The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(101)

“Emma,” he replied. “Emma can convince him.”

“Emma? But she’s . . .”

Doyle didn’t have the heart to finish the sentence, as though he feared killing her a second time. Wells finished it for him.

“Dead. Yes, Arthur, Emma is dead. Dead and buried. And yet she is the only person who can convince him. Murray needs to end the conversation they started in the automobile. He needs to tell her who he is and beg her for forgiveness. And we all know that there’s only one way to contact the dead, don’t we?”

Doyle raised his eyebrows.

“You mean . . . ?”

Wells looked straight at Doyle, attempting to convey the urgency of what he was about to ask him.

“Yes, a séance. I need Emma to contact Murray. I need her to forgive him in death for what he was unable to confess to her in life. And to do that, Arthur, I need your help.”

? ? ?

BY THEN WOOD HAD read a dozen more letters, and for a further twenty minutes continued to wade despondently through his employer’s correspondence, until Cleeve came into the study and interrupted him.

“Major Wood, the master requires you in the library.”

“Did he say why?” asked Wood a little uneasily.

“No, but he’s still with Mr. Wells. And the two of them seem very . . . agitated. When I saw him in that state I feared the worst . . . but luckily all he wanted was for me to fetch you.”

“Oh, no.” Wood turned pale, with the same discretion that characterized his whole existence. “Tell me, Cleeve: he doesn’t have that look, does he?”

The butler sighed regretfully.

“I’m afraid so, Major Wood.”

Doyle’s secretary heaved such a sigh of despair that it relegated the butler to the level of simple apprentice in the art of outwardly expressing inner regret. In common with Cleeve, Wood feared nothing more than when his employer summoned him with that look in his eyes. It could mean many things, none of which boded well: an invitation to spend a few months at the battlefront, lessons in flying a hot-air balloon, or a madcap scheme to fight against some injustice that would doubtless involve treading a thin line between ridiculousness and illegality. What could it be this time? After exchanging a look of commiseration with Cleeve, Wood walked swiftly toward the library, straightening his impeccable jacket, smoothing his impeccable hair, and rehearsing the expression of placid indifference with which he habitually received his employer’s most eccentric requests. And yet, underneath, he was far from being calm, which might explain why, when he reached the library door, he remained rather longer than was appropriate, knuckles poised, before rapping gently to announce his arrival. Wood could hear very clearly everything the two men were saying inside the room as they conversed with audible excitement.

“He’ll accept because he’s desperate!” Wells was saying. “Especially if the suggestion comes from you, Arthur. I saw the expression on his face when you explained to him about spiritualism the day I introduced you. I assure you, very few succeed in shutting him up the way you did, even if it was only for a moment . . . Besides, he has nothing to lose . . .”

“Of course he has nothing to lose, George! And much to gain!” Doyle bellowed. “The chance to speak to his beloved one last time . . . who in their right mind wouldn’t attempt it? He’ll accept, of course he will. Especially when I tell him I’ve found an authentic medium hidden in one of South Africa’s lost tribes, a medium with unquestionable powers, waiting to be discovered.”

“A genuine medium, who will make all the bogus ones pale into insignificance . . . Just as you predicted that day!” said Wells excitedly.

“It’s true! That conversation . . . It was fate, I’m sure of it!” agreed Doyle with equal enthusiasm. “And Murray will think so, too.”

“All we have to do now is bring your medium over to England as soon as possible!” Wood heard a festive clink suggesting a toast. “Incidentally, where the devil is your secretary?”

Behind the door, Wood gave a start. What were the two men thinking? Were they planning to send him to South Africa to fetch this medium? Well, they had another think coming if they thought that . . .

Doyle’s booming voice interrupted his reverie. “Stop eavesdropping, Wood, and come in, damn it!”

“How the devil did he know . . .” Wood started to mutter, but he left his sentence unfinished as he pushed open the door, adopting his most unctuous smile.

“I beg your pardon, sir, I heard raised voices and I thought that, er . . . it might be an inopportune moment.”

“Nonsense; I sent for you, didn’t I?” Doyle cut in. “Woodie, I need your services.”

“Yes, sir . . . ,” Wood replied, preparing for the worst.

“Don’t pull that face, my dear fellow. I assure you I’m not going to ask you to do anything complicated. At least, nothing for which you aren’t fully prepared.”

Doyle remained silent for a few moments, seeing through his secretary’s nonchalant exterior and taking pleasure in prolonging the fearful anticipation it doubtless concealed.

“I think I’m going to need your wonderful penmanship again,” he said, grinning at his employee’s bewilderment. Yes, there was nothing he enjoyed more than testing the limits of Woodie’s courteous behavior. “I need you to write a few lines on my behalf.”