The Sign of the Devil

by Oscar de Muriel

Genres: Occult & Supernatural; Ghost; Historical Thrillers

Synopsis

THE FINAL FREY & McGRAY MYSTERY
All will be revealed...

* * * * *

The Devil Has Come to Edinburgh...

An ill-fated grave-robbery unearths a corpse with a most disturbing symbol on it. When a patient in Edinburgh's lunatic asylum is murdered, the same sign is daubed in blood on the walls - the mark of the devil.

The prime suspect: inmate Amy McGray, notorious for killing her parents years before. Her brother, Detective 'Nine-Nails' McGray, must prove her innocence - with the help of an old friend . . .

Inspector Ian Frey insists he is retired. But when called upon, he reluctantly agrees to their final case.
As twists follow bombshells, leading to secrets that have been waiting in the shadows all along, all will be revealed . . .

This rollicking Victorian sensationalist melodrama is the epic conclusion to the marvellous Frey & McGray mysteries.

Release date: August 4, 2022

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 480

Sample

The tune was quite vulgar, clearly born in the depths of a stinking tavern, but Lady Anne hummed it with pleasure. The roof of her narrow cabriolet carriage, the smallest she owned, was folded up, so no one would hear.

How fast the wit of the mob worked. Mr and Mrs McGray were not yet cold in their graves and already there were songs about them. Then again, their tale was juicy.

The carriage halted by the entrance to that drab inn, abandoned long ago by its morose tenant. Only one of the grimy windows glowed, golden amidst the cerulean shades of the midsummer night.

In the distance, the lights of Dundee shone in the same amber hue. Far closer than Lady Anne would have liked. She must not be seen in the vicinities of that common town. Not so soon.

The light, two-wheeled carriage bounced and shook as her manservant jumped off, his feet stomping heavily onto the ground. Jed, a six-foot-three, broad-shouldered man, stepped to the inn’s door and knocked softly. There must have been some reply Lady Anne could not hear, for Jed turned the latch and pushed the door slightly open. He peered inside for a moment, and only then did he come back to open the coach for his mistress.

Lady Anne covered her aging hands in thick leather gloves and had the prudence to remove her conspicuous hairpiece, custom-made and decked with long pheasant feathers dyed in black. She was famous for her extravagant hairdos. People would recognise her silhouette even in the dark.

Jed handed her an ebony walking cane and Lady Anne Ardglass made her dignified way to the grimy, woodworm-infested door. Fortunately, she’d only have to venture a few steps into that pigpen.

Her contact, Procurator Fiscal Pratt, was already there, seated in the wide hall, which only a few months ago would have been packed with intoxicated tradesmen. Now there was only a tattered table, a few rickety chairs and a threadbare armchair by a dark fireplace.

Mr Pratt jumped to his feet as soon as he saw her come in. His head, completely bald, reflected almost to perfection the flame from the one lit sconce. That was how Lady Anne had first spotted him: a gleaming scalp in the dull courts. And then she’d heard his cunning tongue, and instantly she knew he’d be the right man to carry out her dirty work. She’d already defrayed a significant proportion of his son’s education – more than enough to secure the man’s loyalty for life.

‘Lady Anne,’ he said with a bow, ‘have a seat, if you—’

But the woman was already installing herself in the armchair, after her servant had spread a blanket on it to protect his lady’s fine dress.

‘Jed,’ she said, pointing at the empty hearth. The large man needed no further instruction and began building the fire.

Pratt wrung his hands as the infamous ‘Lady Glass’ produced a hunter’s flask from her little purse. A most expensive silver piece, with leather lining and a detachable cup. Lady Anne poured herself a measure of aromatic cognac and had a very noisy slurp. Manners were for the common and the young.

‘Is the chap here?’ she asked.

‘Yeh – yes, ma’am. But I asked him to wash before meeting you. He stank of—’

‘Nonsense. Bring him in.’

Pratt rushed to a nearby door, just as the hearth burst with light and heat. Most efficient was Jed. And loyal. It was a pity he would die relatively soon.

The hall already felt warmer when Pratt returned, and behind him came a young fellow. He must have been be in his early twenties, short and scrawny, but his lean face and arms were already weathered by the elements. Pratt elbowed him when they approached Lady Anne, and the young man at once took off his soiled flat cap.

‘So you are the McGrays’ gardener?’ the woman demanded.

‘Aye, ma’am,’ he replied, a little too sure of himself for her taste. ‘Only part-time. They keep this other lad—’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Billy, ma’am.’

Lady Anne took a sip, thinking that there was a cheeky spark to the man’s eyes. He might be useful.

‘Is it all they say at the inns?’ she asked, and Billy whistled.

‘Aye, ma’am. Worse even! I saw the lass myself and what she did to the young Master Adolphus. Well, that was before that lunatics’ doctor—’

‘What happened earlier?’ she snapped. ‘During the day. Before the girl shouted she’d been possessed by the Devil.’

‘Well, I spent the best part o’ the day working in the gardens. I finished by dinner time and went to the kitchens to get my meal. The family ate in the big hall. Before that I’d seen them get in ’n’ out the house. Mrs McGray, rest in peace, had been arranging flowers. I plucked a few roses for her myself.’

‘And her husband?’

‘I didnae see much o’ him at all, ma’am. Only two, three times that I walked past his library window. He was there since the early morning, bent on his papers.’

Lady Anne clasped the silver cup a little more tightly. ‘Did you see anything else going on in that room?’

‘Nae, ma’am, but I ken what ye mean. That’s where the lass lost her mind.’

‘But you saw her earlier in the day, did you not?’ Lady Anne pressed. ‘Did she look insane before?’

Billy shook his head. ‘Nae, ma’am. I heard her laugh with her mum in the morning. And after dinner she went out riding with Master Adolphus, her brother. I was outside havin’ a fag when they left, so I saw them go. They looked quite happy.’

‘And then?’ Lady Anne asked, leaning slightly forwards. Her hand, blotched and bony, clenched the armrest like a talon.

‘Well … Mr McGray, rest in peace, asked auld George to tell us to go to the pub. He even gave us money for our drams.’

Lady Anne chuckled. ‘Did he do that often?’

Billy twisted his mouth. ‘Every now and then, when he wisnae cross. Usually ’round Christmas time and in summer. Thought it did us good, but between youse ’n’ me, we were never too keen. The pub’s a couple o’ miles away; bonny walk, but a wee bit long. Especially when ye have to come back half blootered.’

‘So that’s where you all were,’ Lady Anne said. ‘You were at the pub while your master and mistress were being butchered by their own daughter.’

Billy bit his lip. ‘Aye.’

‘Was there anyone else in the house?’

‘Only auld Betsy.’

Lady Anne blinked. ‘And who’s that?’

‘Och, aye, ye don’t ken her. The housekeeper. She’s getting on in years, if ye take my mea—’ Billy saw that Lady Anne’s creases deepened at any mention of advanced age. ‘She doesnae like long walks anymore, let’s say.’

Lady Anne took a long drink. ‘So all you know for certain is what that woman saw.’

‘Aye.’

‘Tell me,’ Lady Anne asked, her pale eyes glimmering with eerie intensity, so much so that Billy took an involuntary step back.

‘She – she said she stayed in the kitchens, having a wee nap. She has a nice rocking chair there. Said she thought she heard horses arrive; she thought it was Miss Amy and Master Adolphus coming back, but … it couldnae have been them. Master Adolphus only came back after—’

‘Don’t jump ahead,’ said Lady Anne. ‘Tell me things in order. She heard horses, and then?’

‘She didnae make too much of it and went on napping, and then … well, then it all happened. She heard mighty screaming at the library. The lass Pansy – Miss McGray, I mean – seemed to have gone mad. She just burst into the kitchen, grabbed the biggest cleaver, the one Betsy uses to cut through bones, and ran back to the library. Poor auld Betsy said she almost died o’ the fright.’

‘Did she follow her?’ Lady Anne asked.

‘Aye, and she heard Mr and Mrs McGray screaming too; trying to control the lass, ye’d think.’

Lady Anne was on the edge of her seat, even ignoring the drink. ‘Did she see anything? Did she go into the library?’

Billy shook his head. ‘She said she only made it to the door. It was a wee bit open but the lass closed it when she saw Betsy getting close.’

Lady Anne arched an eyebrow. ‘Did she lock the door?’

‘Aye, ma’am. And then Betsy heard Master McGray telling her to go away. Cannae blame him. If a child o’ yers went mad, ye wouldnae want the servants to see and go telling—’

‘Oh, go on!’ Lady Anne shrilled, her voice echoing across the hall. All three men started, even the tall Jed. She noticed she’d just spilt half the drink on her skirt, and forced herself to take a deep breath.

Lady Anne knew plenty about mad offspring.

Jed – the only one who understood the reason for the outburst – refilled the cup for her.

She downed it in one gulp and cleared her throat. ‘Go on.’

Billy drew in some air too. ‘Betsy couldnae get into the library and she kent the rest of us were at the pub, miles away, so all she could think o’ doing was to go out and look for Master Adolphus. She—’

Lady Anne raised a hand. ‘Did she hear anything? Anything the McGrays were talking about? Anything that would explain why the girl had lost her wits?’

‘If she did, she’ll never tell. The McGrays are the apple o’ her eye. Auld George’s too.’

Lady Anne nodded at Mr Pratt. They might have to find that woman, but it must be a careful approach, if she was indeed so loyal to the family.

‘Go on,’ she said. By then there were beads of sweat on Billy’s upper lip.

‘Auld Betsy found Master Adolphus soon enough. He was just by the lake. She told him there was trouble and he rode like the wind back to the house. Betsy ran after him, and it was about that time that we came back. We found her running and weeping on the footpath. She told us what was happening; I remember her words very well. She said wee Pansy was screaming as if some devil had got inside her. I remember very well ’cause – as youse ken by now – she later—’

‘Don’t jump ahead,’ Lady Anne said again. ‘I presume you and the other servants also ran to the house?’

‘Aye, o’ course, ma’am. Auld George the butler; me; Conor, the other gardener; and Mary, his wife, who also helps in the house. And we heard the shrieks well before we made it to the house.’

‘Did you see the horses?’ Lady Anne asked. Billy felt as if those veiny eyes could see right through him.

‘Aye, ma’am. Master Adolphus’s brown horse, and Miss Amy’s wee foal.’

Lady Anne parted her lips, as if about to say something, but instead she looked sideways, staring into the crackling fire for a moment. She wanted to ask more about the horses, but realised it would be far too risky. In the end, she raised her silver cup, and Jed refilled it.

‘Continue,’ she said before taking another sip.

Billy had to use his flat cap to wipe the sweat from his face.

‘We found the main door wide open, and I remember the door to the library was still flapping. We – we saw her then.’

The young man shuddered, a tendon popping on his neck.

‘The poor lass was running about, shrieking ’n’ swearing and – och, she did look like the Devil. Her dress was all stained with blood … she was all pale like the dead, and – och, ma’am, those eyes! I still see her when I close mine. And she still had that nasty cleaver in her hand. It was dripping blood everywhere!’

Lady Anne had listened without blinking or breathing.

‘Did you go after her?’

Billy winced. ‘N-nae, ma’am. I thought I was soiling myself! It was auld George and Conor who ran after her. Mary and me were too frightened …’ He blushed intensely, and then lifted his chin. ‘But it was good we stayed put! We heard Master Adolphus moaning in the library.’ He shuddered again. ‘Youse can imagine the mess. The poor lad was on the floor, all stunned – all … covered in blood too. And his mum and dad lay dead right behind him …’

There was a moment of sombre, almost respectful silence, as if the McGrays’ ghosts had descended to hear their own morbid story.

Billy cleared his throat.

‘We managed to get Master Adolphus to the kitchen. Mary gave him some spirit, but –’ his blush became a greenish hue – ‘it was only then that we saw his hand, all butchered. Mary and me were too scared to do anything, and yet the poor master kept bleeding all over the floor!’

Lady Anne remembered the rhyme. This Billy must have been prattling to others.

He looked down. ‘The poor master had to bandage himself with a kitchen rag. It was then that he told us what had happened. I’m nae sure he even realised he was sayin’ it out loud. He said it had been his wee sister. That she had killed the masters and then chopped his finger when he tried to hold her still.

‘We heard more screaming when he was talking. Then George came round and said the lass had gone to her room. Conor was holding the door in case she tried to go out again; she’d tried to stab them too. Betsy came by with the keys, but she nearly fainted. It was me who went upstairs and locked the door.’

Lady Anne lounged back, taking another deep breath as if she had just gone through the ordeal herself.

‘Did the girl try anything after that?’

‘Nae. She went deathly quiet, ma’am. We all did. No one spoke for the rest o’ the day. Master Adolphus, blood and all, carried his parents to their bed. Betsy went to clean them and in the meantime Master Adolphus went to Dundee for the undertakers. George wrote to the lunatics’ doctor in Edinburgh. I myself took the message to the telegrapher in Dundee.’

Lady Anne raised a suspicious eyebrow. ‘And Dr Clouston arrived the following morning, did he not?’

‘Aye. Before sunrise. He must’ve travelled through the night. We were all asleep then, worn out like auld boots. It was George and Betsy who received him. But—’ the man smacked his lips loudly, his mouth dry. He eyed Lady Anne’s little cup. ‘Can I have a wee drink o’ that?’

Rustic, common folk! Lady Anne thought. Then again, so had been the late James McGray and his slut of a wife. So was his vulgar son Adolphus. And Amy, the only one in that family who might have had a few redeeming qualities, was now lost forever.

While Lady Anne mused, Jed pulled out a flask from his own pocket and handed it to the trembling gardener. Billy had a couple of long swigs, wiped his mouth and shook his head as he felt the burn of the cheap whisky.

‘We all woke up to the lass’s scream,’ he finally spluttered, his eyes fixed on the fire. ‘It was demented, ma’am. It was – I’ve never heard anything like it. We heard her all the way to the servants’ rooms. Like an eagle or a – banshee or something from hell.

‘And she screamed the Devil’s name. We all heard her. If we had any doubts the lass was mad, that sealed it.’

Billy had another drink before handing the flask back.

‘It was then that the doctor took her away,’ Mr Pratt added. ‘Straight to the lunatic asylum. As we now know.’

‘Aye, sir,’ Billy said.

‘The asylum …’ Lady Anne mumbled to herself. She knew that no good could ever come from that arrangement, but there was nothing she could do about it. Not yet, at least. She had the last of the drink and looked back at Billy. ‘And you will declare all this at the Sheriff’s Court?’

‘Aye, ma’am, every word under oath as I must. Unless – well, unless ye want me to add or take something, and …’

He slowly rubbed his thumb and first two fingers together.

Lady Anne sighed, all weariness. ‘You can go for now. Mr Pratt was right; you stink like a mule.’

Billy bowed and walked away, to one of the inn’s many empty rooms.

Lady Anne stared at the fire, holding the fragrant liquor under her nostrils.

‘What happens now?’ she whispered.

‘They will try to class the girl as insane,’ Mr Pratt said. ‘Avoid a full trial.’

Lady Anne at once shook her head. ‘From what I just heard, the girl is insane. And if Dr Clouston is involved, I’m sure he will follow all the legal procedures to certify it.’

And manage he would, she thought. Even if Scotland had one of the strictest lunacy acts in the civilised world.

Mr Pratt pulled over one of the rickety chairs and sat closer to the fire.

‘Insane she may be, Lady Anne, but wouldn’t it be most convenient for you – if she was not?’

The woman looked up, like a hound that has just caught a scent. ‘Do you mean … have her tried for murder?’

‘Indeed. Show Clouston’s incompetence. Or a conflict of interests. He is, after all, very close to the family.’

Lady Anne sighed. ‘I cannot be involved in any scheme of the kind. Dr Clouston knows all about—’ she said, mouthing the words ‘my son’, with a hand obscuring her lips, in case Billy were prying in the shadows.

Mr Pratt pulled his chair a little closer.

‘No one needs to know of your involvement, ma’am. If you leave things to me—’ He gulped. ‘If I play our cards right, this could finally pay my debt to you. And you will finally have your revenge on the old McGray.’

‘Bonnie night to undig the dead!’

The coarse whisper sounded amidst the sheer, solid darkness, along with the frantic thuds of spades on dirt.

Eyes open or shut, it made no difference; the night was so black the two snatchers could not even see the borders of the grave. All they had for guidance were the ruffles of their clothes and their chattering teeth. And even if the skies opened – which was most unlikely – there’d be no moonshine to speak of.

‘Reminds me o’ the night we dug up poor Bessy MacBean. Nice lass. A milk lass. We did a wee bit o’ hornpipe dancing, if ye take my meaning. Didnae know it was her grave till we opened the box. Imagine my yelp when I saw her face! Still plump ’n’ pretty. A wee bit green, but nae wormy yet.’

His companion dug a little faster.

‘I do feel bad about her, don’t ye think me a beast. I knew she was for the dissection table, to be cut open ’n’ her bits put in crocks, but the trade’s the trade. Uhhh! Maybe ye’ve seen her eyes in the college! Floating in one o’ yer jars? Green, they were, and she had this odd speck in—’

‘Oh, do shut up!’

‘Uhh! Gittin’ scared, lad?’

A snort was the only reply.

‘And I’ve nae even told ye ’bout the real scary nights! Like those times the witches got there first and helped themselves to fingers ’n’ scalps ’n’ livers—’

‘I said shut up! Do you not—?’

There was a clank then. Metal on metal. One of the spades had just hit the hinges of the coffin.

‘Shallow grave,’ said the coarse snatcher after a satisfied whistle. ‘Yer lucky. That auld sexton must’ve been desperate to go home before his arse got frozen.’

Blindly, they scraped the loose soil from the top of the coffin. They heard the spades scratch what must be wrought-iron ornaments.

‘A dear box!’ said the snatcher, producing a crowbar from his coat’s inner pockets. He wasted no time and removed the lid with little noise and no ceremony.

The younger man in turn produced a handkerchief, but before he had a chance to take it to his nose—

‘Not even a waft of stench yet,’ he mumbled as they heard the coffin crack open. ‘It must be the cold.’

‘Told ye, lad. Bonnie night for our trade.’

The younger man struck a match, lighting the ditch with a glow that seemed blinding in the pitch-black night.

‘Och, put that out, for fuck’s sake!’

‘It has to be the right corpse!’ the young man retorted, bending over the dead body.

The first thing he saw was a pair of yellowy, bony hands, as dry and creased as an old parchment. The pale skin appeared to glow, resting on an old, black dress, and clutching sprigs of evergreens and a little prayer book.

The young snatcher moved the light towards the face, saw the glint of a thin gold necklace, and then looked up to—

‘God …’

His gasp came from the bottom of his stomach, as a nasty tingle spread along his spine.

He could say no more, for the older man shushed him, pulled up the match and smothered it in his bare hand. The darkness encircled them again, and they listened out.

They waited for a few moments, perfectly still and breathing cautiously.

Silence.

‘We better hurry, lad,’ said the snatcher, already shifting the corpse.

‘The face …’ his companion whispered, not yet recovered from the fright. ‘The face has this – this … never mind.’

The older man pocketed the fine leather prayer book and the necklace, and then they lifted the limp body. The thin, aged lady somehow felt too heavy. Their hands must be numb.

The pair scrambled out of the ditch and felt for the shroud they’d left already spread on the snow. They laid the body on it and wrapped it hastily. The glow from a very distant street light at least let them make out their own silhouettes.

The older man looked up, almost spraining his neck. His companion waited, holding his breath, and then he too heard the noise.

‘We have to go now,’ the old man urged.

‘But the tools—’

‘Nae time!’

They lifted the poorly wrapped body and ran across the graveyard, panting. They saw the wide Greyfriars church, a shade darker than the surrounding snow, and as they turned around its corner, the lights of the Grass Market tenements emerged in the distance.

They heard the noise again, this time louder, and ran faster, with the shroud slipping from their sweaty hands. The iron bars of the back gate appeared before them, the outline of their cart right behind it. The horse, already restless, stamped a hoof on the frozen slates.

The old snatcher pushed the gate, and with the creak of rusty hinges came a booming shout, cutting the air and bouncing all across the graveyard.

‘I see youse, wee bastards!’

At once they recognised the roaring voice of Nine-Nails McGray.

There was a gunshot, and then the sounds of whistles and hooves trampling the snow. The peelers were coming on horseback from the front gate.

The snatchers tossed the corpse onto the cart without even looking. The young man leapt on, just as his companion took the driver’s seat and whipped the horse. The cart darted ahead and the young man had to hold on to the boards with both hands, the corpse sliding back and nearly pushing him off the edge.

He had a quick glance over his shoulder, just in time to see another gunshot detonate in the dark.

‘Stop!’ Nine-Nails howled, his voice fading as the cart charged towards the gardens of George Heriot’s Hospital. The building, a solid castle-like block, rose to the skies like a forbidding wall.

The cart entered the hospital’s snowed lawns, wide and open, the perimeter illuminated by gaslights.

‘Are you mad?’ the young man screeched, hearing the whistles and the shouts of the peelers, but then the snatcher steered the horse to the right, to some blackened rose beds, and animal and cart trampled frantically on thorny bushes and specimen shrubs. The horse neighed and jolted, but the snatcher whipped it on, and just as they heard another gunshot behind their backs, they made it to a narrow side gate. The pathetic picket fence was no match for the frenzied horse, the old wood giving way as the cart passed through.

They entered a dark, narrow alley that stank of piss and stale beer, with only a faint, yellowish spot of light marking the other end, many yards ahead.

The snatcher whipped the horse again and the cart moved faster. Again the young man felt the corpse sliding backwards, pushing him to the edge of the cart. He growled, clenched the side boards with both hands and kicked the dead old woman towards the front. He propped himself more firmly, and only then did he notice that the peelers’ voices could be heard no more.

He allowed himself a sigh of relief, and then the cart stormed into the long esplanade of Grass Market. The tall tenements he’d seen from the graveyard were now right before them; and beyond, as if floating in the sky, he saw the many specks of light coming from the narrow windows of Edinburgh Castle, blurry in the night mist.

The older snatcher steered the horse north, to the safety of the darker alleys, but then an explosion of voices, whistles and hooves came from his right.

The young man gasped at the sight of four horses charging in their direction, and the glow of lanterns and many simultaneous gunshots. He crouched down, as the snatcher turned west swiftly.

‘Where the hell did they come from?’ he shouted.

The horse’s hooves skidded over the frozen cobbles, the wheels creaking as some of their tattered rods burst into splinters.

They rushed on, crossing the unpaved, muddy land that led to the wide road of Johnston Terrace. The young man could only see a solid patch of blackness in front of them – the steep cliffs of Castle Rock. And the peelers were right behind them. And the cart now creaked as if about to fall apart.

A gunshot came, followed by the pained scream of the snatcher.

The young man knew all was lost. The darkness was his best chance. But he had to act now, before they made it to the lit road, even if that meant Nine-Nails’s horse might crush him to death.

He took a deep breath, jumped off the cart and landed on cold slush, rolling uncontrollably on the ground as the sound of frantic galloping and men’s yelps finally surrounded him.

Something hit him on the head – and he knew no more.

McGray heard the clash of wood against rock, then the neighing of the poor horse, and then hooves trampling manically.

He spurred his black horse Onyx and squinted as the officers shed their lights ahead.

The jagged slopes of Castle Rock were much closer than he expected, and amidst the shadows he distinguished the outline of the cart, now half sunken into a muddy ditch, a broken wheel still spinning in the air.

The horse was desperately trying to jump out, twisting its body but still strapped to the shafts.

McGray stopped his horse right by the cart, fanning his gun from left to right.

‘Release that poor beast,’ he told the officers as soon as he was sure there was no threat.

Young Constable McNair and another man jumped off their horses to do the work, while McGray stared at the blood-covered temple of the body snatcher.

‘Damn!’ he said as he dismounted. ‘The poor sod’s dead?’

Constable Millar came by with a lantern and touched the man’s head. It turned limply to one side.

‘Aye, sir, but nae from yer shot. Looks like the auld man banged his head against the rock.’

‘How fucking inconsiderate!’ McGray snorted. He’d been meaning to question the rascal. He looked around. ‘Look for the other bastard. Cannae be far.’

Millar nodded and turned on his heels, the beam of his lantern shaking across the field.

McGray turned back to the horse, just as McNair cut the straps in one clean blow. At once the animal jumped onto the road, shaking its mane, and McGray rushed to seize it by the terrets. The horse shook and neighed, but McGray pulled it to him and sheathed his gun to pat it on the back. Its wide, glassy eyes were fearful, and McGray felt sorry for the poor creature.

‘There, there, don’t stomp on my feet! He’s dead now!’ He then shouted over his shoulder. ‘McNair, check the cart.’

McNair did so, though not too enthused. Inspecting unburied bodies in the middle of the night was not something he particularly enjoyed.

‘Old woman,’ he said, shedding light on the corpse after lifting the shroud. ‘Looks like – God, it’s just what ye feared, sir; the widow from the asylum.’

‘Bastards! Ye sure?’

‘I … I think so, sir.’

‘I’ll have a look in a moment,’ McGray said, running a hand – his mutilated one – on the horse’s mane. It was a surprisingly good horse; wide, muscly and well-fed. The chestnut coat reminded him of Rye, the last horse his late father had ever given him, and he felt a pang in the chest.

‘They helped themselves to the jewellery, Inspector,’ McNair added. ‘And from those marks in the neck they must have ripped – God!’

The last word came out as a shrill.

‘What?’ McGray asked, giving the horse one last pat. He approached the cart and looked over the side board. McNair was panting.

‘There,’ he whispered, a trembling finger pointing at the woman’s face.

McGray at once felt a chill on the back of his neck.

‘What the hell is that?’ McNair asked, even if the horrid mark on the dead skin demanded no explanation.

It was the Devil’s work.

Caroline Ardglass felt a stab of fear.

The shout had come from far too close – no more than two rooms away. It had been a tearing, tortured wail, like that of a dying woman.

She looked up, still holding Miss McGray’s hand in hers. There were footsteps and murmurs, the old asylum awakening.

And she was not supposed to be there.

Miss McGray stirred in the bed. She’d been about to fall asleep, her dark hair and long eyelashes standing out amidst the pristine white sheets. Her eyes, as brown as Caroline’s, opened wide, and she looked from side to side in fright.

For an instant she did not seem to recognise her surroundings – the high ceilings or the curtains around her four-poster bed. And when she realised where she was, Edinburgh’s Royal Asylum for the Insane, she whimpered. Caroline squeezed her hand a little tighter.

‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘It’s all right, Pansy.’

That was the girl’s childhood nickname, given to her by her late mother, who told every acquaintance her daughter’s eyelashes made her look like her favourite blooms.

Hearing it seemed to work. Pansy’s pupils moved a little in Caroline’s direction, not quite making eye contact, and she exhaled with some relief.

Caro