The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(106)
“Oh, dear, it looks as if the Great Ankoma has contacted the wrong spirit,” Doyle remarked, disillusioned.
Wells and Jane nodded, also disappointed, though still glancing about warily.
“No, no,” Murray hastened to explain. “Miss Mournful is the private nickname I used for Emma.”
He contemplated the message on the slate with a puzzled expression. He could have sworn he saw the medium up to some trick, probably exchanging slates under the table, but that wouldn’t explain the creaking door or the footsteps pacing round them. Above all, it didn’t alter the fact that no one knew the nickname he had used with Emma in private. No one but her.
“Then . . . good God, he’s contacted Emma!” Wells exclaimed, overcome with emotion.
“Yes, dear George! We did it!” Doyle bellowed excitedly. Then he turned toward Murray and barked, “Remember what I said to you, Gilmore, about believing in spirits if a loved one speaks to you using words only you and she were aware of?”
Murray looked at Doyle askance and then nodded slowly.
“Go on, Gilmore, the channel is open,” Doyle urged, exalted. “Speak to Emma. Ask her anything you like. For instance, why don’t you ask her if—”
Murray cut Doyle short with a gesture, contemplating him with a mixture of unease and indignation before raising his eyes to the ceiling.
“Emma, my love, are you really there?” he asked tentatively, unable to keep a tone of optimism from creeping into his voice.
“She already told you she’s here, Monty,” Wells remonstrated. “Why not ask her if—”
But before he was able to finish his sentence, Murray gave a start and sat bolt upright in his chair. The others looked at him, bewildered, not understanding what was the matter. For a few moments, Murray remained stiff and pale, a stupefied look on his face as he held his breath.
“Oh, God . . . ,” he howled. “Oh, God . . .”
A few seconds later, still flattened against the back of the chair, he heaved a deep sigh, letting out all the air he had been keeping in, then raised his left hand to his face and gently stroked his own cheek, as though touching it for the first time, his lips breaking into a smile of dizzy joy.
“She caressed me!” he declared, filled with emotion as he clasped Wells’s arm. “It’s all true, George. Emma is here. She caressed me—I felt her fingers touch my cheek!”
“Calm down, Monty,” Wells implored, looking inquiringly at Doyle.
“Calm down! Didn’t you hear what I said? Emma is here!” Murray leapt out of his chair, casting his gaze anxiously around the room, unsure where to look. At last, his eyes alighted on the medium, and he commanded, “I want to see her!”
Alarmed, the Great Ankoma made a little grunt that seemed to express doubt.
“Make her appear, I beg you!” Murray implored, seized by an almost childlike excitement. “I’ll give you anything you want!”
As he was pleading with the medium to make Emma materialize, even if only in the form of a vaporous ectoplasm, Murray could feel the blood throbbing so hard in his temples that he seemed to be on the point of passing out. Or perhaps it wasn’t that, but the fact was that the light in the room, made up of the flames from all the candles and the oil lamp, seemed suddenly to grow dimmer.
“Er . . . I’m afraid that is beyond good old Ankoma’s powers,” Doyle lamented. “But perhaps you could ask Emma if—”
“I don’t want to ask her a damn thing!” Murray roared in desperation. “All I want is to see her!”
He went quiet, gazing into the huge mirror that was in the room. The others also fixed their eyes on the mirror, trying to identify what it was that had silenced Murray. It took them a few seconds, because the glass appeared to reflect faithfully the scene in the dining room. They were all sitting in the same places at the table presided over by the Great Ankoma: on the right of the medium was Doyle, gazing over his shoulder at the mirror in an attempt to fathom its mysteries; on the medium’s left sat Wells and Jane, wearing equally disconcerted expressions. However, it wasn’t Murray who was standing opposite the Great Ankoma. His reflection had been replaced by that of a young woman in black, who, just as the others noticed her, stood up from the table and walked toward them with hesitant steps. They all stared dumbfounded as the sinister image approached the mirror. A moment later, she was close enough for them to make out her face in the candlelight.
“Emma!” exclaimed Murray.
He was so overcome by the discovery that he almost fell over. Quickly regaining his balance, Murray also walked toward the mirror, through which Emma was now peering, as if through a window, her hands resting on the glass. The young woman was studying the world on Murray’s side with a look of surprise, as if she could see Murray as clearly as he saw her.
“Darling, I felt your caress . . . !” he cried as he approached the mirror, distraught.
Emma watched him move toward her while her eyes expressed a frenzied look of horror, confusion, and excitement. As he drew closer, Murray reached out to touch his beloved’s face, to feel once more the softness of her skin, her hair; but when his hand encountered the mirror’s smooth surface, he realized that although she was there in front of him, she remained unreachable. Meanwhile, the others had risen from the table to take a closer look at the miracle that was occurring, and as they stood a few feet behind Murray, they saw themselves reflected on the other side in a silent huddle behind Emma.