The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(39)

Until then, the interrogation had been plain sailing for the two inspectors, but once they reached that point in the confession, both Miss Willard and Sir Henry had proved obstinate. They were willing to sign a confession and prepared to face the accusations that would be hurled at them in the coming days; they would plead guilty to fraud and be publicly derided. But they had no intention of being tried for the attempted murder of Mrs. Lansbury. That was where they drew the line. The final apparition, the menacing figure that had tried to throttle the old lady, was none of their doing. They might be charlatans, but they were not murderers. They weren’t responsible for that thing.

Clayton kicked a loose cobblestone in his path. The affair was fiendishly complicated. None of the pieces slotted together. Who, or what, was that figure he had managed to seize before Colonel Garrick fired his gun? He was almost persuaded that the sinister apparition was another trick of the performance. It had knocked into him and he had felt its muscles when he trapped it in a stranglehold, the texture of its clothes, the heat from its body, even the sour odor of sweat . . . It was true that for a moment he had the impression the apparition possessed a strange transparency or invisibility, but with hindsight he wasn’t so sure. The stranger was completely human, that much was certain, and it could not have been anyone but Sir Henry, who must have been wearing a disguise. Or perhaps he had soaked his costume in some chemical or other, possibly ether, which had created that curious illusion of transparency. And then, for some unknown reason, he had threatened the poor old lady, fled through the trapdoor, and gotten rid of the costume somewhere in the house. Yes, all the facts pointed in that direction, although Clayton had to admit there were still far too many unanswered questions. So many in fact that it almost drove him to distraction. For example: If the fictitious apparition was part of the séance, why had they decided to include it? And why assault a defenseless old lady instead of sticking to their usual fairground act, which had brought them so much success? If it was simply another trick, why then deny it? Had things got out of hand, and were they now trying to limit the damage, or did they have some motive for attacking Mrs. Lansbury? But if that were the case, doing so in front of witnesses wasn’t very wise. On the other hand, Clayton couldn’t forget what had seemed to him Madame Amber’s genuine terror. And was it precisely that terror that had made her force the trapdoor from the outside, thus breaking its delicate mechanism and throwing away many months’ work? It made no sense . . . Clayton shook his head abruptly, like a dog irritated after a sudden downpour. He felt compelled to find the missing piece in the puzzle that would finally give it meaning.

If he accepted that Miss Willard and her accomplice were telling the truth, then who was the mysterious man who had appeared out of nowhere? A murderer who was pursuing Mrs. Lansbury and had decided to kill her during a séance where two Scotland Yard detectives were in attendance? The idea was absurd, and yet it tallied with the mysterious words the figure had addressed to the old lady, and above all with the expression on her face, for she seemed to recognize him, despite denying it afterward. But how could anyone have entered that sealed room without Madame Amber’s or Sir Henry’s help? Were all three of them involved in the attempt on the old lady’s life?

There was one final possibility, the only one that would make the case worthy of being investigated by Scotland Yard’s Special Branch: the apparition was a genuine spirit that had come from the Hereafter. But one spirit summoned during a fraudulent séance by a medium who possessed no supernatural powers? And yet Miss Willard claimed to have had them as a child. Should he then believe her version and accept that Sarah Willard’s former talent had been restored that particular night, as the terrified young woman had assured him, allowing her to summon the evil spirit? As dawn approached, Sinclair had announced that, for the time being, this seemingly absurd theory was the least absurd of all, but Clayton had pursed his lips and said nothing. Old Sinclair was welcome to see ghosts on every corner if he wished, but in the recent past the inspector had learned many lessons, and foremost among them was never to underestimate the powerful combination of an ingenious disguise and an exceedingly beautiful woman.

Clayton scowled disdainfully as he recalled Sarah Willard’s face when he had left her at dawn. The conceited medium, who had beguiled almost the entire male population of England with her beauty, had been reduced to a trembling little girl in the cellars of Scotland Yard. When the interrogation was over, she had grabbed the inspector by the lapels and, looking straight at him with her deep-blue eyes, had begged him to lock her in the darkest cell if he so wished, but please to keep the spirits away from her, not to let them haunt her . . . She had assured him, amid moans, that she couldn’t face reliving the horrors of her childhood: the panic that used to seize her when she felt a cold, transparent form slip between her sheets, seeking the heat from her body as she lay completely still, reciting every prayer she knew while the phantom’s icy breath on her neck made her shiver; and the mirrors—the horror when she looked at herself in a mirror and saw the pale reflection of a figure behind her, of someone gazing at her intently, even though whenever she turned around there was no one there; and the voices, the incessant voices . . . She had begged him in this way as she struggled to control the hysteria threatening to overwhelm her, and her voice had sounded so desperate that even the guard at the door had gulped. But Clayton had simply looked at her impassively for a few seconds and then, holding her wrists firmly, plucked her tiny clenched fists from his jacket. After sitting her down in a chair where she went on sobbing, he left the room without a backward glance.