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this than nothing at all. Of course he could have mentioned Sofia, but what could he really say – that he had been attracted to a servant? Aunt Agnes would have a seizure, particularly following his rejection of Elspeth Gibson.
    James cringed at the memory. Presumably in an effort to restore some stability to their circumstances, given their father’s fate, Aunt Agnes had taken it upon herself to find him a wife and had engineered a number of meetings with Miss Gibson, a clergyman’s daughter, who was one of the dullest young women he had ever encountered. Every other sentence from her (and there were not that many to choose from) had come from the bible or the prayer book. Lucy had taken to referring to her as ‘Everlasting Elspeth’ as, she said, ten minutes with her seemed like an eternity. Aunt Agnes, however, was a determined woman and, like a spectre at a feast, Elspeth was at every social event he attended and was a constant visitor to their home. His aunt made it clear that it was his duty to make ‘a good marriage,’ as she had put it, and he had almost believed her. Riven by guilt at his part in his father’s fate and uncertain about his own future he was on the verge of doing his aunt’s bidding. But when it came to the day when he was supposed to ask for Elspeth Gibson’s hand he had found that he could not do it. The marriage would have made them both unhappy and what would have been the sense in that? James had inherited a romantic nature from his mother and wanted to follow her example, marrying for love not convenience, no matter what the consequences.
    Aunt Agnes had been furious, not it seemed at Miss Gibson’s alleged devastation, which James had somehow doubted as she had never seemed to do more than tolerate him, but at what ‘people would say’. It was at this point that James knew that he had to escape, not just for the sake of his own sanity but also for Lucy’s well-being. It was quite clear to him that if he was ever to forge an independent future for them, away from their father’s legacy, he had to look further than Edinburgh.
    As he sat in the fading light of the gloomy afternoon, James resolved to spend the rest of the day with his books. After all, he reasoned, if he was to be a worthy assistant to the professor then he should ensure that he was up to date with current thinking about criminality. He took out a selection of volumes from his travelling trunk and settled down to read.
    Hours passed and the day gradually turned to night. Diligently he worked on, poring over his books, determined to be the brightest assistant Professor Lombroso had ever engaged. Suddenly the yellow flame of the gaslight flickered in the draught from the window. He looked up quickly and caught his breath. He thought for a moment that he saw a shadow of something on the wall but it was just his imagination. He sighed at his folly and all at once felt tired; the events of the day had caught up with him and all he could see in his mind’s eye was the mutilated body of the victim and the malicious glare of the stone angel as it looked down upon them.
    He went to bed, but sleep did not come easily. He tossed and turned in the darkness, tortured by memories of Soldate’s mutilated corpse and the feelings and recollections that it had produced in him. These thoughts were nurtured by his own night demons until, like a malignant tumour, they had almost completely infected him.
    When he finally slept his dreams were punctuated by disturbing images. At first they were disjointed and made little sense. A few of the faces he had seen in photographs exhibited in Lombroso’s museum floated before him. Some of them were cackling loudly as if caught up in some unknown moment of hysteria. Others hissed the words ‘murderer’ and ‘killer’ at him with an intensity so terrifying it made him want to turn and run, though his feet refused to obey him.
    Then came the melody . . . the one that his sister was playing on