City of Devils: A Novel (19 page)

The conversation had turned to other matters. Lombroso was holding forth with his views about the use of science to solve crime. James looked on and hoped that one day he might have the confidence to speak so fluently on the subject. He had been in Turin for less than a week and so much had happened in that short time that he was beginning to feel quite overwhelmed by it all. There were so many people saying so many things that their words had begun to echo around his head in a jumbled mass. He tried his hardest to disentangle their ideas but he was beginning to struggle. He longed for a little time to himself to assimilate it all.

A hush suddenly descended upon the room and everyone seemed to turn at the same time. James followed their eyes and saw a magnificently dressed woman regally descending the staircase at one end of the room. Her satin gown was embroidered with pearls and diamonds that shone in the candlelight. She was tall and elegant and as she progressed down the stairs her movements were fluid, sinuous – like those of a dancer. Her silver hair was dressed in an elaborate coiffure. Everything about her suggested power, from her demeanour to her facial expression. And yet there was a slight smile playing about her lips and a mischievous glint in her eye which made James warm to her. She was escorted by a tall, gaunt man in a black robe and sash who looked round with a haughty glare, his lips curling slightly, almost as if he was laughing at them in disdain. Perhaps he was. It was difficult to tell. James thought he looked like a bird of prey; his features were certainly hawk-like, sharp and angular, the kind of face it was hard to forget.

As the pair reached the bottom of the stairs, those closest to them bowed. As they passed through the room the ripple of obsequiousness became a wave. Even Lombroso did his best, though James thought he looked decidedly unenthusiastic, as if his heart was not in it. His bow was little more than a begrudging nod. James gathered that the lady was the Marchesa herself but he wasn’t sure at first who accompanied her. Ottolenghi leant towards him and whispered in his ear, ‘Father Vincenzo . . .’

James was surprised. He had imagined the priest to be elderly, grey and cadaverous. This man was nothing of the kind. For a start, he was much younger and could even be described by some as handsome. He had jet-black hair and piercing eyes that seemed to bore through one’s consciousness like a gimlet. He escorted the Marchesa to a large chair in the corner of the room. Once she was seated she only had to glance to one side and a small orchestra began to play . . . Mozart? wondered James. It was all done with such taste that it hardly seemed to belong to the ostentation and vulgarity surrounding them. The conversation started up once more and now and again a footman would approach people and whisper discreetly in their ear. They would then make their way over to the Marchesa and be presented to her. How had the chosen few had been selected? By the demeanour of Father Vincenzo it looked as if he had something to do with it. He stood by the Marchesa’s side, glancing over at the throng and then speaking to her. It was clear that he wanted everyone to know of his influence.

James saw Ottolenghi give a hint of a frown as they were joined by Professor Gemelli, who had been upstaged so conclusively by Borelli at the debate. Gemelli’s hair, what there was of it, had been carefully smoothed down and covered with Macassar oil to hold it in place. His head shone through it giving the impression of a badly knitted skullcap.

Gemelli looked at Lombroso. ‘Ah, Professor, I am glad to have caught you.’

Lombroso smiled thinly at him. ‘Professor Gemelli, I am glad you are here,’ he said insincerely. Then with a glance in James’s direction he said, ‘May I present my new assistant from Scotland,
Dottor
James Murray.’

James smiled and bowed. Gemelli looked down his nose at him as if he had scraped him from the bottom of his shoe. James was rather startled and felt his own smile freeze. Gemelli gestured at him dismissively.

‘I have not come here to meet new members of your entourage, Lombroso. We have graver matters to discuss.’

Lombroso looked at him angrily. ‘Whatever you have on your mind, Gemelli, I am sure that it is not so important that it cannot wait until tomorrow.’

‘I wish to discuss the Soldati business . . .’

Lombroso stared at Gemelli and shrugged his shoulders as if he didn’t know what he was talking about.

Gemelli looked around him to see who was listening. ‘The murder,’ he hissed.

Madame Tarnovsky gave a small cry and started to swoon.

‘Quickly! Get a chair for the lady!’ barked Reiner. Ottolenghi obliged and James helped Madame Tarnovsky to sit down. She covered her face with her fan. And then she winked at him from behind it and started to moan slightly.

Gemelli stood helplessly nearby until Lombroso turned towards him and glared at him. ‘Tomorrow!’

‘I think you will find that there may be certain . . .’ Gemelli paused and narrowed his eyes, ‘consequences.’

Lombroso ignored him, leaving the dean with little choice but to walk away. He joined another two men – one tall and thin with a pronounced stoop and the other large and untidy-looking with unruly hair. All three of them were looking back at Lombroso’s group and glaring malevolently. James was beginning to see what Ottolenghi had been getting at when he had talked of Lombroso’s enemies.

‘Who are the other two?’ James asked him.

‘Oh, just some of Gemelli’s cronies.’

‘Why are they so hostile?’

Ottolenghi shrugged. ‘I suppose you could say it is a mixture of jealousy and academic difference. Gemelli has published several articles criticising Lombroso’s work, dismissing criminal anthropology as pseudo-science, calling it an affront to Catholicism, that sort of thing. He gave the last edition of
Criminal Man
a terrible review. The professor was not best pleased.’

James imagined Lombroso’s reaction would be rather more extreme than Ottolenghi had described. He didn’t seem to respond well to criticism at the best of times.

‘My dear Professor, I don’t know how you manage to keep your temper!’ exclaimed Madame Tarnovsky, still sitting in her chair. Every now and again she looked over at Gemelli and stared at him reproachfully.

‘Madame,’ sighed Lombroso, ‘it is not easy. But do you know what keeps me going?’

She looked at him eagerly. ‘No, Professor, do tell us.’

He paused for effect and they all gathered round to hear his answer.

‘It is the absolute certainty that I am right.’ He grinned at them. ‘That is what science gives us. We measure and record, observe and note until we are sure. Anything else is guesswork at best or groundless superstition at worse.’

‘I do not think that God would agree,’ a voice boomed over his shoulder and he turned to see Father Vincenzo towering over them.

‘God will not be consulted,’ replied Lombroso, firmly. ‘As La Place said to Napoleon: “I have no need of that hypothesis.” ’

Father Vincenzo gave a supercilious smile. ‘Ah, so witty, Professor, and so certain. But wrong and, oh, how wrong. And with what consequences!’

Lombroso raised his eyebrows at the priest. ‘What might they be, Father? Could you enlighten us?’

‘It would be my pleasure, Professor. It is simply this. The location of our city dictates that we must all take care for the fight between good and evil depends on it. We have already experienced violence in a place of darkness. I foresee further blood and despair if you do not mend your ways.’

‘And how should I go about doing that, Father?’ asked Lombroso in mock seriousness.

Father Vincenzo smiled but his eyes did not. ‘Why, you must end your experiments or . . .’

‘Or what?’ asked Lombroso.

The priest shook his head and tutted. ‘Blood and despair,’ he repeated in a conversational tone, still smiling urbanely. ‘I cannot say more . . . except that you will live to regret it if you do not take heed.’

So melodramatic were his words that, despite the priest’s outwardly calm demeanour, James half expected him to laugh like a pantomime demon and disappear in a puff of green smoke. Instead he merely inclined his head and looked quizzically at Lombroso.

Lombroso sighed. ‘Ah well, I will just have to take that risk.’

‘As you wish, Professor, but you cannot say that you have not been warned.’

Lombroso nodded with resignation. ‘Indeed not, Father, and thank you.’

They bowed at each other as if they had just completed a perfectly ordinary exchange and Father Vincenzo made his way back to the Marchesa.

‘I see you have not been honoured with a presentation to the lady,’ murmured Borelli.

‘I have met the Marchesa on many occasions. I don’t think we have anything new to say to each other.’

‘Still, it is a snub, is it not?’ persisted Borelli.

Lombroso shrugged. ‘It is nothing. I have more pressing things to think about.’

‘It looks as if you may have been premature, Adolfo,’ Madame Tarnovsky said, looking in the direction of the Marchesa. ‘It seems the lady is coming to pay you a visit, Cesare.’

The Marchesa made her way elegantly towards them, through the crowd that parted instinctively as she approached. Father Vincenzo had been forced to turn round and was valiantly trying to follow her, though not without difficulty. The crowds were not quite as deferential where he was concerned.

‘Professor, how delightful to see you.’

Lombroso bowed low and kissed the Marchesa’s hand. ‘Madame, it is always a pleasure.’

‘I hear the symposium got off to a rousing start.’

‘That is one way to describe it.’

‘Ah yes, I understand that it was not without controversy. Still, Professor, you should be used to that!’

‘Indeed, Marchesa, it does seem to follow me.’

‘I rather think that
you
follow it.’

Lombroso smiled. ‘Perhaps, Marchesa, perhaps.’

‘And how is your work going generally? Are we to see another edition of
Criminal Man
before long? I do hope so. It was a tour de force!’

Lombroso beamed. ‘I am working on the next edition, as it happens. There have been some interesting developments. I have found some marked similarities between the epileptic and the born criminal that lead me to believe that the condition could be a cause of offending.’

‘Really. How fascinating,’ the Marchesa said.

‘Take the case of Misdea, the soldier assassin, for example,’ Lombroso said, warming to his theme.

‘Ah yes, didn’t he murder some of his unit?’

‘You’re familiar with the case, Marchesa, I should have known you would be,’ Lombroso went on. ‘Now let me tell you a little more . . .’

James studied the Marchesa as the professor spoke. If she was feigning her interest she was doing so very effectively. She seemed to have genuinely read Lombroso’s work to the extent that she could converse freely on the subject. Father Vincenzo stood by morosely as the conversation went on.

‘Well, Professor, this is fascinating. I look forward to hearing more,’ the Marchesa said. ‘Perhaps I will call on you in a day or two.’

‘I would be honoured,’ Lombroso replied.

The Marchesa left them and began to move through the room, pausing to greet the favoured as she went. Father Vincenzo followed closely behind.

‘What a charming woman!’ Borelli said.

‘Isn’t she?’ said Lombroso. ‘And intelligent too, despite the variable quality of the company she keeps.’

Borelli nodded. ‘The priest is certainly forthright in his views.’

‘What did he mean about the position of the city?’ James asked.

‘Ancient legend has it that the city is a pole of both black and white magic, a point on the triangle of white magic with Lyon and Prague and black magic with London and San Francisco,’ replied Ottolenghi patiently.

‘What nonsense!’ Lombroso exclaimed. ‘No wonder it is so difficult to create an atmosphere of intellectual endeavour when we are hampered by all this talk of magic and superstition put about by fantasists and fools!’

‘Let us talk of more pleasant subjects,’ suggested Madame Tarnovsky tactfully. ‘Cesare, tell us about the symposium. What have we to look forward to?’

Lombroso smiled happily as he began to talk about the programme for the next two weeks. There was to be a visit to a prison to watch an experiment on some inmates. Lombroso would speak on the giving of evidence in criminal trials and there would be speakers from all over Europe on a variety of topics. James was both enthralled and astonished. It was almost as if the murder had never happened or at least simply did not matter. Soldati was just another ne’er-do-well who had met an untimely end. So what if the killer had mentioned Lombroso? What more was that than a criminal’s cheap jibe at a man who was celebrated for his work to combat crime? But something nagged at James. He could not say exactly what it was but it was there at the back of his mind, gnawing gently at his instincts like a hungry worm. A man was dead which was of course some kind of an ending but, though he could not say exactly why, it seemed to James that it was more like a beginning.

Later that night after the reception had ended and the participants had gone their separate ways, James wandered along the dark, narrow streets towards Sofia’s rooms. He was full of expectation following their earlier encounter and his thoughts were focused on what he hoped the rest of the night would bring. It was past midnight and the city was quiet as death itself, almost thick with silence. The now familiar damp fog swirled around every corner – yellowish, sulphurous, hellish. James shivered and looked nervously around him as he walked.

In an effort to calm his nerves he started to think about the reception and some of its guests. Many of them seemed to be incomplete somehow – a collection of people who were not what they seemed on the surface with a large and more sinister part of them hidden beneath: Gemelli, the faculty dean who was apparently so full of professional rivalry for Lombroso that it had spilled over into personal dislike; Father Vincenzo, a priest with apparently more regard for the Devil than God and yet another man whose resentment of Lombroso seemed to have warped his judgment; Reiner, the Austrian psychiatrist who had seemed refreshingly straightforward until he started to talk about his work based on lust murder and vampirism. There was something about him – the glint in the eyes, the touch of saliva between his lips as he described the cases he had studied. And then there was Horton, with no apparent beliefs except in a form of murderous crime control. He did not seem to have any connection to a university or indeed to any institution other than his own asylum. What then was his background? And if he didn’t believe in any of the theories being expounded at the symposium, why was he here at all?