The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(32)
“We have finished examining Madame Amber, gentlemen,” Nurse Jones declared in a professional tone, “and can guarantee she has nothing concealed in her garments, mouth, or hair.”
Sinclair nodded, half-entranced, half-satisfied, and was about to invite everyone to take a seat at the table to begin the séance when Clayton interrupted him.
“I’m sure your examination has been more than thorough, ladies, but let me remind you that a woman has other natural orifices in addition to her mouth,” he said calmly.
The ladies stared at the inspector aghast; even some of the gentlemen were shocked by his words. Madame Amber looked deeply offended but almost instantly adopted the righteous smile of a selfless martyr prepared to undergo any sacrifice.
“Perhaps you wish to examine me in person, Inspector,” she said with a childish pout, which caused more than one gentleman to loosen his necktie.
Clayton observed her impassively.
“Oh, I fear one of my hands is not delicate enough to do the job,” he parried with a slight shrug. “I might hurt you.”
“What if you only used the one made of flesh and blood?” She grinned suggestively.
“That is the one I was referring to,” said the inspector. “With the other I would simply rip you to shreds.”
He glanced at Nurse Jones with a hint of impatience. “When you’re ready, Nurse.”
Nurse Jones looked inquiringly at the group and, when nobody said anything, shrugged.
“Very well . . . ,” she said, making no attempt to conceal the fact that she found the whole idea abhorrent. “If you have no objection, Madame Amber, shall we perform the task in your rooms?”
The medium nodded quietly, gave Clayton an icy look, and walked out behind the two ladies. The inspector watched her leave with a look of indifference.
“Good God, Inspector, aren’t you being unnecessarily demanding?” said Holland, once they were alone. “Let’s not stoop to indelicacy or rudeness, what?”
“I quite agree,” chimed in Burke. “It was obvious Madame Amber felt offended by your insistence—”
“Gentlemen, let us not forget that this is a scientific experiment,” retorted Clayton. “A woman can be completely naked and yet conceal a small object, such as a scrap of muslin, or even a rubber mask.”
An abrupt silence fell. Even Sinclair appeared unable to come up with the appropriate words to salvage the situation.
“Inspector Clayton is right, gentlemen.” Doctor Ramsey spoke at last, cracking the knuckles of each hand one by one. “Our only aim is, and always has been, to seek the truth, and in doing so we will inevitably subject mediums to certain, er . . . indelicacies.”
“Even so, for the sake of decorum and our honor as gentlemen . . . ,” Holland protested.
“Poppycock!” declared Colonel Garrick, who until then had remained silent. “Most mediums exploit our decency to carry out their infamous trickery, which is why we have to be as rigorous as possible. Remember, they are mostly charlatans, like that priest who calls himself Doctor Monck.”
“Or that swindler Slade,” added Count Duggan, referring to an expert in automatic writing whose trial for fraud had given rise to a spate of complaints and prosecutions against mediums. “I attended one of his séances myself, you know. He used to give them where he lodged at a boardinghouse in Russell Square, and he charged twenty shillings, though they barely lasted fifteen minutes. But that was ample time for me to—”
“Yes, Henry Slade was a true confidence trickster, doubtless the cleverest of all,” Garrick interrupted. “Although it requires no special talent to convince someone who is gullible.”
Hearing this, Crookes stiffened. “I’d like to think your remark wasn’t directed at anyone in particular, Colonel.”
“Only at whoever wishes to take it personally.” Garrick shrugged.
There was flurry of laughter, which Doctor Ramsey swiftly quelled.
“Come, come, gentlemen . . . Let’s not lower ourselves to personal insult.”
“Oh, many thanks for your defense, Ramsey, dear chap,” Crookes warbled, “although I fear it is a little late and quite unnecessary, for, as you know, lately I have learned to defend myself.”
“For heaven’s sake, Crookes, there’s no need to take it personally,” the doctor implored, producing a succession of deafening cracks with his knuckles. “You know my opinion about your studies. I regret that at the time you saw it as a betrayal, but I haven’t changed my mind: few mediums are free of suspicion, and I’m afraid they don’t include your sainted Florence, who as you are aware was exposed during a séance eight years ago.”
“I wasn’t at that tragic séance, and only fools speak of things they don’t know about,” Crookes retorted. “But I can speak of the miracles that occurred under my own roof, as can numerous others who witnessed them. And I have proof! The photographs I took are at the disposition of—”
“Those photographs prove nothing, Crookes. I saw them, remember? And I pointed out to you that in one of them you could see the edge of a black dress peeping out from beneath Katie King’s white robes—”
“Lies!” roared Crookes. Then he looked at his friend in despair. “Oh, Ramsey, what the blazes has happened to you over the past few years? I appreciate your skepticism—I respect it, even—but I shall never understand your blindness: Do you honestly deny the possibility of life after death, despite there being reports of apparitions dating back to the days of Tertullian? The Hereafter exists, and I am sure it is an exact replica of our world, as affirmed by Swedenborg, the greatest medium of modern times.”