, for their minds to simply crack under the strain.’

‘Let us hope we never find out ourselves,’ I replied.

Just when I was beginning to feel philosophical, the madman got himself loose and ran towards us, charging like a wild buffalo.

The orderlies chased him but caught him one second too late, for the man had gotten close enough to let out a spurt of vomited rags that fell straight onto my trousers.

I do not wish to even recall how repugnant that was for the eyes and the nose. A nurse immediately gave me a clean towel to wipe my suit, and Dr Clouston apologized in every imaginable way. Despite their attentions, my face remained distorted in indignation until we finally arrived at Miss McGray’s bedroom.

‘Well, this is the room, Inspector,’ Clouston told me, still slightly flushed. ‘I must leave you now, but thank you for enduring my chatter.’

‘Not at all, Doctor. I’ll always welcome a civilized conversation.’

Dr Clouston smiled and walked away. I then noticed
that the door to the room was ajar, so I could hear McGray’s voice talking cheerfully. I could not quite make out what he was saying though, for he was displaying his thickest Dundee accent.

I could not help myself and, slowly, stepped towards the door and peeped inside.

The first thing I saw was the bouquet of white roses, now in a crystal vase on a small mahogany table. McGray was seated nearby, on an armchair, his arm stretched beyond my field of vision. I tilted a little and managed to see a second armchair … and a slender girl facing McGray.

Seemingly in her early twenties, she was a
very
pretty sight.

Everything in that face was delicate and demure: the soft line of her jaw, her pointy nose, the smooth skin and the thin lips like those painted on dolls. Her dark hair was held in a neat braid and adorned with tiny white flowers, wavy locks framing her small ears. Wearing a white muslin dress with lace and embroidered trimmings, she did not look like a lunatic at all.

I recognized in her the wide eyes of McGray, with the same shape and thick eyelashes, but instead of blue hers were of the darkest brown, almost black. She was staring hard at nothing, her expression vacant as her pupils scanned the room around her, seeing but not seeing. Still, there was a certain … intensity about her.

Her eyes stopped at some point on the floor and then, in a sharp movement, she lifted her face.

She was looking straight into my eyes … And I found myself unable to look away.

She watched me with a firm, arresting stare and I simply could not take my eyes off hers. Those were not the eyes of a demure girl, but of a turbulent, distressed woman.

She opened her eyes a little more, and I could almost tell that she was about to blush. That hint of a coy face lasted less than a second, for she immediately looked away, turning her head towards the window as unexpectedly as before.

McGray caressed her hands. ‘What is it, Pan?’

He turned around and saw me, and in a blink his face turned red with rage. All sensible words deserted me as I thought McGray was about to strike me down.

‘I-I am sorry!’ I spluttered. ‘I was about to knock but –’

McGray jumped to his feet and slammed the door in my face.