The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(41)

“Oh, I remember perfectly well where we met, young man! I simply forgot your name. I’m not a senile old woman. You’re the young fellow with the broken heart. I know you a lot better than you think—oh yes, a lot better . . . But please, sit down. Would you care for some tea?”

Without waiting for his reply, Mrs. Lansbury sat down and began pouring the tea with an unsteady hand. Her lips were moving slightly, as if she was praying. Clayton sat down, taking care not to knock the table with his bony knees and send all the cups flying.

“Try one of these, young man,” the old lady said, holding out a plate. “Kemp’s biscuits. They are made with butter and aniseed, and I’ve never tasted anything quite like them. They’re delicious, my favorites. They don’t make them where I come from, you know. In any case, it’s a shame I came across them so late, I’ve scarcely been able to enjoy them for a few years . . . You see”—she tried to give a cheery smile, but Clayton noticed she was shaking—“I’m afraid today will be the last time I eat them.”

“And why is that, Mrs. Lansbury?” the inspector said, surprised.

She gazed at him in silence for a few seconds with that same appraising look, as though she were weighing up his usefulness.

“Because, young man, the Villain has found me,” she replied at last, so softly that Clayton had to lean over the table to hear her. “And he’s going to kill me.”

“The Villain?”

The old lady gestured to him to lower his voice.

“Yes, the Villain. Any story worth its salt must have a villain, don’t you agree? And ours had one, too,” she said ruefully. “The most terrible villain you could ever imagine. And now he’s coming to kill me.”

“If you’re referring to the man who attacked you at Madame Amber’s house, have no fear: I assure you, he’s behind bars,” Clayton replied, trying to set her mind at rest.

“Behind bars?” The old lady gave a benevolent chuckle, as though touched by the inspector’s na?veté. “No prison exists that can contain the Villain, son. Not one.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean exactly what I said! Do you think I’m speaking in riddles? He’s going to kill me, at any moment. So don’t say another word. There isn’t time. Just listen to me,” she commanded abruptly.

She brushed the crumbs off her skirt with a determined gesture, plucked a small key from her clenched fist, and walked over to the desk. After unlocking a tiny drawer she returned holding a book, which she held out to the inspector with a strange solemnity.

“What is this?” asked Clayton tentatively.

“Take it. Hurry!”

The inspector grasped the book. It was small, scarcely larger than a missal, its covers bound in dark leather. On the front, embossed in gold, was a star with eight arrowlike points. Underneath it, also in gold, was written The Map of Chaos. Clayton examined its pages with interest. All of them were handwritten, filled with what appeared to be complex mathematical formulas interspersed with strange geometrical diagrams. Puzzled, he looked at the old lady, who drew closer, placing her hand on his shoulder. She was trembling violently, like leaves in an autumn breeze, but her gaze was courageous and her voice serene when she said, “The key to the salvation of the world lies within the pages of this book. Of the world as you know it”—she spread her arms, gesturing at their surroundings, before contemplating him in earnest—“but also of all those worlds you can only imagine. For I must warn you, young man, that the whole universe is in danger. So listen well, Inspector Clayton of Scotland Yard’s Special Branch: the man who appeared at the séance yesterday evening is looking for this book in order to destroy it. He is an evil creature; he has killed before, and he won’t hesitate to kill again. He murdered my husband”—her voice faltered for a moment—“but I managed to escape and keep the book safe . . . All this time, I’ve been trying to continue with the plan my husband and I devised to save the universe. But the Villain found me before I had time to put it into practice. Now everything depends on you.”

“On me?” said Clayton, astonished.

The old lady nodded apologetically.

“I’m afraid so, my boy. I sent for the only person I could trust hours ago. But he hasn’t come, I don’t know why . . . and now there isn’t time. I daresay I should have asked him to come sooner, years ago, when I first arrived. Yes, perhaps it was wrong of me not to. Perhaps my husband and I were mistaken to depend entirely on the Maelstrom Coordinates . . . We undoubtedly made many mistakes. But none of that matters now. We did the best we could, given the circumstances . . . What is important above all is to keep the book safe. Take it, Clayton. You must guard it with your life if necessary and give it to those who come from the Other Side and—”

“?‘Those who come from the Other Side’?” Clayton interrupted, unable to hide his impatience. “But . . . who are they? And what is this book exactly? And why is the universe in da—”

“Didn’t anyone teach you that it is very rude to interrupt your elders?” the old lady scolded him. “Do you suppose I would give you something so precious without explaining what it is and what you must do with it? Didn’t I tell you that we had a plan, young man?”

“I . . . forgive me,” Clayton stammered.