The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(156)

“You don’t have the book,” the Executioner interrupted again.

The weight of that solitary sentence was sufficient to flatten an anvil.

The old lady looked at him in silence.

“No, I don’t,” she said at last, a tear rolling down her wizened cheek, tracing the path of her wrinkles. “I jumped into this universe, having left it in the hands of a stranger, to whom I was barely able to explain its importance or what he had to do with it . . . And I swear I have been tormenting myself about it ever since! For the longest time I shed bitter tears and my sleep was haunted by nightmares in which my husband scolded me for not keeping his work safe. Believe me, not a day has gone by when I haven’t thought of ending it all. A thousand times I have asked myself what sense there was in continuing . . . But I always came up with the same answer: up until the very moment before Chaos, there is still hope. However slight. Perhaps one day an Executioner would find me, I told myself, and I could explain to him where the book was . . . And now here you are, taking tea with me in my kitchen.”

“But you don’t know where the book is.”

“Of course I do,” the old lady replied. “I told you who has it: Cornelius Clayton, from the Special—”

“No. One of his infinite twins has it,” the Executioner corrected. “And I need to know which.”

Jane looked at him imploringly.

“How could I possibly know that? Every night I trawl the multiverse using my twins’ minds to try to find the Clayton to whom I gave the book. But so far I have come up with nothing. All I know is that he had a metal hand, a broken heart, and—”

The Executioner swept the air with a movement of his hand that Jane only intuited, unable to discern whether it had been too fast or too slow for her to see.

“Many of his twins will share those same characteristics,” he said in a toneless voice. “But only one Clayton has the book. Assuming he has kept his promise and it is still in his possession.”

“He must have! I told you, the inspector is honest and—”

“Then, to be able to find it, I need to know the coordinates of that universe. That is how my detector works in the multiverse,” he said, pointing to his cane. “It calculates the coordinates from the trails left behind by the cronotemics. A mathematical map like the one your husband made would also suffice. But I need something. Possibly something unique to that universe. A single detail that would help me to differentiate it from all the other parallel worlds. If I have been there before, the coordinates will be recorded in my detector’s memory.”

“Something unique to that universe?” the old lady reflected. “Me! I am unique!” she exclaimed eagerly. “There is only one Observer Jane in the whole multiverse, and I have been in that world . . .”

The Executioner shook his head.

“That’s no good. You and I clearly never met in that universe . . . It has to be something that helps me identify that particular universe.”

“Hmm . . .” Jane chewed thoughtfully of one of her nails. “Something unique . . . Wait a moment! I invented the Mechanical Servant, so that has to be a unique invention and can therefore only exist in that world! Perhaps you saw it in one of the houses where you went to . . . er, carry out your mission.” The Executioner shook his head again, and Jane sighed, discouraged. “All right . . .” She went on thinking. “Let me see . . . They had some delicious biscuits there. Kemp’s biscuits, they were called. I have never tasted anything so exquisite! They did not exist in the first world my husband and I traveled to, and they don’t have them here either, so . . . well, perhaps they are unique.” The old lady observed the Executioner’s face. Was it sarcasm she saw there? “Oh, forgive me, you don’t usually eat, so that detail would not mean much to you . . . Well, I am sorry, but I can’t think of anything else that might be unique to that world . . . Buckingham Palace was in the same spot, the sun rose in the east, the river Thames flowed through the same places, fire burned if you touched it, and there were seven notes in the musical scale . . . Saints alive!” cried the old lady, exasperated. “We are in a multiverse, in case you hadn’t noticed,” she snapped at the Executioner. “Everything has a copy somewhere! Only you and I are unique. As Doctor Ramsey said, in that accursed séance where the Villain found me: every reality is an imitation of itself . . .”

The Executioner rose abruptly from his chair. His immense silhouette stood out against the wall, accompanied by an even bigger shadow.

“Did you say Doctor Ramsey?”

“Yes, I think that was his name.”

“Was he a professor at the Faculty of Medicine, a surgeon, chemist, biologist, a tall man with an infuriating habit of cracking his knuckles?”

“Yes, how did you know that?”

The Executioner was seized by a series of convulsive spasms. The old lady stood up, withdrawing a few paces, afraid he was suffering from some kind of short circuit and might explode at any moment.

“Are you all right?” she whispered.

“I feel mirth,” replied the Executioner, who after a couple more spasms seemed to calm down. “Doctor Ramsey is as unique as you and I, Jane. He’s a Scientist from the Other Side who is conducting field studies in this multiverse.”

Jane’s mouth was agape.