The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(33)
“I have never denied or affirmed the existence of the Hereafter, whether it resembles this world or not,” Ramsey insisted wearily. He remained silent for a few moments before adding, in a philosophical tone, “In the end, every reality is an imitation of itself.”
“An imitation of itself . . . ! You don’t know how right you are, Doctor Ramsey!” Mrs. Lansbury guffawed.
Ramsey glanced at her, somewhat surprised by her interjection, and then once more addressed Crookes.
“But you must admit, William, that those historical apparitions were vague and sporadic. And yet, if we believed all the recent cases, we would find ourselves confronted with an organized invasion, or dare I say it . . . with an epidemic. Besides, I was merely questioning Florence’s honesty,” he added, avoiding his old friend’s offended, angry gaze.
“And don’t forget, Crookes,” Holland piped up, “that Margaretta Fox herself sent a letter from New York proclaiming that all her séances had been hoaxes. What further proof do we need that mediums are a bunch of charlatans who prey on people’s tragedies and hopes in order to line their own pockets?”
“The press only know how to feed drivel to the public!” said Crookes with disdain.
“I have to agree with you there, Crookes,” said Colonel Garrick. “Let’s be fair, gentlemen: if a member of the public goes to any newspaper with a story about exposing a fraudulent medium, they publish it amid great fanfare; but if the same individual proclaims the truth of some supernatural phenomenon they have witnessed, it barely gets a mention.”
Crookes gave a nod of gratitude, although it was clear from his stony expression that he hadn’t forgotten the colonel’s earlier remarks, or the hilarity they had produced.
“I agree that the press isn’t what it used to be,” complained Burke. “Look at the way they are treating the murders of those two prostitutes in Whitechapel . . .”
The conversation then turned to the two horrific crimes, whose grisly details the press had revealed without caring how accurate they were, thus hindering the police investigation, with the sole aim, Sinclair hastened to add, of satisfying their readers’ morbid appetites. Everyone gave their opinion on the matter, apart from Clayton. Once he had finished investigating Madame Amber, he would study the reports on those ruthless killings written up by Inspector Reid of the Criminal Investigation Department and draw his own conclusions.
Like Ramsey and Garrick, Clayton believed that the majority of mediums were impostors, but that didn’t mean there weren’t any genuine seers capable of producing true miracles, as Crookes claimed. That was something he, who wore around his neck a key to a secret chamber full of miracles, was in no position to deny. Not to mention the fact that every morning he knotted his tie with a mechanical hand that constantly reminded him that the fantastical existed. Thus his misgivings about Madame Amber were not the result of any prejudice toward the supernatural: a certain countess had immunized him against that for life, although it seemed she had also prevented him ever again from believing in the innocence of a beautiful woman.
The door then opened, and the medium reentered the room, the humiliating examination to which she had just been subjected having failed to wipe the virginal smile from her lips. Seeing her appear like a delicate butterfly after its wings have been plucked by a cruel child, Captain Sinclair steeled himself and gave Clayton a meaningful look, silently ordering him, with the wrath of his one good eye, to think twice before inventing some fresh demand. Then, smiling gallantly at Madame Amber, he invited everyone to be seated at the table.
The séance would now begin.
5
FOR SEVERAL MINUTES NOT A living sound was heard in the spacious room bathed in the dim light of an infrared lamp, not even the breathing of the twelve people seated around the table. From the moment when Captain Sinclair had commanded silence and they had all obediently joined hands, no one dared to move or make the slightest noise. Even the captain’s glass eye appeared to have stopped its habitual flashing and buzzing like an ember slowly fizzling out as it sinks into water. The twelve remained suspended in that silent glow as though frozen in time. Only two things betrayed life’s unceasing flow: the placid hum of the phonograph working away in a corner of the room, its spinning cylinder oblivious to the wound inflicted on it by the stylus, and Clayton’s eyes, which despite his motionless body flitted around the room, examining every corner.
Once he had checked that the various machines were functioning properly, the inspector contemplated the medium. She was sitting opposite him, her eyes gently closed, bound to her chair and with two short chains, each equipped with a padlock fastening her wrists to those of Doctor Ramsey and Colonel Garrick. As Clayton cast his gaze over his fellow committee members, he was unable to detect on their faces any trace of the skepticism they had shown moments before. Their fingertips touching those of their neighbors, they all seemed absorbed in an almost pious meditation, convinced something was about to occur that would shake them to the core, whether it came from this world or the next.
Sinclair’s voice suddenly boomed out, causing them to jump out of their skins. Without warning, the captain had launched into his record of the séance, in a voice loud enough to be picked up by phonographs as far away as Paris. Having recovered from the shock, the committee members hurriedly resumed their frozen postures. Only the medium remained as motionless as a sphinx, deep in the supposed trance she had entered into as soon as the séance began. The young woman’s lips were parted, and she was breathing slowly and deeply, her small breasts lifting at regular intervals, constrained by the fine silk gown, attracting the furtive glances of the men around the table like moths around a fire. Breathing too regularly, Clayton thought skeptically.