City of Devils: A Novel (24 page)

He grinned at her. ‘You could allow me to visit you later.’

‘Perhaps,
si,
but not too late. Remember, I need my sleep!’

They heard voices. It was the professor and Ottolenghi. Sofia squeezed his hand and ran out of the door before they could see her.

‘Ah, Murray, there you are. I was just saying to Ottolenghi that you should both be rewarded for your endeavours. I also think that it is time to introduce Murray to the delights of Caffe Torino. What do you say, Salvatore?’

Ottolenghi nodded eagerly. James was in two minds. Although he was keen to experience all that Turin had to offer, particularly when it meant dining with Lombroso, he was also angry with both Lombroso and Ottolenghi for including Sofia in the demonstration. As it was, though, the decision was taken out of his hands. They were just leaving Le Nuove when they were approached by a young boy who announced in trembling tones that he had an urgent message for signor the professor.

‘Thank you, young man,’ Lombroso said, taking the letter. Ottolenghi tipped the boy, who bowed graciously and ran off into the dusk.

Lombroso opened the letter and as he read the contents his expression became grim. ‘Gentlemen, I am afraid we must change our plans. I will need you as witnesses.’ He held the letter aloft and glared at them. ‘This is from Gemelli. Apparently my presence is requested immediately at an urgent meeting. There is one item on the agenda – the subject under discussion is my dismissal!’

12

While most murders are caused by a motive, such as religious belief, jealousy or revenge, others have no clear cause.

Lombroso, 1884 p 180

‘I am surrounded by fools! This whole is affair is utterly ridiculous. I have not killed anyone and yet I am being treated as if I have been convicted of a crime!’ Lombroso threw up his hands in the air in exasperation.

‘If you continue to behave in this way I will have no option but to ask you to leave,’ replied Gemelli severely.

James and Ottolenghi exchanged glances. The meeting was not going well. If the professor was not careful he would play right into Gemelli’s hands which would be a disaster.

‘Perhaps if you could outline your views, Professor Gemelli?’ Ottolenghi said carefully.

Gemelli gave a slight smirk and Lombroso glowered at him. The rest of the committee, made up of several members of the Board of Governors including Borelli, Father Vincenzo who was acting as Chair and a couple of Gemelli’s cronies, looked on with interest.

‘The connection is quite clear,’ Gemelli said primly. ‘Professor Lombroso has been linked to two of the most horrific murders this city has ever seen. If we allow him to continue to represent the faculty there is a danger that he will bring the entire university into disrepute.’

‘
É ridicolo!’
shouted Lombroso. ‘
É assurdo
! I have never heard such nonsense! I will sue you for criminal slander, Gemelli!’

‘Come, come, Professor,’ Father Vincenzo said. ‘There is no need for this meeting to be so ill-natured. We must remain calm.’

‘Calm!’ Lombroso shouted. ‘How can I remain calm when I am being accused of such a crime?’

‘You are not being accused directly, or so I understand it,’ said Father Vincenzo. He looked over to Gemelli. ‘You are not suggesting that Professor Lombroso is responsible for these events, I take it?’

Gemelli shrugged. ‘We cannot know. The crime has not been solved. I am told by Marshal Machinetti—’

‘That imbecile!’ Lombroso interrupted.

‘Professor, I will not tell you again!’ responded Father Vincenzo.

Lombroso slumped in his seat and pursed his lips. James thought that if his face flushed any redder he might have a seizure.

‘I do not think it is any secret that the marshal and Professor Lombroso do not always see eye-to-eye,’ Borelli said.

‘That may well be the case but there is still the matter of the note,’ said Father Vincenzo.

‘I have absolutely nothing to do with that,’ protested Lombroso.

‘Your name is on it!’ responded Gemelli.

‘But I did not write it!’

‘Nonetheless, Professor, it does represent a link, I think you must agree,’ said Father Vincenzo.

‘Not one of his making,’ interjected Borelli, quickly.

Father Vincenzo nodded thoughtfully and whispered to the other two governors for a moment. ‘I think we have reached a decision, Professor Lombroso.’

With that Lombroso stood up, turned and stalked out of the room, not even waiting for them to announce their findings. Borelli watched him go and looked over to James and Ottolenghi, exasperated. It was not looking as if the professor would last much longer in his post and what would happen then, James wondered. He glanced at Gemelli, triumphant and gloating and then got to his own feet to follow Lombroso. Something had to be done.

They convened outside the meeting room and James slumped onto a hard bench by the door. It was his future as well as Lombroso’s fate that was being decided, for if he was dismissed there would be no option but to return to Scotland. He had just begun to feel alive again and he could not bear the thought that the progress he had made could be lost at the whim of Gemelli and his cronies. Their only hope was Borelli. If he could persuade the other members of the board to back Lombroso then the professor might survive with his position at the university intact.

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Borelli, who had followed them out, said, patting James on the shoulder before turning to go back into the meeting. He seemed oddly calm, given events.

Ottolenghi sank down on the bench beside James.

‘What do you think will happen?’ James asked anxiously.

‘The professor will probably be barred from further teaching until the crimes are solved,’ replied Ottolenghi.

‘Well, at least it’s not a dismissal.’ James was trying hard to sound positive. ‘After all, where there’s life and all that . . .’ He tailed off.

It was clear that Ottolenghi did not share this optimism. ‘Dismissal will be the next step. That much was made clear.’

At that very moment, the door opened and Borelli walked out, shutting it firmly behind him. ‘Gentlemen . . .’ They rose to greet him. He beckoned to them to follow him down the corridor a little way, presumably to ensure that they could not be overheard.

‘I did what I could but the committee were adamant that Cesare’s involvement in these murders is bringing the university into disrepute. There is just one thing that can save him now.’

The door opened again and Gemelli came out with a smug expression on his face, closely followed by his cronies. Then Father Vincenzo emerged with one or two other people that James did not recognise. Borelli waited until they had disappeared through the doors at the end of the corridor.

‘What was the priest doing there?’ James asked.

‘That man gets everywhere,’ Ottolenghi said bitterly.

‘Gemelli invited him to sit on the faculty board in order to please the Marchesa. Her patronage is extremely valuable to the university. And Father Vincenzo has real influence. We must be wary of him,’ cautioned Borelli. ‘I only wish Cesare had been more circumspect at the reception.’

‘So what can we do?’ James asked.

Borelli sighed. ‘The professor has been forbidden to teach – a formal letter will be delivered to him by hand within the hour – but I managed to persuade the committee that he should be allowed to carry on with his research and that the symposium should continue.’

James wondered how he had achieved that. Borelli answered his unspoken question.

‘I told them that to stop Cesare’s research was far too draconian when no connection to the murders has been proved. Thankfully Father Vincenzo agreed, no doubt influenced by the Marchesa, who is a great supporter of research in all its forms. As for the symposium, I suggested that to cancel it now would only cause awkward questions to be asked.’

‘You did well to persuade them, Professor,’ Ottolenghi said. ‘Had it not been for you, I dread to think what would have happened.’

‘You mentioned that there was one thing that would save the professor?’ James said.

Borelli nodded. ‘Indeed there is. Cesare must find out who committed the murders and why. He must use his expertise to investigate.’

‘But that is exactly what we have been trying to persuade him to do,’ Ottolenghi said in an exasperated tone. ‘He won’t budge an inch on it, no matter what we say.’

‘I think you may find that he will have a change of heart,’ Borelli said.

James readied himself to leave. ‘No time like the present,’ he said firmly. ‘Let us go to him and ask.’

Borelli put a restraining hand on his arm. ‘No, leave it a while. Let it sink in overnight and speak to him in the morning, when he’s had a chance to absorb things. It might make a difference.’

They nodded their agreement and Borelli bade them good evening and went on his way.

‘Shall we discuss strategy over dinner?’ James asked Ottolenghi, keen to talk over the events of the day with him.

He shook his head. ‘No, not tonight, my friend, if you don’t mind. I think I need an early night. You too – so we can be fresh for the morning. If we are to persuade the professor, we will need our wits about us.’

Reluctantly James agreed and they parted company. He was about to make his way towards his lodgings when it occurred to him that this was an ideal opportunity to continue DeClichy’s research on Horton as he had decided at the reception. He looked at his watch. It was almost eight o’clock but the library was opening late during the symposium so he was confident that he would be able to gain admittance.

The university library was not far from the building where the meeting had been held so a few moments later James was walking up the imposing staircase towards the main desk. Behind it sat a short, balding man with wire-framed spectacles perched on the end of his nose at such a precarious angle they looked as if they would fall off at any moment.

‘May I help you, signor?’

James wondered where to start. Then it came to him. ‘I am an acquaintance of a gentleman from the symposium, Dr De Clichy.’

‘Ah yes, such a diligent gentleman and always so polite – unlike some others I could mention.’

‘He has asked me to continue with his research,’ James said. ‘Could you tell me what it was he was looking at?’

The librarian stared at him, suspiciously. ‘I would have thought he could have told you himself.’

‘He . . . he has been taken ill.’

‘Oh dear.’ The librarian shook his head. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. He is such a nice gentleman.’

‘So what was he looking at?’ James reminded him.

‘Well, I suppose there’s no harm in it,’ the librarian muttered. ‘He was looking at some of our old newspapers, an odd request in itself. He wanted to see some of the American collection from the 1860s. I don’t think anyone has had those out for many a year.’

‘May I look at the binders?’

The librarian paused. ‘Well, I don’t see why not, as long as you promise not to move them so your friend knows where to find them when he’s better.’

‘I won’t, I promise you,’ James replied.

‘Mmm. Well, all right. Follow me. They are still where your friend left them. You won’t be disturbed. You’re the only person here now.’ The librarian led him up some more stairs until they were at the very top of the building in a smallish room lined with tall shelves. In them were large leather-bound volumes, held together with brass bindings.

The librarian stopped by one of the shelves. ‘Here we are.’ He indicated a table in front of them with two of the binders left open. ‘Well, I’ll leave you to it, if I may. We are closing soon, I’m afraid, so you will not have long.’

James smiled at him. ‘Thank you. You have been most helpful.’

The librarian gave a short bow and left.

James began to examine the binders. A few moments later he threw them down onto the desk in frustration. Far from providing some sort of clue, they had revealed precisely nothing. He could not understand why DeClichy would be looking at newspapers from around the time of American civil war. It made no sense.

He shivered and looked around him at the wooden panels and shelves. There were no fires because it would only take one spark and the building would be aflame. As a result, the outside chill permeated through the walls into the room. The desk in front of him was covered with scratches from the labour of hundreds of years of scholars moving their books and papers around and the silence was almost oppressive. Every now and then he heard the shelves creaking as if complaining about their heavy burden and he wondered idly if the place was haunted.

James turned his attention to the newspaper. It was a copy of the
Chicago Tribune
from a few years back. He looked through it but could find no mention of Horton. In fact, the only thing that caught his eye among the seemingly endless advertisements for various remedies for afflictions such as warts and stomach complaints, was the report of a murder in the city. He studied it, but soon dismissed it as irrelevant. The victim was a prostitute whose throat had been cut and there were other wounds to her stomach but apparently the killer had been disturbed by a witness. Unfortunately the witness was reported as having been intoxicated and so was in no fit state to say anything useful. There were no organs displayed, and no note, so there seemed to be little to connect it to the murders that had taken place in Turin. Elsewhere in the volume he noticed that some pages had been ripped out. Surely DeClichy would not have done this? It seemed completely out of character. Wouldn’t he just have made notes?