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his eyes shut, breathing in the memory of her delicate earthy scent. But then, despite his efforts to put it from his mind, a quite different aroma came to him – the cloying sour-sweet stench of what he had originally thought was death. He began to lose himself in thoughts of the terrible things he had seen, the body stiff with rigor mortis, the gaping cavity of bone and gristle of the face without the severed nose, the careful arrangement of the missing features holding down the bloody note. It was the stuff of nightmares.
    He stared down at the empty page, unsure what to write. Lucy had a vivid enough imagination and was forever writing stories that would rival the most lurid sensation novel. If he told her all that he had witnessed then who knows what tales she might concoct. James grimaced to himself. He wouldn’t be at all surprised if Aunt Agnes, a devout woman, fervent in her Protestantism, read Lucy’s letters before she gave them to his sister. She had agreed to take care of Lucy only on the basis that her rules were strictly observed.
    He knew that Lucy would be waiting anxiously for his news and that she would be more than happy to hear about the museum and all that had happened. But he was protective of her. He could not help himself. She had been very young when their mother died after a long illness but at least she had time to become accustomed to the prospect of her loss. The fate of their father was a very different matter. Its sudden violent and unexpected nature had hit her very hard and James had striven to keep the terrible truth behind it from her, particularly his own part in it. He was all she had left of their closest family and, perhaps as a result, she idolised him and he did not want to alter that. He took a deep breath, picked up his pen and began.
    Turin, November 1st, 1887
    My dear Lucy ,
    I hope this letter finds you well. I arrived safely in the city on Tuesday and have settled into my lodgings which are comfortable. My main news is that I met Professor Lombroso today and he has engaged me as an assistant. I have not yet started work but I am very much looking forward to doing so. My fellow colleague is a man named Salvatore Ottolengbi, who seems a good sort. I know, of course, that were you here you would tell me that I was jumping to conclusions! Anyway, be smiles a great deal which makes me think that he and I will be friends. I am not yet sure what to make of Professor Lombroso himself I find him a little overwhelming and his museum is full of the most bizarre exhibits, beyond anything even you could imagine.
    No doubt you will scold me for not describing the appearance of my new acquaintances even though you know of old how difficult I find such an exercise. I dare say that if you were here you would ask me your usual questions – so here are my answers. If he was a member of the animal kingdom then I would say that the professor resembles a wise old owl and Ottolenghi is a taller, thinner version of him!
    And Lucy, the city id so beautiful! I really cannot understand why it is not better known. It is full of baroque architecture and broad, shining streets full of grand palazzos. Everywhere I go I see fine sculptures and ornate fountains and there are museums and galleries around every corner.
    Now, dear Lucy, please do not reproach me for the brevity of this letter. I assure you there is really not much else to say as little has happened but I will write again soon to tell you more of my adventures. Please give my warmest regardd to our aunt.
    Your devoted brother ,
    James
    He looked again at his final sentence and grinned. Warmth and Aunt Agnes did not really go together. He could picture her now, a thin angular woman with a face that looked as if nothing resembling a smile would ever dare to cross it. The letter was short and somewhat bland but what else could he do? If he told Lucy what had really happened there was a risk that she would never get to read it. Better to receive