The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(47)
“Not as far as I can remember.”
“Hallucinations, mania, dizziness . . .”
“No.”
“. . . sexual dysfunction?”
“I fear I have led a rather dull life up until now.”
Doctor Higgins nodded and, giving his beard a rest, put on his spectacles before absentmindedly scribbling a few lines in his notebook.
“And what exactly happened to you six months ago, Mr. Sinclair?” he asked without looking up.
Clayton stifled his surprise.
“I beg your pardon, Doctor? I’m afraid I didn’t quite hear what you said.”
The doctor glanced at him over the rims of his gold spectacles.
“Clearly something must have happened to you. The sudden onset of this symptomatology with no previous history can’t have come out of nowhere, don’t you agree? Try to think back. It could have been something you considered trivial at the time: a slight blow to the head or some other seemingly harmless incident. Perhaps during a trip you ate some rotten food; blood infections can produce strange symptoms. Or was it something of a sentimental nature, a trauma that affected you deeply . . . ?”
Clayton pretended to straighten the cuffs of his jacket to gain time. For some stupid reason it hadn’t occurred to him that he would have to speak to Dr. Higgins about what had happened at Blackmoor, even though he knew (he had always known, without any need to express it in words) that everything had started there. Something of a sentimental nature? Yes, you might say so . . .
“Seven months ago, something happened that . . . ,” he began, “that affected me deeply. But that is all I can tell you. It is a professional matter of the strictest confidence that I am not at liberty to discuss.”
“Of the strictest confidence?” The doctor glanced at his notes again. “I see you are a . . . locksmith by profession, Mr. Sinclair.”
“Er . . . yes, that’s right.”
“And you lost your hand . . .”
“Due to that confidential matter that I’m not at liberty to discuss.”
“I understand,” the doctor said, leaning back in the chair as he observed Clayton patiently. “But, Mr. Sinclair, you must understand that I cannot help you unless—”
“Please, that’s enough!” Clayton cried. His sudden outburst caused the doctor to look offended, and the inspector instantly regretted having raised his voice. What would he do if the man threw him out of his consulting room and refused to treat him? He didn’t think he had the courage to find another doctor and submit himself to a similar interrogation. And so he took a deep breath and tried to speak calmly, but the words poured out in torrents. “Forgive me, Doctor, but I don’t need more questions. What I need are answers. I told you I am not at liberty to discuss what happened to me. You will have to find out what is wrong with me without that information. Consider it a challenge, like a criminal investigation where there are only a few clues and the rest depends on your imagination. It isn’t so difficult; in my work I . . . well, many of the locks I have to open are like that, believe me.” The doctor regarded him in silence, as though considering his appeal. “Are there no other tests you can give me? Blood tests, for example? Prescribe whatever you want. I’m willing to try anything, I assure you. I’ll be your guinea pig if you like. Feel free, I don’t care . . .” Clayton ran his trembling hand over his face and then looked straight at the doctor. “Do whatever you want. But I need this to stop . . . I beg you.”
Doctor Higgins continued to contemplate him for a few moments more, then stood up and went over to the cabinet on the opposite wall. While he was rummaging about in it he said: “Roll up your shirtsleeve, please, Mr. Sinclair. I’m going to take a blood sample, and then I’ll test it for several things: creatinine, potassium, chlorine, sodium . . . and a few other things besides. I’ll also do a red blood cell count.” The doctor spun round with a grin, brandishing a syringe, which Clayton thought looked enormous. “Who knows, maybe we’ll discover something interesting.”
8
INSPECTOR CORNELIUS CLAYTON CAUTIOUSLY turned up the collar of his coat, peering with a complete lack of caution around either side of the doorway, then plunged into the gentle jaws of the fog slinking along Taviton Street. But we are not going to follow him. Instead, we shall leave him to disappear among the crowded Bloomsbury streets while we remain in front of number 10, mesmerized by the soft golden glow of the X above the door, which, as on pirate maps, seems to mark the spot where we should dig for treasure. Moments later, our patience is unexpectedly rewarded, as Dr. Higgins hurries out of the house. Yes, despite having a full consulting room, he abandons his patients to their fate and dives into the freezing fog, taking the opposite direction to Clayton, which leads me to conclude that the reason why he has suddenly absconded is not precisely in order to trail the inspector. Where can he be heading in such a hurry? Let us follow him.
After crossing a couple of streets, doing his best to imitate the sprightly gait of a young colt, Dr. Clive Higgins hailed a carriage on Gower Street, gave the driver the address of the Albemarle Club, and slumped into his seat with an exasperated groan. Once inside, he unbuttoned his overcoat, tore off his gloves and scarf, and removed his hat. Fanning himself with the latter, he watched the carriage skirting Soho via Oxford Street while he continued to gasp for air, as though he were crossing a scorching desert instead of traversing London on an inclement October day. However, shortly before arriving at his destination, he put everything back on, assumed a placid air, and stepped out of the carriage. He proceeded to mount the steps to the Albemarle Club with the briskness of someone whose overriding desire is for a warm fire and a glass of brandy.