The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(37)
Clayton agreed, and, communicating their intentions to each other through gestures, the two men, weapons at the ready, proceeded with caution, each approaching one end of the screen. Then they heard muffled noise coming from behind it, like someone or something scratching a wall. As they drew closer, they made out a woman’s voice repeating what sounded like a nonsensical prayer. Clayton turned to the colonel, signaling to him to pull back the screen carefully; but, judging from the violent kick he gave it, Garrick misinterpreted his gestures. There was a deafening crash as the screen toppled to the floor, and when the cloud of sawdust settled, the two men were confronted with a harmless clothes hanger, from which Madame Amber’s clothes hung limply, in an empty corner. However, the mysterious noises went on, even more clearly now. There was no question about it—somebody was scratching at a surface— and Clayton thought he could hear Madame Amber’s voice repeating the same desperate appeal over and over:
“Open up, let me in, open up, I beg you . . .”
The inspector went over to the corner made by the two converging walls and examined it carefully. He discovered that, thanks to a clever optical illusion, the wallpaper concealed a tiny crack—a small opening that hadn’t been there during the exhaustive inspection they had carried out. But now it was. Inserting one of his metal fingers into the gap, Clayton discovered a tiny spring, which he pressed. The walls instantly parted, creaking on invisible hinges, proving they were mere partitions. And there, in the hollow concealed by that ingenious feat of carpentry, appeared Madame Amber. She was crouching, her face red from crying, scratching at the floor with bloodied fingernails as she repeated over and over the same demand: “Open up, let me in . . .”
As soon as the light revealed her hiding place, she began to scream, arms outstretched as though fending off the figure leaning over her.
“No, no, no! I didn’t summon you! Why have you come back? Be off with you and never return! Go back to the hell from whence you came!”
Clayton grabbed her roughly by the arms and flung her at Colonel Garrick, whom Sinclair had now joined.
“Hold her!” the inspector commanded, his eyes flashing wildly, not realizing that he was issuing orders to his own captain.
At that moment, Clayton was only interested in the area of floor Madame Amber had been scratching moments before. He bent down, sweeping aside the remnants of sawdust, blood, and even a few bits of broken nail that the medium had torn off in the heat of her folly. He studied the parquetry closely but could find nothing odd about it. Granted, it was an exquisite piece of work. But the inspector already knew what was beneath it. He rapped on the floor with his metal fist.
“I know you can hear me!” he shouted. “This is Inspector Cornelius Clayton from Scotland Yard’s Special Branch. In the name of Her Majesty, I command you to open the trapdoor and show yourself immediately. Whoever you are, come out quietly and with your hands up.”
A dense silence ensued. Clayton’s fist was poised to rap on the floor again when they heard a man’s faint voice reply almost meekly.
“It won’t open. The catch is stuck and . . . it only opens from the inside . . . I’m trapped down here.”
“Who are you?” Clayton demanded, trying to match that timorous voice to the powerful figure he had grappled with moments before.
Silence. And then, at last, they heard from the depths: “My name is Sir Henry Blendell, architect to Her Majesty the Queen, gold medalist of the Worshipful Company of Engineers, honorary automaton creator of the Society of Watchmakers and Designers of Prague, renowned creator of the secret passageway in the castle at . . .”
Clayton was altogether too astonished to notice the growing murmur behind him. The Sir Henry Blendell? He conjured up the image he had of Her Majesty’s architect, a corpulent man, in good shape despite his advanced years, of medium height and with white hair . . . Yes, it was possible that with the right disguise he might pass for the mysterious specter that had just terrified the wits out of them all. He glanced sideways at the phonograph, to make sure it was still working despite all hell having broken loose in the room. He placed both hands on the floor and, drawing closer, spoke in a stentorian voice.
“Sir Henry, do you confess to being Madame Amber’s associate?”
“Please, I can’t breathe . . .”
Clayton banged on the floor with both fists.
“Do you confess that you used your knowledge to aid the medium known as Madame Amber, that you conspired to contrive each and every one of the fraudulent spiritual séances she performed and knowingly certified the conditions in which said séances were carried out, and that you and she committed repeatedly and with malice aforethought the crimes of hoax, deception, and false pretense?”
“Yes, yes . . . But please, I beg you, lift the floorboards with a crowbar or a chisel. I suffer from claustrophobia . . .”
“Do you also confess to having rigged today’s séance, on the twelfth of September in the year of grace 1888, at the residence of Madame Amber, located at number twelve Mayflower Road?” Clayton bawled.
“Inspector Clayton,” Sinclair intervened, “for the love of God, is this really necessary?”
“Yes, yes . . . I confess to everything! But please, get me out of here . . . I’m suffocating.”
Clayton straightened up, a slightly crazed grimace of triumph on his lips. His feverish gaze sought out Madame Amber’s innocent blue eyes. He wanted to look straight at that her and spew out all his contempt, to tell her in no uncertain terms that her na?ve attempts to beguile the public might have worked on pathetic little men like the one slowly suffocating beneath his feet, but not on Cornelius Clayton of Scotland Yard’s Special Branch. I’m sorry, dear woman, he wanted to tell her, but you aren’t as good as you thought, or perhaps you haven’t been evil enough. One can’t always get what one wants, and it was high time someone taught you that inevitable lesson . . .