The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(31)
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CLAYTON TURNED HIS ATTENTION from Crookes to the remaining member of the group, a frail old lady whose commitment to the cause of spiritualism he found almost touching. Catherine Lansbury was the only one who was not part of the committee but had been given permission to attend the séance thanks to her generous donations, which had replenished its empty coffers. That benevolent contribution had allowed her to participate in all of the committee’s investigations. So far that year, according to Clayton’s information, Mrs. Lansbury had attended no fewer than a dozen séances in London and beyond. That interest in spiritualism had puzzled Clayton, because, despite her apparent fragility, Mrs. Lansbury’s eyes sparkled with a determination that had none of the benign befuddlement one expects in somebody approaching eighty. They radiated tenacity of spirit and a clearheaded intelligence, and it was no surprise to discover that she was the inventor of the Mechanical Servant, a device that had conquered the homes of the wealthiest English families. This was why Clayton found it all the harder to understand her decision to squander her fortune on something as dubious as spiritualism.
“I’ve been wanting to attend one of Madame Amber’s séances,” she had confessed to him excitedly during the brief exchange they had enjoyed on arriving at the house. “Her waiting list is so long I can scarcely believe I’m finally here. She really does excel at spiritualism in all its forms, but they say her materializations are second to none. Perhaps she is a genuine Maelstrom coordinator . . . It’s a long time since I met one.”
Clayton had no idea what Mrs. Lansbury was talking about, but simply said, “I hope she doesn’t disappoint you.”
What else could he say to her? Apparently, the old lady’s mental faculties weren’t as keen as her lucid gaze suggested. Clayton regretted the existence of unscrupulous people who took advantage of such people and was unable to prevent that regret from showing in his gaze. To his astonishment, however, he discovered Mrs. Lansbury staring back at him with a similar look of compassion, as if she had glimpsed behind his eyes his dark, barren soul and had realized that the ashes covering it were simply the remnants of the spectacular fire that had consumed him seven months earlier.
Professor Burke’s voice brought the inspector back to reality.
“Ah, how I wish I could examine Madame Amber personally!” he whispered conspiratorially so that the ladies could not hear. “This might be our only chance to touch such a beautiful woman, don’t you agree, gentlemen?”
The men all nodded hastily, except for Professor Crookes and the engineer named Holland—Crookes because his spectral romance appeared to have placed him above the temptations of the flesh, and Holland because one of the ladies behind the screen disrobing the medium was his wife.
“Undoubtedly, Professor,” Count Duggan said dolefully, also in hushed tones. Then he appeared to reflect and added, “Perhaps I could offer to conclude the examination myself, because there is more than likely a hidden pocket in her undergarments. I say, Captain, don’t you think that we ought to verify . . .”
“I’m afraid I cannot allow that, Count Duggan,” Sinclair interrupted him rather coldly.
“But she’s so ravishing!” moaned Duggan. “You gentlemen don’t appreciate that, because, unlike me, you didn’t see her close up at Lady Colesberry’s ball. And I can assure you she is even more beautiful than in the photographs of her.”
At this, Burke asked to be tied to his chair, for fear he could not control his actions, and they all laughed, rejoicing in their manly celebration of Madame Amber’s loveliness.
“Let us not allow beauty to sidetrack us from our scientific experiment, gentlemen,” warned Clayton, unable to conceal his disdain for those men who couldn’t help giving in to their weaknesses.
A sudden commotion on the far side of the screen interrupted their conversation, and everyone watched as the two ladies from the committee stepped out from behind its panels. After pausing deliberately for a few seconds, the way an actress would to create a sense of anticipation among the audience, Madame Amber emerged. The luminescent strips sewn onto her gown by Mrs. Jones, head nurse at the Nightingale Training School at St Thomas’s Hospital, and Mrs. Holland, the engineer’s stout wife, caused the medium to glow as if she were made of strands of interwoven sunlight. She waited beside the screen for a moment, soaking up the admiration, a faint smile playing on her lips, then walked over to the gathering escorted by the two women. She wore a close-fitting silk gown, which, far from clothing her, seemed to leave her naked. As she walked, the fabric alternately hinted at and hid her small, pert breasts, like an intermittent spell. Her hair, so blond it was almost white, was parted in a zigzag, separating it into two strips that fell in graceful curls over the gentle curve of her shoulders. She was slender, not very tall, and the calculated languidness of her movements gave her childlike body an even more otherworldly appearance. She came to a halt as she reached the center of the room and greeted the committee members with a haughty smile, which Clayton assumed was part of the performance. She had such an air of lightness that in comparison her two escorts seemed hewn from heavy, rough stone. A scent of violets enveloped her, and her fine, pale features had the allure of virtue about to be corrupted. But more than anything, Clayton was struck by her huge, round eyes, which the Creator had colored an almost diaphanous blue.