The Dance of the Serpents

Book 0: A Frey & McGray Mystery

by Oscar de Muriel

Genres: Crime Fiction

Synopsis

'Properly creepy and Gothic' IAN RANKIN on the Frey & McGray mysteries...

December, 1889.

There have been many bad days in Edinburgh police's secret subdivision 'The Commission for the Elucidation of Unsolved Cases Presumably Related to the Odd and Ghostly'.

But today is surely the worst.

Because the exiled English Inspector Ian Frey, and his Scottish boss 'Nine-Nails' McGray are summoned to a meeting in the middle of the night with the Prime Minister himself.

And he tells them that Queen Victoria - the most powerful person in the world - wants them both dead.

To be pardoned they must embark on a mission so dangerous that they might be saving Her Majesty the job of executing them. Because this case ties together the dark history of the Pendle witches, with the tragic case of McGray own sister, to a conspiracy within the highest office in the land...

* * * * * * *

Praise for the Frey & McGray mysteries:

'A hugely entertaining Victorian mystery' New York Times

'A fun to read fast page-turner' Independent

'A brilliant mix of horror, history, and humour. Genuinely riveting with plenty of twists, this will keep you turning the pages. It's clever, occasionally frightening and superbly written ... Everything you need in a mystery thriller' Crime Review

'It's official: I am addicted to Frey and McGray' Christopher Fowler, author of the BRYANT & MAY series

Release date: August 20, 2020

Publisher: Orion Publishing Group

Print pages: 432

Sample

The little girl clung to the crone’s long skirts, even though the woman scared her as much as the surrounding darkness.

They stood in the middle of the leafy road, the cold breeze making the candle quiver. Held firmly by the old hag, who protected it from the wind with her bony hand, that flame was the only light available. Beyond its range, merely a few yards ahead, the entire world was a solid mass of blackness.

‘Not long now, child,’ the woman said, surely feeling the girl’s tremors. ‘Keep still. And don’t drop that or I’ll have you.’

Her yellowy, veiny eyes pointed at the small basket on the girl’s arm. The child grasped it more tightly, letting out a fearful moan. Inside, the bottles clanked.

The girl looked ahead, straight into the shadows, until she heard a faint sound. She shuddered.

‘Is it them?’ the woman demanded, and the girl nodded. The time had come.

Very slowly, the sound became louder and clearer. Hooves. Even the crone, whose ears were old and beaten, could hear them now. Her thin lips stretched into a crooked grin, revealing an uneven set of brown teeth.

A lonely torch glowed in the distance, and as soon as they saw it appear, the crone’s smile faded. Instead, she pulled her most miserable face and raised her arms.

‘Stop!’ she wailed with a rasp, the sound of misery itself. ‘Stop! For God’s mercy!’

A tall, sturdy stagecoach, lustrous and as black as the night, halted in front of them. The muscled horses, whose breath formed steaming clouds in the night air, seemed exhausted.

The lean, red-faced driver had pulled the reins with all his might, looking at the crone with disconcerted eyes. He opened his mouth, but did not manage to speak before a male voice cried from within the carriage.

‘What the hell?’

‘A lady on the road, sir,’ said the driver.

‘A what? Blast! Move on!’

‘Please! For God’s mercy!’ the crone insisted, dropping on her knees and raising her trembling hands. Her candle fell to the ground and the flame died. ‘Help me. I have a child!’

Her wails echoed across the lonely woods, and the girl was shaking from head to toe, the dim light of the carriage’s torch glinting in her eyes. She was about to shed tears of fear.

The driver’s lip quivered. ‘If I may, sir,’ he said, ‘you should have a look.’

They heard a groan, followed by a very reluctant, ‘If I must …’

Only then did the driver alight, just as they saw a new light inside the stagecoach. The door opened and a young man jumped onto the ground, carrying a little oil lamp.

He was not especially tall, and had the smooth, plump cheeks of the well-to-do gentry. His clothes, a double-breasted tailcoat of fine green velvet, and a snow-white shirt and cravat, also spoke of wealth. His eyes, though bleary, were of the palest blue; clearly the man had been in a deep slumber before the unexpected stop.

He cast light on the crone and the girl, scrutinizing them with haughty looks.

‘Is this your granddaughter?’ he demanded.

‘Aye, sir.’

‘What are you doing here?’

‘We was robbed, sir!’ the crone babbled. ‘They took the cart, they took our wine, my son, our—’

‘Slow down, slow down!’ the gentleman said. ‘Douglas, give them some water.’

The driver went back to his seat, fetched a waterskin and passed it to the crone. She gave it to the girl, who looked confused, but after the old woman gave her a discreet pinch, drank a few drops. The crone then took long swigs, coughing and spitting, and then poured some water into her hand and rinsed her soiled face. She handed the skin back.

‘Now,’ said the gentleman, ‘tell us what happened.’

The old woman forced in deep breaths, a hand clutching at her chest.

‘We was – we was on our way to Canterbury with my son. He works for a wine merchant and tomorrow’s market day. My girl got tired so we moved to the back, to get some sleep in between them barrels. We was fast asleep when we heard shouting. My son stopped the cart and we heard these horrid men …’

She shuddered violently, and the girl could not suppress a yelp.

‘They beat my son till they got tired,’ the crone went on, pulling the frightened child towards her and locking her in a tight embrace. ‘The things we heard! The –’ she gulped, stroking the girl’s golden hair anxiously – ‘there was nothing we could do. We just hid and kept quiet.’

Her eyes flickered from side to side, as if madness began to creep inside her.

‘Then we heard something drop. My son’s body, I think. The cart moved on … And we …’

The gentleman frowned, and the oil lamp began to shake in his stumpy fingers.

‘Did you two stay in the cart?’

The crone’s face wrinkled further in an unsettling grimace. She brought a hand to her mouth and spoke on, her voice muffled.

‘There was nothing we could do!’

The driver offered more water, but the woman was too stricken to take it.

‘How did you get off?’ the gentleman asked.

The crone again had to breathe deeply. ‘Whoever got the cart had to stop for a piss. Somewhere around here. I took my chances; grabbed my li’l girl and jumped off and hid in them bushes. We’ve been here for hours, sirs. For hours.’

The gentleman’s lip had softened just a little. Enough for his driver to speak up.

‘If I may, sir – we’re not far from the inn. We could take them. Someone there can take care of them, surely.’

‘Yes, yes, please!’ the crone begged, still on her knees. She stretched an arm, trying to pull at the folds of the gentleman’s coat.

He took a quick step back. ‘Very well, very well! But you shall travel with Douglas.’

He turned on his heels and went back to the stagecoach, as the driver helped the crone stand up.

‘Thank you, sirs. Thank you!’

Just as the gentleman was about to jump back into his seat, the crone stretched a pleading hand.

‘Uhm, sir?’

‘What now?’ he snapped.

‘Please, take my girl inside. She won’t be a nuisance, I swear.’

The gentleman snorted.

‘Please,’ the crone insisted. ‘She heard things no child should know of. And look at her, the poor thing’s so cold.’

The gentleman only saw half the girl’s face, the rest hidden behind the crone’s skirt.

‘We don’t even know if her father—’ The old woman covered her mouth and looked away, letting out faint sobs.

The gentleman snorted again, opened the door and pointed in.

‘Quick,’ he said curtly to the girl. The crone patted her on the back.

‘Go on, Marigold. Be good to the kind sir. Don’t upset him.’

The girl hesitated, until the crone gave her a hard push. In the dim light, neither the driver nor the gentleman noticed.

Marigold rushed to the door, the basket swaying in her arm. She jumped up the steps and settled quickly on the cushioned seat. She’d never sat on red velvet; against it, her faded dress looked like filthy kitchen rags.

The gentleman followed and set the oil lamp into a sconce. They heard the crone struggling to get up onto the front seat, and soon enough the stagecoach rode on.

Sitting perfectly still, with the basket on her lap as the crone had instructed, Marigold stared at the gentleman with her wide green eyes.

He was in his mid-twenties, but he carried a deep frown already. His hands were as smooth and unblemished as his face, and his rounded cheeks spoke of a healthy, if slightly overfed man.

On the other hand, he seemed quite uneasy in front of the child, drumming his fingers, shifting on his seat and not knowing where to fix his eyes.

For a few awkward minutes he exchanged looks with the silent girl, until the stagecoach hit a bump. The bottles in the basket clanked, catching the gentleman’s eye. Had that not happened, had the stagecoach not run quite so fast, had the bottles not touched each other, the world might have become an entirely different place.

‘What are you carrying in there?’ the man asked.

The girl cleared her throat. ‘Wine, sir.’

‘Wine?’

Marigold looked down, so nervous that the crone’s instructions muddled in her head.

‘It’s …’ she began, feeling how her fingers went deathly cold. Her very life depended on how she delivered the next few phrases. ‘It’s the wine my dad gave … for tasting at the market. It’s all I could pull from the cart.’

The gentleman rolled his eyes and then pretended to look out the window, even if the night remained as dark as before.

Marigold trembled. She could see her only chance fading away.

‘Would you like some, sir?’ she forced herself to say.

The man sneered. ‘I don’t drink cheap liquor, girl.’

Another quiver. Marigold pulled out one of the bottles.

‘It’s good wine, sir. For the gentry. My dad’s boss brings it from some place called France.’

That caught some interest, just as the crone had said, but not enough. Marigold felt as if she was treading on a rope, keeping her balance by pure luck, yet about to fall irredeemably into a deep void.

She pushed the bottle a little closer to the man, the gap between them suddenly looking like an abyss. She could hear the crone’s shrieks already. ‘All you had to do was make him drink!’

‘Try it,’ she uttered out of sheer fear, clutching the bottle so hard she thought it might burst between her fingers. And then, as if by miracle, she recalled the crone’s words and recited them to perfection. ‘It’s all we have to thank you for your kindness.’

The man stared at her. Marigold thought her fear had ruined everything, but the crone was crafty. She knew the child would be scared to death; she knew how pleading she’d sound, how her eyes would be about to burst into tears. No one with an ounce of heart would refuse her offerings.

With a swift move, the gentleman snatched the bottle and pulled the cork. He brought the bottle to his nose and sniffed the wine.

Marigold waited in silence, staring at every movement and shift in the man’s face.

There was no smile. No hint of any appreciation.

The girl wrung her hands. She could not stand it anymore. She wanted to scream. She wanted to—

And then the gentleman drank.

It was not a shy swig, but a long, deep glug, the man raising the bottle and throwing his head back. He gulped several times, keeping the bottle stuck to his lips.

It was done.

Marigold smiled, the exhilaration of her first triumph like sparks all across her body. She would not be flayed that night. Maybe never again.

And as he gulped down the best of French wine, Sir Augustus sealed his fate forever.

Caroline Ardglass leaned over the witchcraft book, slightly disgusted by the crude illustrations and struggling to decipher the handwriting without a candle.

Her eyes were itchy with tiredness, her back sore, and her bones ached in the damp, draughty loft, but she ignored the discomforts. This was not a Christmas holiday. This was a hunt.

She envied the magpie, with its beak stuck under its wing and sleeping placidly in the little brass cage. The black and white plumage, fluffed up, seemed to keep the bird sufficiently warm. Caroline, despite the thick blanket around her shoulders, could not say the same.

The loft was ghastly, smelly, and the noises from the adjacent public house were anything but pleasant. However, she’d paid dearly for the space, atop a shabby three-storey house.

She looked up, through the narrow window in front of the worm-eaten desk, at the view that had cost her so much.

Outside, the gentle fields were covered in snow, silvery under the crescent moon. The sky was clear and the trees along the Royal Mews were bare, so young Caroline had an ideal view of the castle’s east wing. The Queen’s private apartments.

She’d seen the windows light up one by one, picturing the servants as they did their evening round. Only one or two rooms in that brooding wing were usually lit, but it was different tonight. At least a dozen windows glowed with candlelight, signalling that Queen Victoria had arrived.

Caroline lifted the small yet powerful binoculars that lay next to her book – the ones that Lady Anne, her grandmother, used to take to the opera to spy on her business rivals.

Patiently, Caroline perused window after window. She could only just make out the frames, and in some cases the curve of thick curtains. Her window was too distant to identify faces, but that was not what she was after. She moved the binoculars east, to the bulky tower at the south-east corner of the ward – the narcissistically named Victoria Tower.

If those weird sisters had told the truth, it was there that—

The wooden floor creaked then. Caroline startled, looked backwards and lifted the lenses, ready to throw them at the—

‘There, there, child!’ cried Bertha. ‘It’s just me!’

Her short, plump nana stood there in the darkness. Only one side of her wrinkled face could be seen, and the silver tea set she carried caught but a faint glimmer from the moon.

‘Good Lord,’ said Caroline, a hand on her chest. ‘You scared me!’

The magpie was flapping its wings in the cage. It gave Caroline what looked like a disapproving gaze, before turning its head and resuming its sleep.

‘I thought you might want tea, my child.’ The woman placed the tray on the table and closed the book with a thump. ‘Rest for a minute. You’re a bundle o’ nerves these days.’

Bertha did not wait for approval. She proceeded to make the tea, while Caroline lounged on her chair. Still, she kept her eyes on the castle.

‘How much longer do we have to stay in this flea-ridden dump?’ Bertha remonstrated as she passed her a cup.

Caroline sipped the tea and did not bother to answer. She’d told Bertha many times.

‘If you at least had a fire …’

‘We cannot have a fire, Bertha,’ Caroline hissed, turning to face the woman, and at once regretted her curtness. Bertha had looked after her ever since she could remember. She had followed her in this mad pursuit, even after Caroline offered her an eye-watering amount of money to retire. Nobody else in the world loved her as much as this ageing maid. Her late father had, of course, but then again, he was the very reason they were at Windsor, hiding in a dilapidated loft.

Caroline forced a deep breath.

‘We cannot be seen,’ she said in a more composed tone. ‘This is the highest point on this godforsaken street. Even the one candle lit all night, every night, would be suspicious.’

Bertha understood. The dark, cunning eyes of Miss Ardglass told her all. The task had been appointed, and the young woman could not – and would not – stop.

But still, the child Bertha had once rocked to sleep in her arms, the little girl she’d seen grow up … Watching her consume herself like this was heartbreaking.

‘I wish you didn’t have to do this,’ Bertha whispered. She could not face Caroline’s eyes anymore. ‘I wish you—’

She went silent, her glinting eyes now fixed on the window.

‘What is it?’ Caroline said.

‘Look!’

There was a new light on Victoria Tower – Caroline had been staring at the building for so long she noticed at once. It did not come from a window; it rather looked like a flickering spark at the very top.

She groped for the binoculars, which Bertha found and handed to her. The magnified image made Caroline’s eyes spring wide open.

It was a clear ball of fire on the roof, its flames curling and rising like pleading arms. And right then, with a sudden burst, the fire turned the brightest green. The witches’ sign.

Caroline gasped, dropping the lenses. Even without them she could see the emerald shade. Both women watched in awe for a moment, their breathing the only sound, until Caroline came back to her senses.

‘It is time, Bertha,’ she said. ‘Prepare the mag—’

But hers were not the only watchful eyes. The bird was already perched up, looking about with agitation. Suddenly it flapped its wings, hitting the cage bars in a fit of panic.

Caroline looked at it, her lip trembling.

‘What … what frightened it?’

She heard heavy footsteps on the stairs, the unmistakable tread of towering Jed.

The broad-shouldered man, whose weathered face Caroline had feared in her childhood, stormed into the loft. He had to crouch under the angled ceiling, and wiped perspiration from his forehead as he spluttered.

‘Miss, they’re coming for you!’

Bertha gasped, covering her mouth with quivering hands.

Caroline crossed the loft in two strides, to press her hands against the glass of the opposite dormer window.

Her heart stopped.

Two carriages approached, pulled by muscled percherons as dark as the night. The drivers carried torches, the flames billowing as they darted ahead. The glowing yellow suddenly turned into a flash of intense blue.

Caroline jumped backwards as if struck by electricity.

‘We have to go!’ she cried, running instinctively to the old cabinet. She grabbed her father’s leather bag and began throwing books, tools and wallets inside.

‘Quick, quick!’ Jed grunted as he checked his gun had bullets. ‘Remember what happens when they corner their prey!’

‘Leave that!’ cried Caroline when Bertha brought a bundle of clothes. ‘Just the books and the money.’

They heard the neighing of horses on the street, followed by yelling from the pub.

A wave of chilling thoughts invaded Caroline’s mind – people flayed, burned alive, their tongues cut out, given poisons that made them contort until their spines cracked …

‘We have to go now!’ Jed hissed, grabbing Caroline by the arm.

She let him pull her to the door, the bag still open and Bertha still shoving in the binoculars and a pouch of coin. The woman raised a pointing hand.

‘The bird!’

Caroline ran back and grasped the cage, the magpie cawing and flapping its wings as they made a frantic run for the stairs.

The narrow steps cracked loudly under their feet, as if about to give way, and Caroline pictured herself plummeting to the ground. The thought made her trip, but Jed managed to pull her back. Right then they heard the first gunshot.

‘Lord!’ Bertha gasped.

They reached the ground floor and instead of darkness found the dim glow of a candle. The owner of the house, in his nightclothes, held it as his entire body trembled.

‘What have you brought upon us?’ he bellowed. With his dishevelled grey hair and his terrified eyes, he looked like a spectre himself.

The racket on the street became louder then, and there was a second shot.

Caroline pulled a gold ring from her finger and pressed it onto the man’s hand.

‘For your troubles.’

They made haste to the back door. Jed kicked it open and the slam made the horses snort.

The icy breeze hit them like a fist, swirling in the darkened backyard. Three derelict battlements, all that was left of the castle’s most ancient walls, cast their shadows on their brougham carriage and the two horses. Jed now always kept them harnessed and ready.

He ran to the door and opened it for Caroline. She threw in the hefty leather bag and then placed the cage with more care, but then she heard several noises at once: a thud on the snow, Bertha whimpering, and just as Caroline looked back, the loud cracking of wood.

Bertha had tripped and fallen on her knees, and while Caroline and Jed pulled her upwards, the cracking noises intensified. They heard shouting inside the house; the witches and their thugs had broken in.

‘Leave me, child!’ Bertha cried, being almost dragged to the carriage.

‘Don’t be a goose,’ Caroline growled, though struggling to push the old woman onto her seat.

The shouting grew louder and they heard the throttled voice of the landlord.

Jed forgot all delicacy and pushed them inside. He then closed the door and hopped into the driver’s seat. The creaking of the carriage coincided with that of the back door, which opened just as Jed threw the first whip at the horses.

‘Killing time!’ a nasty female voice howled, the sound sending prickles of fear throughout Caroline’s body. She looked through the back window and saw half a dozen brutes, two of them carrying blazing torches. They brought the landlord, who writhed desperately as they dragged him to the yard. A cloaked woman came behind them, draped in jet black, her hood trimmed with golden embroidery.

As the carriage began to move, Caroline saw that the tall men threw the landlord to the ground. The man fell on his knees, howling. The cloaked woman seized him by the hair, pulled his head up and in one swift movement slit the man’s throat. The blood sprayed all over his white nightgown, an almost perfect fan of scarlet liquid lit by the torches, and Caroline could not repress a terrified yelp.

She crouched in the back seat, the carriage rocking violently as Jed turned it towards the gate. Through the frosted window she caught a chilling glimpse of those men running towards her, scratching and battering the carriage door. They were so close that for a moment Caroline even saw their yellowy teeth and their faces contorted with rage.

The carriage turned swiftly, but Caroline still saw the men lifting guns. She ducked at once, pulling Bertha down, and at that precise moment a rain of bullets began.

The carriage finally stopped turning and Caroline guessed they were now darting out of the yard, towards the road. She heard the shouting of drunken men – they were riding past the pub – and then just the racket of the wheels and the stomping of hooves. The gunshots could still be heard, but ever fainter.

Caroline crouched for a moment, hearing Bertha’s frantic breathing and feeling her heart thumping in her chest. The shots became sparser, and only then did Caroline dare rise.

The brougham had a front window, through which she could see Jed’s back and the galloping horses. But the glass was splattered.

‘God, they hit Jed,’ Caroline cried. She let go of Bertha and jumped to the front seat. She grasped the window’s handle and was about to pull it down, but then there was another shot, instantly followed by a massive splash of red on the glass.

Caroline and Bertha hollered, unable to take their eyes from Jed’s broad torso, which fell sideways against the driver’s seat, smearing his own blood on the window.

Caroline shed tears of panic, the world around her a whirling blur. She saw the horses gallop on, now zigzagging along the road – saw Jed’s moth-eaten overcoat, now stained in crimson – saw his face, flailing about with his eyes still open – she heard Bertha’s unintelligible babble …

And the shooting continued behind them.

The carriage bounced on a pothole, sending Caroline into the air. She banged her head against the ceiling, and the blow brought her back to her senses.

No one would help. No one would come and save them. She’d have to do it herself.

Caroline pulled down the windowpane, smearing her hands with Jed’s still-warm blood. She tried to pull herself onto the driver’s seat, but Jed’s body was blocking the way, leaving next to no space for her to move.

The wind went past her at full speed, bringing the shouting of the witches’ men. She saw the horses run erratically and felt how the carriage slowed down. She had no time to be squeamish.

She pushed, growled and panted, moving Jed’s heavy body out of the way. Hands, dress and face covered in blood, she squeezed over the dead man’s torso, shuddering.

With one final pull she fell forwards, face and hands squashed against the driver’s footboard. Clumsily, Caroline curled around, found the reins as she groped, and seized them before stumbling upwards.

Jed’s body lay across the seat. Caroline pulled him by the shoulders, trying to prop him up, panting under his weight. The man’s glazed eyes were an inch from hers, and Caroline felt sorrow and revulsion in equal measure.

Then came another shot, so close that Caroline’s ears hurt. She looked up and saw the head of a horse in pursuit emerge from the side of the carriage.

She let out a shriek as a man’s savage face appeared, his gun at the ready, pointing directly at her forehead.

Without thinking, without time to doubt, Caroline let out an animalistic snarl, pushing Jed’s body with all her might and letting it fall in the direction of the rider.

It was a ghastly sight; Jed’s blood-dripping body hitting the thug, diverting his aim, and then falling further, right in front of the percheron’s legs. The animal stomped and tripped over the corpse; Caroline heard bones being crushed, and then the horse fell on its flank and she saw them no more.

‘Sorry-sorry,’ she moaned on and on. She sat on the driver’s seat and could finally take a good grip at the reins. Caroline steered the horses back to the centre of the road and whipped them mercilessly, hearing more gunshots behind her.

She crouched. That was all she could do, not even daring to look back. All her attention, all her senses, were on the horses and the road.

Suddenly, perhaps a long while after it happened, Caroline realized the shooting had ended. Her heart, on the other hand, still beat faster than ever. She did not slow down until the horses began to stumble against each other, exhausted, and then she let them trot on for several miles.

They passed through the dense Windsor Forest, the branches of the trees arching over the road like menacing claws. Then the woodland gave way to a wide meadow, entirely covered in white.

Caroline halted then, preferring the open field, where she could see if her enemies approached. She jumped off the carriage, nearly dropping on her knees, and took a few clumsy steps to the edge of the road. There she bent forwards and let out a violent spurt of vomit.

She coughed and gagged for a moment, the horses’ heavy breathing the only other sound, and only then did she feel how the cold air crept through her thin clothes. She’d not even had time to put on a coat.

And still, she was thankful.

Caroline forced deep breaths, straightened her back and looked ahead. One problem at a time, she told herself, as she now did whenever she felt overwhelmed. They’d need to find shelter; that should be her immediate concern.

She walked to the horses and patted their heads. The larger of the two, a splendid jet-black Carthusian, stomped its hooves.

‘There, there,’ Caroline said, resting her forehead against the horse’s neck. ‘I’m exhausted too, but we need to move on.’

She headed back to the seat, but then she heard a familiar whimper.

‘Bertha …’ she mumbled, running to the passenger’s door. The entire carriage was dotted with bullet holes.

Caroline opened the door and jumped in. She found Bertha still seated, very straight, her face slightly bent down. One would have thought she was in the middle of a peaceful trip, were it not for her hands folded tightly on her stomach. All drenched in red.

‘Bertha!’ Caroline yelled, rushing to hug the little woman.

She tried to pull up her hands and examine the wound, but Bertha clenched firmly. Even in the shadows, Caroline saw the dark stain all over the woman’s skirts.

‘Why didn’t you scream?’ Caroline sobbed, her eyes shedding uncontrollable tears. How long Bertha must have been bleeding! And yet, the woman managed to lift her face and smile through the pain. ‘I would’ve stopped!’

Bertha barely whispered. ‘I was doomed from the very start …’

Caroline wept like a child; rage, guilt and despair clutching at her like invisible claws. How silly of her even to comfort the horses before checking on her beloved nana.

‘We’ll find a doctor,’ she said. ‘We’ll find a doctor and then—’

Bertha shook her head, looking at Caroline with pleading eyes. ‘I want you here with me, child. Not out there – when … when it happens.’

Caroline cradled the woman’s face in her hands. She didn’t even have water to give her.

‘I’m so sorry!’ Her voice came out as a high-pitched sob. ‘I should have never brought you—’

A painful gulp took hold of her throat and she could say no more.

‘I was where I was needed,’ Bertha mumbled, her voice growing fainter. She let out a sigh, her face suddenly relaxing. Her entire body must be going numb.

‘There’s plenty I need to tell you, my child,’ she said, resting her head on Caroline’s shoulder, as if she were a young girl again. ‘And so little time …’

The sky was a smudge of grey and white, the evening wind slowly dragging the thick clouds eastwards.

It was an odd sight, for the last rays of sunlight, filtering through a gap in the sky I could not see from my window, bounced on the buildings across the street. Their façades, solid blocks of Scottish granite, glowed in golden hues, bright amidst the darkness below and the dullness above.

There, perched proudly atop the Georgian townhouse right in front of mine, and facing me almost defiantly, stood a rather large raven.

The black bird had sat there for days; it had been there in the morning when I’d gone out, it was there again in the evening when I came back, and it was still there when the streetlights came on at night. I could not help thinking that the blasted creature was watching my every move.

‘Tea, Master Frey?’

That was not really a question, for Layton, my very stiff valet, was already extending me the cup and saucer, which I took distractedly.

‘What did my uncle do when he wanted to get rid of birds?’ I asked him, before indulging in the scent of my favourite Darjeeling blend.

Layton frowned a little, lifting his thin, aquiline nose as if sniffing for memories.

‘He used to shoot them, sir.’

I allow