City of Devils: A Novel (11 page)

Horton looked at him slyly. ‘Come, come now, it’s more than that. What about the murder?’

Lombroso stared at him with ill-disguised dislike. ‘It has nothing whatsoever to do with that!’

‘Murder, what murder? You must tell us, Cesare!’ Borelli said, apparently concerned.

Ottolenghi interceded in an effort to control the conversation. ‘A former subject of the professor’s was unfortunate enough to be the victim of a killer, that’s all. He was a criminal. What happened was hardly surprising, given the company he no doubt kept.’

Horton shook his head. ‘My sources tell me Lombroso’s involvement is rather more than that.’

‘You seem remarkably well informed, Herr Doctor,’ Reiner commented.

Horton tapped the side of his nose conspiratorially.

‘Come on, Horton, you can’t leave it there. What are you insinuating?’ Borelli said.

Horton smirked. ‘I notice that the good professor hasn’t mentioned the bloody note.’

‘A bloody note? Oh, do tell us more, Cesare! It sounds intriguing!’ Madame Tarnovsky said eagerly.

‘What was on the note? How does it connect to you?’ Borelli asked.

There was a pause. Lombroso wore a thunderous expression. He clearly didn’t want to talk about it and yet here he was being forced to discuss it at his own gathering.

Horton interrupted. James noticed that his eyes were glinting with spite. ‘
A Tribute to Lombroso
, that’s what was written on it. Someone obviously wants to impress you!’

‘I really do not wish to discuss it. Let us talk of other matters! Madame Tarnovsky, how is Prague?’

Madame Tarnovsky, apparently sensitive to her host’s discomfort, then proceeded to tell the assembled company of her recent experiments on the city’s prostitutes and female thieves. The way she explained it made it seem entirely natural as a process and her audience was enthralled by what she had to say.

James sensed that Lombroso was relieved that the conversation had moved away from Soldati’s death. Eventually some more of Lombroso’s associates arrived and the party began to separate into small groups. James was asked to go downstairs to the kitchen and tell Sofia to bring more food and wine. Evidently his role as assistant to the professor extended to the domestic. He didn’t really mind. After all, it gave him an ideal excuse to see Sofia again.

When he found Sofia she was baking bread and he looked on from the doorway, entranced, as she expertly kneaded the dough, her body moving sensuously as she did so. She looked up without warning and caught him looking at her. He held her stare and she looked away, smiling as if she was laughing at him.

‘The professor is asking for some more food and wine.’

Sofia nodded. ‘I must finish this first or we will have no bread for the morning.’

‘Then I will wait,’ James said, taking a seat without looking away. Her directness fascinated him.

Sofia smiled at him. ‘You wish to escape? All those fine people in one room – it can be a little overwhelming, perhaps.’

‘Perhaps . . .’ James returned her smile. ‘How long have you been with the professor?’

‘Five years. He saved me. Without him . . .’

She paused in her work and looked into the distance. There was a haunted expression on her face as if she was reliving a part of her past that she would rather forget. James was angry with himself for asking such a crass question.

Suddenly Sofia leaned forwards and grasped his hand. He felt a slight tingle at her touch, as if it was a caress. She looked intently into his eyes. ‘He is good man. You must help him. He needs you.’

‘But I barely know him!’

‘The murder – it hit him hard. I think he is worried that there may be another.’

Just feeling her hand on his had left him almost breathless. He instinctively responded but she pulled away as if he had pricked her with a needle. She looked at him with a steady gaze and went back to her kneading.

‘Another? Why should there be?’

She shrugged. ‘You should ask him.’

‘I want to help him but he won’t talk about it,’ he said.

Sofia looked at him intently as if assessing his worth. ‘You must do what you can. He has enemies. They will use this against him if they can.’

‘You know a lot about his work?’

‘I have eyes and ears. That is enough.’ She wiped her hands on her apron and put a tea towel over the dough. ‘I will fetch some more food from the larder.’

‘I’ll help you.’

Sofia inclined her head slightly in acknowledgement and he followed her through the large wooden door in the corner. She began to load plates and bowls onto a tray. He stood behind her and she turned around suddenly so that they stood face to face. They were so close that he could feel the light touch of her breath on his face. Their eyes met and she gave him that slow half smile as she had done on the first day he saw her. He felt almost overwhelmed by the urge to kiss her.

He knew in his heart that it was wrong. Sofia was his new employer’s servant, which was bad enough. But there was also her background. From what Lombroso had said, she had done only what she had to in order to survive, but still . . . prostitution. He could hardly bear to think of what she must have gone through just to keep body and soul together. Sofia was forbidden to him in so many ways. How could he even begin think of her like that? And yet standing so close to her meant that any self-control he might have had was completely lost. He could not resist her, try as he might. He put his hand up to touch her cheek. She put her hand over his, all the time looking into his eyes and he was lost.

‘Not here . . . not now . . . There are things I must tell you—’

Suddenly she stopped. Someone had come into the kitchen.

‘Sofia?’ It was the maid.

She drew away from him and placed her finger on his lips. ‘Wait,’ she breathed. She lifted a tray of food and made her way past him out of the larder.

‘Would you take this upstairs, Gisella? I will follow with some more wine.’

James peeped round the door and saw the girl leave. Sofia turned and looked intensely at him. ‘Another time . . . soon.’ She picked up a tray of glasses and a carafe of wine and went upstairs.

James leaned against the larder door for a moment, his eyes closed, not wanting to release the memory of her touch.

When he returned upstairs Ottolenghi came over and pulled him to one side. ‘You’ve been a long time,’ he whispered. ‘What were you doing?’

James looked at him and shrugged as if he did not know what he meant. Ottolenghi shook his head at him. ‘Take care, Murray, take care.’

Before James could say anything Horton sauntered over to them. ‘You’re both coming to the debate?’

‘Wouldn’t dream of missing it,’ replied Ottolenghi. ‘Tell me, Horton, do you really believe that the professor is wrong about the criminal type?’

Horton chomped noisily on his cigar, occasionally baring his sharp little teeth. ‘Well, put it like this . . . No one’s right all of the time, are they?’

‘What does that mean?’ James asked.

Horton smirked. ‘You’ll just have to wait and see, won’t you. One thing I can assure you of – the debate won’t be dull!’ He moved away, still smirking.

Ottolenghi looked concerned.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘I don’t know. There’s just something about that man. He’s not to be trusted. I wonder what he’s got up his sleeve. Whatever it is, the professor won’t like it. We’d better be ready for him. One false move and the academic vultures will descend!’

James looked over to Lombroso. He was holding forth to a small crowd of admirers. Borelli stood behind him, a faint smile on his face. Horton stood beside him looking bored. Ottolenghi grinned. ‘He’s telling his skull story again.’

‘What’s that?’

‘He’ll tell you himself soon enough, probably more than once. It is rather a favourite of the professor’s. It’s an account of how he was inspired to develop his theory of the born criminal being a throwback to primitive man.’

James looked over again with fresh interest, listening to the performance.

‘As I looked at this scoundrel’s skull I could see the explanation for the enormous jaws, high cheekbones, prominent superciliary arches, solitary lines in the palms, extreme size of the orbits, handle-shaped ears found in criminals, savages and apes –’ Lombroso used his hands to illustrate his words like an old-fashioned actor miming a performance – insensibility to pain, extremely acute sight, tattooing, excessive idleness, love of orgies, and the irresponsible craving of evil for its own sake, the desire not only to extinguish life in the victim, but to mutilate the corpse, tear its flesh and drink its own blood.’

Then Lombroso stopped and paused, evidently waiting for a reaction. There was a ripple of polite applause led by Madame Tarnovsky and he acknowledged it graciously, although James could see from his expression that he had been hoping for something more. Horton gave one of his audible yawns and Lombroso turned to glare at him. Madame Tarnovsky hastily asked a question and others followed her example and the moment had passed.

James wandered over to Reiner who had been listening to Lombroso’s story from a distance, a wry smile on his face. ‘Have you heard the story before?’ he asked.

Reiner smiled. ‘He may have mentioned it when we last met . . . and the time before . . . and . . .’

‘The time before that?’

‘Indeed, but it bears repetition nonetheless.’

‘Ottolenghi mentioned that you had done some work on criminal vampirism. It sounds intriguing.’

Reiner’s pale eyes lit up. ‘Oh it is, it is. Have you read my monograph on the subject?’

‘No, but I would very much like to.’

‘Then I will send you the details, Herr Dr Murray.’

‘What led you to explore that subject?’

‘Ah, so many things. I was examining
lustmord
.’

‘Lust murder?’

‘Yes, that’s correct. I have been examining the connections between sexual sadism and murder. I came across a number of cases, particularly in Eastern Europe, that featured certain activities involving the corpse after death.’

‘You mean like mutilation, for example?’

‘Yes, up to a point. Some of the activities could be so described.’

‘Fascinating! What kind of mutilations, if I may ask?’

‘Bloody ones, Herr Dr Murray.’

‘Were organs or body parts removed?’

Reiner smiled at him again, though James thought that this time he seemed less sincere. ‘A curious question . . . I fear that you will have to read my paper. I don’t wish to give too much away. Excuse me.’

With that he gave a short bow and moved towards Lombroso who was still holding forth, though to a smaller group.

Borelli came over. ‘Interesting man, Reiner.’

James nodded. ‘I found him so.’

‘Did I hear you mention mutilations?’

‘We were discussing his paper on vampirism.’

‘I see,’ Borelli said, stroking his beard thoughtfully, just as Lombroso did. ‘I really must get hold of a copy. It might come in useful,’ he added, almost as an afterthought, before he too drifted towards Lombroso.

James stared after him. What an eclectic group these men were. They all had the same central interest but came to it from so many angles that one could never become bored in their company. According to Ottolenghi, both Reiner and Borelli were medically trained as well as being experts in the law – just as Lombroso was. He looked again at Reiner and wondered about his interest in post-mortem mutilation. If one encountered that in any other arena it would lead to immediate arrest, but here it was almost run-of-the-mill . . . and yet . . .

It was getting late and after a while people started to leave. Horton made a tremendous fuss because he had mislaid his cigar case. He made a great show of looking for it, insisting loudly that a search was carried out. He had to be placated by Reiner who eventually persuaded him to give up and escorted him out into the night. James suspected that Horton just liked to make a dramatic exit.

Once the last guest had gone, James and Ottolenghi joined Lombroso who sat by the fire, staring into it, deep in repose. They sat opposite him but their presence was barely acknowledged. There was a perfunctory nod but that was all. They sat together in silence for what seemed like hours. This was a different side to Lombroso and James was not entirely sure how to deal with it.

Eventually the tension was broken by Sofia who came in with some coffee. As she served it she looked at James sternly as if willing him to provide some comfort for Lombroso. He wanted to but found it difficult to know how to broach the subject. Recently he had found it difficult enough dealing with his own emotions, let alone those of others.

Suddenly Sofia spoke. Her voice was soft and low. She said little but it was enough. ‘You should talk. It will help.’

‘You are right, Sofia, as always,’ said Lombroso and smiled at her. She gave a dignified little bow and left them. ‘That young woman never fails to surprise me,’ he murmured softly. ‘It is as if she knows exactly what I am thinking.’

‘And what are you thinking, Professor?’ enquired Ottolenghi quickly, taking the opportunity offered to start a conversation.

‘You are anxious, Salvatore. You have no need to be. I am just a little melancholy. A man is dead and apparently he was brought to that state in my name.’

‘But you are not responsible,’ James protested. ‘No one could attach blame to you for this!’

‘I knew him,’ said Lombroso sadly. ‘He had been a subject in one of my experiments. We measured him, we even laughed at him. Do you remember, Salvatore? He was so intent on pretending that this was an everyday thing for him, to have his body measured and recorded.’

‘Some might say that he was just a thief. There won’t be many who will miss him, surely,’ James said.

Lombroso shook his head vehemently. ‘How can you say such a thing? He may have had a family – children, grandchildren, a wife. He had a heart and a soul just like you and me. And someone ripped away his life and said it was done in my name!’ Lombroso looked down at the floor. For a split second James thought that he was weeping and was relieved to see him look up dry-eyed, shaking his head. ‘I fully admit that I do not know how to respond to this. I am at a loss. I have seen and heard much to disturb me in my life; my work has seen to that. But nothing could prepare me for this.’