The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(171)
“Well, I fear we shall have to use more conventional means of transport, Doctor. If we try to go there via another world, I doubt my cane will find the right coordinates to return us to this one, amid all these colliding universes.”
“I see,” sighed Ramsey, “although finding a carriage for hire in London will be even more difficult, especially in these circumstances.”
They decided to head for the river Thames, trusting they would come across some means of transport that would spare them having to make the long journey on foot. Ramsey had offered his arm to the old lady, and the two of them were walking close together while the Executioner led the way. Amid all that chaos, no one gave them a second glance. Presently, in the next street, which was oddly deserted, they spotted a coachman sitting atop his carriage, transfixed by a diaphanous figure limping toward him.
“Hey, driver!” Ramsey cried when he saw the man.
His voice made the driver tear his eyes away from the apparition, and he gazed at them blankly.
“Could you take us to Great George Street?”
The man nodded silently, without giving it a moment’s thought, as if he sensed that the only way to keep his sanity amid the surrounding chaos was to stick to his routine. The Executioner lowered his energy potential so as not to alarm the horses and climbed into the carriage with the old lady. However, Ramsey paused for a few seconds to observe more closely the blurred figure about to walk past them. The creature seemed to be made up of bits of dead body sewn together, and when it came alongside him, the doctor thought he glimpsed a flash of lightning in the terrifying darkness of its eyes. When he reached his hand toward its face, which was crisscrossed with seams, he saw it pass straight through the creature’s head and come out at the back of its neck. He stepped aside so that the figure would not walk through him and watched it continue on its way with a swinging gait.
“Fascinating . . . ,” he whispered, examining the hand that had passed through the monster’s brain.
He climbed aboard the carriage and told the coachman to drive on. The whip gave a resounding crack, and they soon found themselves bowling along by the river on the Victoria Embankment. Through the carriage windows, they saw rows of buildings covered in that translucent shell and streams of shimmering ghosts darting this way and that. On the Thames, at Cleopatra’s Needle, Ramsey contemplated what looked like a scene from the Battle of Lepanto, in which one of the Holy League’s frigates was under attack by a Turkish galleon. A group of onlookers gazed, transfixed, at an event they only knew from the Encyclop?dia Britannica.
When at last the carriage reached Great George Street, Ramsey felt as if they had journeyed through the mind of a madman. They climbed down and made their way to Scotland Yard, where similar scenes of chaos awaited them. Policemen were wandering around aimlessly, shouting contradictory orders at one another. Nobody paid any attention to the strange trio, and, after briefly assessing the situation, Ramsey was about to order the Executioner to accost one of the passing bobbies, when all of a sudden, a skinny, pasty-faced detective, striding purposefully toward them, bumped straight into the Executioner, who appeared not to notice the impact. The young man looked up at him uneasily, rubbing his sore chin.
“Er . . . I am afraid our friend here is no apparition, Inspector,” said Ramsey.
The young man glanced curiously at the doctor and the old lady and then, raising his head toward the Executioner, tried to make out his face, which was in the shadow of the brim of his hat.
“And what is he?” he asked suspiciously.
“He is . . . a foreigner,” replied Ramsey.
“I see,” said the inspector, visibly suspicious. Then he turned toward Ramsey, whose appearance was much less troubling. “And what brings you here? What strange miracle have you witnessed? I assure you we have received all kinds of reports.” And as if to prove it, he waved the bundle of papers he was holding in the air. “The world and his wife are bumping into characters from novels, fairy tales, and children’s stories.” He glanced at his notes. “One man says he saw Captain Nemo’s Nautilus on the Thames, and a woman claims there is a lion in her yard with the head of a man and the tail of a scorpion. As far as I know, that’s a manticore! There are several creatures we are unable to identify. Have you heard anyone mention a giant gorilla? We’ve been told there is one climbing up Big Ben . . .”
Just then, a phantom copy of the inspector walked toward them, also waving a bundle of papers, and passed straight through his double without flinching. In despair, the inspector raised his eyes to heaven.
“Not again . . . It’s impossible to work in these conditions!”
“If you please, young man,” the old lady’s sweet voice chimed in before he had time to resume his complaints, “we came here to see Special Inspector Cornelius Clayton. Could you kindly tell us where he is?”
The young inspector looked at her, astonished.
“I only wish I knew, dear lady!” he exclaimed. “Inspector Clayton has devoted half his life to chasing magical creatures, and the day they decide to throw a party, it seems the earth has swallowed him up!”
“Inspector Garrett!” someone yelled from the other side of the huge room.
“I’m coming!” he yelled back. Then, turning toward the old lady, he added, “I’m sorry, but I have no idea where Clayton is, or Captain Sinclair for that matter. In fact, everyone from the Special Branch seems to have vanished! Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .” And he made his way toward the officer who had called him.