The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(104)
And then he saw her. On the path beside the rosebushes, where she used to pause during their strolls and delicately breathe in the scent of one of the roses. A woman was there now, her white dress gleaming in the moonlight, her face obscured by a parasol that twirled restlessly. An image as clear and terrifying as an unexpected laugh in the dead of night. Murray stood up straight and blinked several times as he felt her name tumble out of his mouth.
“Emma . . . ,” he spluttered.
“No, Monty, please,” implored Jane, horrified. “Don’t jump. Emma wouldn’t have wanted it—”
“Emma!” cried Murray.
He wheeled round, and leapt back into the room.
“I knew it!” Doyle exclaimed triumphantly. “I knew he wouldn’t jump.”
Taking no notice of him, Murray ran toward Wells and, grabbing his arm, dragged him over to the window.
“Look, George, look!” he said, his eyes flashing. “It’s Emma, she’s there . . .”
“What?”
They all rushed over to the window and poked their heads out expectantly.
“I don’t see anything,” Wells murmured.
“Nor do I,” said Jane, screwing up her eyes. “What exactly did you see, Monty?”
Murray didn’t answer. He spun round and darted out of the room. Alarmed, the others pursued him, almost stumbling over one another on the stairs. When Murray reached the spot where he had seen Emma, he halted and looked around, anxious and confused. The others arrived, gasping for breath, but before they could ask him to explain, Murray took off again across the lawn. His friends watched with pitiful faces as he ran up and down the pathways and around the lily ponds calling Emma’s name, pausing occasionally, as if to listen, before resuming his mad, pointless race. At last he fell to his knees, exhausted, crooning his beloved’s name amid loud sobs. Wells went over to Murray, knelt down beside him, and placed a hand on his shoulder. Murray looked at him, his eyes ravaged by the most devastating grief imaginable.
“I saw her, George, I tell you I saw her,” he whispered between sobs. “It was her. She was there . . . Why did she vanish?”
Doyle also knelt beside Murray and smiled benevolently at him.
“She’s trying to get in touch with you, my friend,” he explained almost affectionately, like a father consoling his child, “but she can’t find a way. Perhaps she simply wants to remind you of your assignation at Brook Manor. She herself prearranged it the day she died. As I once told you, spirits need a conduit in order to communicate with us. They need mediums . . .”
20
THREE DAYS AFTER THE GREAT Ankoma arrived in England, Murray was at the door of Brook Manor just as evening was beginning to blur the contours of the landscape. He was accompanied by Jane, who had been watching over him that day. Waiting for them inside the house were Wells and Doyle, who had arrived in a hired carriage that morning with the medium. The Great Ankoma wanted to spend a few hours in the spot where the séance was to be held, allowing the spiritual forces there to scent him, like someone letting a strange dog sniff him before stroking it.
“I still don’t know how I let myself be talked into coming all the way here,” Murray snapped at Wells when he came to open the door to them.
Murray kept muttering to himself as he strode into the hallway, and Wells and Jane exchanged knowing looks. After a perfunctory embrace, Wells shepherded Murray into the dining room, where the séance was to take place. At a glance, he saw that his friend had at least spruced himself up a bit and wasn’t wearing his clothes inside out, something for which he doubtless had Jane to thank.
“I promise you won’t regret it, Monty. Just try to relax so that the mysterious forces of the Hereafter don’t feel rejected by you, and—”
“That’s enough, George, please,” interrupted Murray, waving his hand impatiently. “I came here to see Emma, not to listen to your spiritualist nonsense.”
Wells nodded with a sigh as the two of them, followed by Jane, entered the main reception room adjacent to the hallway. The room felt warmer, thanks to the last of the afternoon light, which was shining on the hearth. The mounted deer heads continued to challenge one another, caught in a duel that would never take place. At the far end of the room, Doyle was waiting for them, firmly planted in front of the door leading to the dining room, like a sentry guarding the entrance to the Hereafter.
“Good evening, Gilmore,” Doyle greeted Murray. “I’m glad you came. I am sure that not only will you not regret this, but that you will also—”
“If you don’t mind, Doyle,” Murray cut in sharply, “let’s get started, shall we?”
“Of course, of course, we can begin at once,” said Doyle, who was not prepared to skip any part of the ceremony simply because of Murray’s impetuosity. “However, before I introduce you to the Great Ankoma, who is busy concentrating in the dining room, let me remind you that he has traveled all the way from South Africa just to help you, that he has never taken part in this kind of séance before, and that he isn’t motivated by greed. All of that is to his credit, as I’m sure you will appreciate, and I hope you demonstrate that by behaving with the due respect.” He looked straight at Murray, doing his best not to appear threatening and, ironically, achieving the opposite effect. “The Great Ankoma only speaks the Bakongo dialect, but I shall interpret for him. I managed to pick up quite a few words during my stay in his village.” With this, Doyle turned around and, opening the door ceremoniously, pronounced: “I hope you are prepared, Gilmore. Your idea of the world will change as of tonight.”