The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(112)

“Good God, I think that’s his eye . . . I’ll be hanged if I understand what is going on here.”

With a look of disgust, he replaced the pin on the stair and continued his ascent. Murray followed, making sure he didn’t step on the invisible eyeball.

“Well, if you don’t understand, and you’re the expert . . . Oh, why don’t we ask that genuine medium you brought over from Africa?” he suggested, feigning a burst of enthusiasm. “What did you call him just now? Oh, yes . . . Woodie. It doesn’t sound quite as impressive as Amonka, does it?”

Doyle walked on, focusing on the trail of glittering rubies that seemed to sprout from the ground like evil flowers. He studied each stair closely, afraid the Invisible Man might have veered off suddenly, or even silently retraced his steps.

“I don’t think now is the right time to bring that up, Gilliam,” he muttered.

“Really? But there might not be another time, my dear Arthur,” said Murray, almost glued to Doyle’s back, pointing his crossbow at any shadow that seemed to move. “And I don’t want to die without knowing where you got hold of the poor wretch and, more important, how the devil he knew Emma’s nickname.”

“He’s my secretary.”

“What!”

“Don’t raise your voice!” Doyle commanded in a whisper. “Woodie is my secretary. There’s no such person as the Great Ankoma. George and I invented him.” Doyle continued climbing the stairs without turning round to contemplate Murray’s astonished face. “As for Emma’s nickname, the day I first mentioned the medium to you at your house, George slipped out of the room for a few moments. I imagine that, due to the state you were in, you don’t remember, but the truth is he took the opportunity to search your study for anything we might be able to use. He came across your and Emma’s correspondence in a drawer of your desk. That’s where he discovered your nicknames . . . Mr. Impossible.”

Murray tried to choose one of the many questions buzzing round in his head while they climbed a few more steps in silence.

“But what the devil made you want to hold a phony séance in the first place?” he finally asked.

“To stop you from killing yourself,” Doyle replied. “George was desperate . . . He felt he was to blame for the accident and for Emma’s death. It was he who advised you to come clean with her, remember? And he considered it his duty to help you finish what you had started. He thought it was the only way you would find any peace. When George came to my house and told me that the only way to save you was to let you communicate with Emma during a séance, I assumed he meant a real one, but he soon disabused me. George wanted you to talk to her, but he didn’t want to take any risks. He wanted to be in control of all the variables: the medium, Emma’s responses, her forgiveness of you . . . everything. He wanted her to command you to go on living, even to force you to be happy, insofar as you could be . . .” Doyle shook his head and gave a wry grin. “I don’t know how he managed to convince me to take part in one of those phony séances I have spoken out against so strongly . . . But damn it all, you know, I almost ended up enjoying it! You must admit we managed to build up a fairly compelling tale: the mysterious medium, the hand of fate . . .”

“But I saw Emma in the garden!” Murray interrupted.

“Oh, yes, that . . . ,” said Doyle, pausing to examine the trail of blood with a frown, like a housekeeper finding fault with the housemaid’s work. “The Emma in the garden was also our doing,” he confessed, resuming his ascent. “That was Miss Leckie, who kindly offered to help us out. With the aid of some of your servants, we got hold of one of Emma’s dresses and a parasol. It was all we could think of. We were desperate! Time was passing, and we had failed to persuade you to attend the séance with the Great Ankoma . . .”

“So, when you challenged me to jump out of the window . . .” Murray reflected. “What you really wanted was for me to see Miss Leckie!”

“Elementary, my dear Gilliam.” Doyle grinned at him.

“Good heavens! . . . But what if I hadn’t seen her? What if I’d jumped?”

“She was clearly visible,” Doyle said with a shrug. “Besides, I knew you wouldn’t do it.”

“Good heavens . . . ,” Murray repeated, incapable of saying anything more.

When they reached the top of the stairs, Doyle carefully examined the floor once more.

“The trail heads toward the right wing,” he announced, signaling with his chin the long corridor receding into the darkness.

“That corridor is a dead end . . . ,” Murray murmured with a distracted air. “All the rooms on that side are locked, apart from the one the builders use to store their plaster and tools.”

“Then it won’t be so difficult to hunt him down,” said Doyle. “Though we could do with a bit more . . . energy.”

From his pocket he plucked a small box of cocaine tablets with an image on the lid of two children playing innocently, and he offered one to Murray.

“No, thanks, Arthur,” Murray said. “I think the rage I feel will suffice.”

“As you wish.” Doyle shrugged. He took a tablet, put the box away, and with a show of bravado lifted his mace. “Let’s find that son of a bitch!”