City of Devils: A Novel (15 page)

‘It seems that we’re on to something,’ Tullio pondered, ‘or why else would he run?’

‘I agree. Perhaps the old woman will be able to tell us more this evening,’ Ottolenghi said, still breathing heavily.

‘Indeed. Let us hope so. In any event I had better go before I am missed.’

Ottolenghi nodded. ‘We should go as well. The professor will be wondering where we’ve got to.’

Reluctantly they parted, having arranged to meet at La Capra that evening. As James wandered back to the museum he thought how comforting it was not to be alone in this. Between the three of them maybe they really would hunt the killer down. Then perhaps his real Turin adventure could truly begin.

7

I would not dream of detaining for life anyone with abnormal features until he is accused and convicted by the courts . . . To claim that criminal anthropology threatens individual liberty is as absurd as concluding that when you add two numbers, the result is a lesser rather than greater sum.

Lombroso, 1889 p 235

Later that afternoon James arrived at the university’s Great Hall ready to experience the opening of the symposium. Ottolenghi had told him who would be speaking over the next few days and it was an impressive list. His father had introduced him to the works of many of them and they had discussed some of their theories in detail.

James had inherited from his father a fascination with the workings of the human mind, particularly in relation to criminality. He remembered sitting with him in his study, happy and excited as they talked about his work. His father would tell him about the different areas of the brain and what damage to them might mean. James had been particularly fascinated by the story of Phineas Gage, a man who had miraculously survived an horrific accident whilst working on the railways in America. A large iron crowbar was driven completely through his head, destroying the area at the front of his brain known as the left frontal lobe. This was the first recorded case where the personality had changed and the man was transformed from being a shrewd and energetic person into a capricious, almost childlike character with an impulsive streak and a tendency to swear. According to the attending physician Gage had vomited and half a teacupful of his brain fell onto the floor.

James remembered the relish with which this story and others were told. ‘What secrets might we find in a criminal brain?’ his father had said. ‘If we can find and unlock them, then who knows what we can achieve!’

‘How can we do that?’ James had asked.

‘By looking at the brains themselves. There’s a man who has done just that.’ Then he had told him about Moriz Benedikt who dissected the brains of executed criminals to see if they differed from those of law-abiding men. He had found this idea at once both fascinating and repellent, even more so when his father’s obsession with the subject had led to tragedy and so turned James’s interest into a personal crusade. But for now, he was still a student, looking forward to seeing in the flesh those whom he had, up till now, only admired from a distance.

James entered the hall with some trepidation and immediately began to wish that he had arranged to meet Ottolenghi outside. The room was enormous, wood panelled and hung with portraits of bewigged luminaries from centuries gone by, none of whom he recognised. They stared at him sternly from the confines of their gilt frames as if challenging his right to be in their august presence.

There was a platform at one end, clearly set out for the debate, with rows of seating in front of it. The room was full of serious-looking men, soberly dressed for the most part, with the odd splash of colour from a fancy waistcoat or a cravat, sported, no doubt, to mark the wearer out as an eccentric. They stood about in groups talking earnestly. There was much gesticulation and even some raised voices, perhaps a result of the glasses of what looked like sherry being respectfully distributed by uniformed waiters. James could see Lombroso standing near the platform listening intently to Oskar Reiner whose words were illustrated by small precise hand movements as if was dissecting a body. Borelli stood with them. He saw a flash of bright colour in the distance; Anna Tarnovsky, looking resplendent in a fine purple gown. Her work was renowned and she was surrounded by a group of male admirers who were hanging on her every word. He considered going over to join them but thought the better of it as it meant pushing past the crowds. He felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to see Ottolenghi grinning at him.

‘What do you think?’

‘I wonder how much of the conversation is about criminal anthropology.’

‘Well, not all of it, I think you’ll find.’

‘I’m not surprised,’ James said as looked at the throng. ‘Dr Bell was always complaining about his colleagues gossiping. It used to drive him mad.’

‘Ah, well it’s no different here,’ Ottolenghi replied. ‘Come with me and you’ll soon see what I mean.’

As James followed him slowly through the crowds towards the row of seats in front of the platform he could hear snatches of conversations.

‘He’s nothing more than a bully. I told him straight – you don’t intimidate me, Professor.’

‘They spend far too much time together. It’s not good for the faculty.’

‘He only got the position because he knows the Duke.’

‘Have you heard about Danillo – he claimed he had written the whole thing, when I know for a fact he only contributed a couple of lines!’

‘That man is intellectually dishonest! He cannot prove a single thing he has written using the proper scientific method, so he falls back on anecdotes and flimflam.’

‘I’ve told him a thousand times – your sample has to be pure. Yet he just ignores me as if I don’t know what I’m talking about. It’s too much, it really is.’

Eventually they reached the first row of the seating and Ottolenghi turned to him triumphantly. ‘There! We’re guaranteed decent seats now.’

James laughed. ‘It’s interesting, isn’t it? Here are some of the finest minds in Europe all gathered together and all they do is gossip.’

Ottolenghi grinned at him wryly. ‘They may have fine minds but they’re academics. Gossip is their life blood – and the professor is no different.’

He indicated behind him to Lombroso who was listening intently as someone whispered in his ear. A smile spread its way over his face and he looked over towards DeClichy with narrowed eyes. No one, it seemed, was immune. Suddenly Ottolenghi nudged him and pointed at a small, rotund-looking man with a carefully waxed moustache who was making his way towards the stage.

‘That’s Professor Arturo Gemelli, dean of the faculty. He’s going to introduce the debate.’

James looked at Gemelli’s surly expression. ‘He doesn’t look particularly pleased about it.’

‘Well, he wouldn’t be. He envies the professor’s success and has been trying to halt his work ever since he took over. He thinks it’s frivolous at best and, at worst, positively blasphemous.’

‘That’s interesting,’ James said. ‘I can understand if people are sceptical, that is part of any scientific endeavour. But blasphemous? That’s going too far, surely.’

Ottolenghi grinned at his reaction. ‘Gemelli is a Catholic – his cousin is a cardinal who is well known for his opposition to criminal anthropology. Welcome to the new kingdom of Italy, my friend! Here the Church is everything – or thinks it is at least.’

James was going to ask him to expand when the crowd started to fall silent and people made their way to the seating area. Ottolenghi motioned towards him to sit. The debate was about to begin. He saw Lombroso and DeClichy walk onto the stage and take their places and felt as nervous as if he was about to speak himself. He could feel the tension coming from Lombroso who looked pale and strained.

‘Is the professor all right?’ he asked Ottolenghi.

Ottolenghi nodded. ‘Don’t worry. He’s usually like this before he starts speaking. He’s used to it. He always plays to packed houses.’

‘Aren’t some of his critics in the audience, though?’

‘Yes, but that won’t trouble him. The professor is famous for his showmanship, so a little heckling won’t faze him.’

‘Heckling?’

‘Passions run high here. We’ve even had one or two fist fights among the younger crowd.’

James thought back to Dr Bell’s lectures and considered the similarities between the two men. Both, it seemed to him, had a sense of drama, although proceedings were more subdued at home. No fist fights there, just a few raised voices. He looked around him. The sense of eager anticipation was palpable. The audience continued to murmur and whisper among themselves until finally Professor Gemelli held up his hands to quieten them.

‘Gentlemen, honoured guests – welcome to Turin. This afternoon we are to hear from Professor Lombroso and Dr DeClichy on the subject of the born criminal.’ Gemelli paused and frowned. There was some urgent sounding coughing coming from behind a velvet curtain at the side of the platform. Lombroso got up and whispered in Gemelli’s ear. Gemelli scowled back at him. ‘Apparently the debate is to be chaired by a special delegate.’ He spat out the last two words as if they were morsels of food that disagreed with him. His face was a study of resentment as he turned and flounced off the stage. The murmuring began again. Suddenly a tall, imposing figure with an untidy dark beard and intense dark eyes emerged from behind the curtain. Ottolenghi looked surprised and leant over to whisper in James ear. ‘Borelli didn’t say that he would be chairing.’

James looked at Borelli with renewed interest. He wondered why he had not mentioned his participation.

‘Gentlemen – and Madame,’ Borelli began, nodding briefly at Madame Tarnovsky, the only woman in the room, ‘let us begin the debate. The motion is a simple one: “Criminals are born not made.” To speak in favour of the motion we will hear from the distinguished gentleman on my right, Professor Cesare Lombroso, and to speak against, an equally distinguished delegate, Dr DeClichy.’

Lombroso rose and bowed slightly before going over to a lectern in the centre of the platform. ‘The first thing I must tell you is that I cannot speak in favour of this motion.’ This was met with a stunned silence. James looked at Ottolenghi who had put his hand over his lower face. Horton, sitting near them, was frowning.

Lombroso smiled slowly. ‘Well, not entirely . . .’

‘About time,’ shouted a voice from the back of the room. ‘Hear, hear! What about poverty?’ said another. James saw DeClichy nodding vigorously. Ottolenghi nudged him. ‘What did I tell you?’

Lombroso stood and stared at them, stroking his beard and nodding, as if contemplating what they had said. ‘Of course one cannot rule out such matters but to my mind they are not as potent as heredity.’

Some chattering began from the floor. It seemed as if Lombroso had lost his audience. James looked around him and noticed Horton beaming. Then Borelli got up and held up his arms to hush them. The room became quiet as if he had cast a spell over it.

‘Gentlemen, gentlemen – this is a serious debate, not a fairground.’

Lombroso began to speak again.

‘It is always interesting to hear critiques even when they are . . . well, let us just say: misguided. However, they cannot be ignored. And that is why I have altered my view slightly . . .
very
slightly.’

There was muted laughter from the audience and some people began to clap. Ottolenghi removed his hand. He was grinning behind it and had been all along. Presumably he had been forewarned.

Lombroso held up his hand and the audience fell silent again. ‘Allow me to explain. Had the motion said
some
criminals are born not made then I could agree most heartily.’ This was greeted by murmurings of comprehension. Lombroso continued, ‘Therefore, for the purposes of this afternoon, and in order to give Dr DeClichy something to shout about, I will assume that the motion says just that.’ DeClichy smiled thinly. James could see that he had been taken by surprise and was less than happy.

‘It is quite true that, when I began my researches into the nature of the criminal, I firmly believed
all
were born that way and could be detected by physical abnormalities or anomalies. But what kind of scientist would I be if my mind could not be changed by the evidence of my own eyes?’

There were noises of approval coming from the audience. The one or two voices of dissent were immediately hushed. Lombroso seemed to have everyone in the palm of his hand.

‘My adversaries, and there are many, usually from elsewhere,’ he looked sternly towards DeClichy, ‘often complain that the rates of anomalies vary too much to advance a claim that all criminals are born so.’ He paused for effect. ‘And may I say that I quite agree. But we must remember that real life, in all of its glorious confusion, has a habit of producing complex data which, in turn, directly reflects the multiformity of nature.’

Lombroso looked round at them all sitting there, faces turned up towards him, bathing in the glow of his knowledge. Any strain had disappeared. This, James realised, was the real Lombroso: crafty, and manipulative, but inspiring and brilliant too. He was tricking his audience with his apparent humility and they were completely taken in by him.