The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(103)
“All I ask is that you pay for the damage to my bedroom door.”
Doyle gave a bull-like snort, walked over to one of the windows, and looked out, trying to calm down.
“You are pigheaded and selfish, Monty,” Wells said crossly. “You couldn’t care less about the misery you’re putting us through, could you? What skin is it off your nose if you attend a séance? What in heaven’s name do you have to lose?”
“Please, Monty,” Jane implored for the umpteenth time. “All we’re asking is that you give it a try.”
Murray looked at her with a pained expression.
“I can’t do it, Jane,” he murmured. “I won’t allow Emma’s spirit to be defiled now that she is dead. Every day when I lied to her while she was alive was an act of disrespect, and I refuse to let that happen again by agreeing to some stupid sideshow.
“But no one is going to defile her!” Wells cried, exasperated. “I assure you again, the Great Ankoma is a genuine medium.”
“What are you scared of, Gilmore?” Doyle asked, wheeling round, hands clasped behind his back.
“Scared?” Murray looked puzzled. “I’m not scared of anything.”
“Oh, yes you are,” Doyle assured him harshly. “You’re scared of talking to Emma and discovering that she won’t forgive you, aren’t you? Because what would be left then? You wouldn’t even have the luxury of killing yourself . . . Why die and risk being confronted with an angry woman for all eternity? You prefer to carry on as you are, tormenting us with your asinine threats of suicide, threats you will never carry out because you’re too much of a coward. And that is why you haven’t already taken your life, and why you don’t want to talk to Emma, and why you were incapable of telling her the truth when she was still alive.”
“What! I was going to tell her!” Murray roared, almost keeling over as he leapt from his chair. “I was going to tell her before the damned automobile veered off the road. And of course I’m going to kill myself! I don’t want to go on living! I don’t care what’s on the Other Side, I don’t care if there’s only a horrible void, or if Emma is there and she is angry with me for all eternity . . . Nothing could be worse than this, nothing . . .”
“You’re going to kill yourself? Then do it!” Doyle flung open the windows behind him, and a soft, cool breeze like a lover’s breath invaded the room. “Go on, jump! We’re at least four floors up; you’ll almost certainly die . . . Jump right now and end it all!”
Wells and Jane looked at Doyle, aghast.
“Arthur, please, I don’t think this is the way to . . .” Wells hesitated.
But before he could finish his sentence, Murray strode over to the window, thrusting Wells aside.
“Don’t do it, Monty!” Jane exclaimed in anguish, standing in his path.
Gently but firmly, Murray also pushed her to one side.
“For heaven’s sake, Arthur, stop him!” Jane cried.
But Doyle took no notice. Instead, he stepped away from the window with a grin, politely extending his arm as if to let him through. Murray gave Doyle a black look as he walked past him and leapt up onto the windowsill, holding on to the frame with both hands.
“Monty, come down from there, I implore you,” Wells said, approaching him with timid steps.
“Stay where you are, George!” Murray commanded.
Doyle, who was standing right next to Murray, signaled to Wells to do as he said. Stifling the urge to run and grab Murray, Wells stood stock-still, anxiously contemplating his bulky figure, silhouetted against the moonlight, almost filling the entire window.
His hands clasping the window frame and his feet balancing on the narrow sill, Murray took a deep breath. As they had been talking, the afternoon had faded amid glowing purples, giving way to a perfect summer’s evening crowned by a full moon. A beautiful evening to die, he told himself, as the warm night breeze caressed his hair and brought with it the scent of jasmine. Why not end his suffering once and for all? Was he a coward, as Doyle maintained? He edged his right foot forward, eliciting a stifled shriek from Jane. He felt for her, and for George, and even for Doyle. He was sorry his friends would have to witness his demise, but Wells was right. He was putting them through a lot of misery. It was best to put an end once and for all to the sorry spectacle of his grief. And that was what he was going to do. He looked down. The gardens where he had so often strolled with Emma stretched out beneath him. In each of its nooks and crannies, the memory of a kiss, a caress, a joke that had made her laugh, lingered on like bits of fabric snagged on a bush. The silvery light of the moon delicately traced the outlines of the trees, made the dewdrops on the roses glisten like sequins, and shimmered on the pond where the lilies rocked gently, performing a slow waltz for themselves. At the end of the garden, rising like a new moon above the treetops of a small leafy forest, was the dome of the tiny, exquisite conservatory—in the shape of the Taj Mahal—that Murray had built with his own hands as a surprise gift for his bride-to-be. Then the yawning gap between him and the ground made him feel a sudden irrational fear, which reminded him of the day he had landed in a balloon to win Emma’s heart. He had been forced to struggle against his fear of heights then, too, only it had been worth it because his beloved was waiting for him on Horsell Common. Murray closed his eyes and saw her once more as he had seen her that day, standing below him in a white dress, half-obscured by her parasol, which she twirled nervously as she waited . . . and, mustering the last of his courage, he told himself he must join her, and soon, because she liked him to be punctual, and he was already several months late . . . He opened his eyes, ready to leap into the void.