The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(43)
“So this is where you’re hiding, you tiresome old woman! Open up!”
That spurred Clayton on, and with a supreme effort he managed to pull himself free of the bookcase and began crawling painfully along the floor like a newborn calf. Once he was clear, the inspector dragged himself to his feet, gave the Mechanical Servant an unceremonious kick, and hobbled into the corridor as though walking on stilts. Terribly dizzy, he started to descend the stairs laboriously, clinging to the banister rail, even as the intruder hurled himself at the old lady’s study, alternately punching and kicking the locked door. Clayton had scarcely managed to negotiate a couple of steps when he heard the sound of wood splintering as the door began to give way, followed by Mrs. Lansbury’s terrified screams. Realizing the intruder would finish breaking down the door before he had time to reach the bottom of the stairs, the inspector propped his elbows on the banister rail and aimed at the stranger.
“Stop!” he cried with as much authority as he could muster. “Place your hands above your head and turn around!”
But he was unable to make himself heard above the figure’s inhuman roars. He cocked his gun and fired at the ceiling. That brought the stranger up short. The inspector watched his body tense as he realized someone was aiming at him from the stairs. But instead of turning round with his hands up, as Clayton had hoped, the intruder bolted toward the front door. The hallway was wide and long enough to allow Clayton to take steady aim from his vantage point. As if this were a target practice, he placed the gun sight level with the intruder’s back and prepared to pull the trigger. Yet he did not want to kill the intruder, only to stop him from escaping, and so Clayton lowered his weapon before firing. The intruder came to an abrupt halt, reaching down to where Clayton’s bullet had lodged itself in the back of his left thigh. Then, as though possessed by a monstrous fury that seemed to reduce the wound to little more than a minor nuisance, he resumed his escape, staggering and cursing as he went. Clayton went down the stairs, managing not to trip over, and ran across the hallway after him. He stepped through the wide-open front door and lurched down the front steps.
He looked to left and right, but to his astonishment could see no trace of the stranger. How had he managed to run the length of the street and vanish so quickly, and with a wounded leg? Clayton spun round a few times, until he was facing the old lady’s house again. He gazed silently at the open door. Could the intruder still be inside the house? Then, on the top of the steps, a strange thing began to happen: a large bloodstain started to materialize out of nowhere, as though traced that very instant by an invisible hand. As if watching a magic trick, Clayton gazed in astonishment as it spread across the wooden threshold, finally taking on the shape of a squashed crab. Seconds later, another stain appeared on the second step, and then a third on the next, and suddenly a trail of red was moving toward him like a bloody fuse. It passed between his legs, forcing him to wheel round in order to follow the miraculous apparition. Then the phenomenon ceased as quickly as it had started, right in the middle of the street, a few yards from where Clayton was standing. He turned back to face the house and began to follow the bloody trail back to its source. A larger bloodstain in the hallway, together with some conspicuous spatters on a doorjamb, seemed to indicate the exact spot where the shot had hit him. Clayton could have sworn they were not there before. He shook his head and forced himself to forget the mystery for a few moments in order to concentrate on the old lady, who must be waiting in fear of her life on the other side of the half-demolished study door.
“Open up, Mrs. Lansbury,” he said in a reassuring voice when he reached the study. “It’s me, Inspector Clayton. The intruder has fled.”
But there was no reply from inside.
“Mrs. Lansbury?” he called out.
Silence. Clayton repeated her name several times, and when she didn’t answer, he demolished the rest of the door, which gave way easily. He burst into the room, afraid he was going to find the old woman’s limp body sprawled on the floor, but there was no one there. Dumbfounded, he glanced around, examining every corner of the tiny room. The desk, the pedestal table with the tea things, the supposedly mouthwatering Kemp’s biscuits—everything was in its place: only the old lady was missing. After checking that the key was still in the lock, and the windows fastened from the inside, Clayton strode desperately around the room in search of a hiding place where he might find her. To no avail. How had Mrs. Lansbury managed to leave the room? And who could have abducted her, if the door was locked from the inside?
Spinning slowly around, Clayton surveyed the room once more, certain he had missed something. Suddenly, the giddy feeling began to intensify and he realized it had nothing to do with the blow from the bookcase. No, this dizziness was different, although familiar. And he knew that it was happening to him again.
“No, not now . . . ,” he cursed.
But before he could finish his sentence, he fainted away, dragging the vase from the desk with him as he fell. He lay sprawled flat in the empty room, ripped from consciousness, just as the rest of the world prepared to face the mystery of a new day.
This time, the darkness smelled of freshly cut roses.
7
BUT THE SMELL HAD NOT always been as sweet. The first time darkness had descended on him he had been enveloped in an unpleasant stench of horse manure, having passed out in a pestilential alleyway, cracking his head against the dirty cobbles. The second time the smell had spread over him with the leisurely rhythm of an old curtain, a mixture of musty fabric, wood, and polished leather, as he had fainted in a theater, sliding almost voluptuously out of his seat and onto the soft carpet. Eight more fainting fits had followed, all impregnated with different smells, until the aroma of the white roses. This was the first time he had fainted while in the midst of an investigation.