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the piano when the police arrived to tell them of what had befallen their father. It was a piece by Chopin. Again and again it played in his dream like a macabre music box. As he heard it he became aware that he was walking along a dark street. It had no ending and the buildings on either side were so tall that they seemed to lean in so that they were almost touching.
    Next, he saw a body. It was lying in a pool of blood, a dark figure hunched menacingly over it. As he drew closer he saw the glint of a knife in the figure’s hand. He thought, at first, that it was Lombroso but when the figure turned it had no face at all. He looked over to the corpse. It was his father, looking up at him with lifeless eyes. James tried to go to him but, almost overcome with a feeling of dread and fear, he could not. Then the faceless figure came towards him. It lifted the knife as if to strike and then looked up at him. And suddenly it had a face. It was his own.
    James woke with a start, his nightshirt damp with sweat, his heart pounding. Would he ever be able to leave his past behind? He went to the window and threw it open, taking gulps of the cool night air in an effort to calm himself. Gradually he felt better. It was only a dream after all. Given what he had seen it was hardly surprising that he had reacted to it. Indeed, Lombroso had also seemed to be badly affected by the sight. Was it possible that the professor had become unhinged by his own work? Obsession was not uncommon amongst academics, particularly scientists. He knew that much from bitter experience.
    But then whoever had done this must surely be cruel and merciless and Lombroso did not seem to be either of these things. The note, of course – A Tribute to Lombroso – meant there had to be some connection. But James could not imagine Lombroso committing such a hideous crime. Admittedly they had only met once and so he had little of substance to assist him in assessing the professor’s character. And that note was odd to say the least.
    James closed the window and went over to his shabby armchair in the corner of the room. He sank down in it and closed his eyes, the better to analyse the matter. It was perfectly true that he did not want his new employer to be involved – and it was very clear that the killer had sought to implicate Lombroso, which suggested strongly that the professor was unlikely to be the murderer. What needed to be established was why the professor had been drawn into the crime in this way. If this could be discovered, it would surely be a simple matter to identify the culprit.
    Having clarified things in his mind, he made the decision that he would offer his assistance in the matter. It was imperative that this crime was solved so Lombroso could continue with his experiments, unfettered by suspicion. Either that or be prevented from killing anyone else, whichever it turned out to be. Satisfied that he had reached a conclusion of sorts, James went back to his bed and fell soundly asleep.

3

    Impulsive crimes among animals, as among humans, are frequently prompted by love.
    Lombroso, 1884, p 171
    The next morning James made his way through the streets of Turin to Lombroso’s museum. It was a beautiful day, unseasonably warm, sunny and bright, with the snowy peaks of the Alps clearly visible in the distance, watching over the city like a group of guardian angels. But weather and the scenery were wasted on James. He sat in a cab as it clattered through the unfamiliar streets and stared into the distance. The dream was still haunting him. He had so many questions and only Lombroso, it seemed to him, would be able to answer them.
    He fingered his starched collar nervously. Was this whole enterprise a foolish mistake? Should he leave the city now before Lombroso found out his secret? And what if the professor turned out to be a killer? Where would that leave him? A chill travelled through his body as he realised what was at stake.
    He leaned back and