The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(40)
She was lying. They were both lying, he was certain. Clayton didn’t know whether spirits existed or not—he didn’t have enough information as yet to arrive at any conclusion—but one thing he did know was that the figure in Madame Amber’s drawing room was made of flesh and blood the same as he. Sinclair was welcome to go hunting ghosts if he so wished, but he, Clayton, knew exactly the direction in which to take the investigation: he had to find Sir Henry’s costume, and if that meant dismantling Madame Amber’s house brick by brick, then so be it. But before he started demolishing buildings, he needed to have a little chat with the old lady who had a penchant for spiritualism. Clayton sensed that Mrs. Lansbury knew more than she was admitting. He was convinced the key to unraveling the whole business lay behind those kindly yet mocking eyes that had so defiantly contemplated the apparition, and for that reason he had decided to go directly to her house, without even stopping off for a few hours’ sleep.
Dawn had already materialized. At that moment, when the world was scarcely illuminated by the first rays of light, all was silent, and a brisk morning breeze caressed the slumbering city like an angel’s breath, as Dickens might say. Any respectable person could now receive a visit, however unexpected, without it creating a stir. At last Inspector Clayton turned into Furnival Street and made his way to Mrs. Lansbury’s residence, a tall, neo-Gothic town house with a turrets and narrow windows. Without further ado, he mounted the front steps and rang the doorbell. Adopting an aggressive stance, hands behind his back, legs slightly apart, he prepared to confront the icy disdain of a butler outraged at such an early morning visit. But even if he had to contend with an army of sullen domestic servants and go up to the old lady’s bedroom to wake her himself, Clayton was determined to speak to Mrs. Lansbury, to force her to reveal what part she was playing in all this.
He was surprised when Mrs. Lansbury herself came to the door, and moreover that she did so almost immediately, as if she had been stationed behind it. However, he was still more taken aback by her odd appearance, and her equally odd behavior. Catherine Lansbury opened the door a crack, just enough to poke her disheveled head through the gap. Her immaculate chignon of the night before had completely unraveled, and a few grey strands of hair now hung limply over her eyes. She stood there, clutching the door with both hands, while Inspector Clayton quickly changed his threatening posture, doffing his hat and feeling suddenly ridiculous confronted by the old lady’s startled face, which in a matter of seconds went from fear through disappointment to surprise, and then almost to appreciation. She seemed unable to find the right words to express the whirl of emotions and thoughts spinning round in her head. At last she seemed to rouse herself and, cutting short Clayton’s timid greeting with a furious signal to be quiet, stepped cautiously outside, looked up and down the street, and, taking the inspector’s arm, pulled him in, swiftly closing the door behind them.
Clayton followed her across the gloomy hallway, repressing the ridiculous urge to walk on tiptoe, until they reached a doorway, which they both stepped through. While Mrs. Lansbury was turning the key in the door, checking several times that she had locked it properly and then making sure the windows were also secure, Clayton took the opportunity to examine with interest the tiny study they found themselves in, which was much better illuminated than the hallway. It was a modestly furnished room with two windows that presumably overlooked the garden. Opposite them was a fine desk piled with scribbled documents, files, and writing paraphernalia, on the corner of which a vase with what looked like freshly cut roses had pride of place. At the center of the room was a rather forlorn pedestal table on which someone had laid out a dainty tea set. Mrs. Lansbury peered anxiously around the room like a frightened mouse, forgetting the inspector’s presence until he was obliged to attract her attention.
“Ahem, Mrs. Lansbury . . .”
The old lady looked at him, her eyelids fluttering.
“Oh! I’m so sorry, I wasn’t expecting you . . . ,” she whispered.
“You were expecting someone else at this hour?” Clayton said with surprise, gesturing toward the tea tray and also speaking in a whisper.
“Oh, yes, yes . . . I was. Someone very important. I asked him to come a few hours ago. Perhaps I should have done so sooner. The moment I arrived home from the séance last night, I sent my faithful servant, Doris, to his house with an urgent message . . . begging him to come. But he hasn’t answered my call, or even replied to my message. And my maid hasn’t returned either . . . Oh, my dear Doris! If I am to blame for anything happening to her I shall never . . . She is my only servant, you see. I can’t afford more staff; I spend all my money on . . . So Doris is the only one who looks after me. Perhaps I oughtn’t to have sent her to fetch . . . But what else was I to do?” She looked beseechingly at Clayton. “Tell me, what else was I to do? I couldn’t think of any other solution. He has found me, he knows where I am hiding, and now I have run out of time.” The old lady glanced nervously about again, whispering to herself. “Yes, I’ve run out of time . . .”
“Mrs. Lansbury, I’m afraid I don’t understand—”
“I forget your name, young man,” the old lady interrupted, looking again at Clayton, who was struck once more by the look of determination in her eyes, which belied their owner’s tremulous fragility.
“I’m Inspector Cornelius Clayton of Scotland Yard’s Special Branch. We met last night at the séance . . .”