The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(53)

Throughout those years, afraid each time that it might have fatal consequences, he had shown the book to some of England’s most celebrated mathematicians, but none of them had been able to decipher the obscure formulas or the geometrical drawings, nor had they been able to tell him what the Maelstrom Coordinates to which the old lady had referred a couple of times might be, saying that they’d never heard of that expression.

Clayton cradled the book in his hand with a familiarity that had come with the years. He ran his finger over the eight-pointed star adorning the cover, and the tiny circle from which the ornate arrows sprang, then the second, concentric circle traversing them, which resembled a ship’s wheel. He leafed through the pages, as always in the vague hope that this random search would reveal the meaning of it all, feeling the weight of responsibility the old lady had placed on his shoulders. Her words had become imprinted on his memory without the need for any phonograph: “The key to the salvation of the world lies within the pages of this book. Of the world as you know it, but also of all those worlds you can only imagine . . . You must guard it with your life if necessary and give it to those who come from the Other Side.” And although no one had claimed it during the ten intervening years, Clayton only needed recall the burning passion in the old lady’s eyes to be sure that sooner or later someone would. That someone might be the Villain himself, he occasionally imagined with a shiver, that transparent murderer whom bullets scarcely grazed, that ruthless creature who would go on killing until he got hold of the book.

The sound of the Chamber door opening made him start. Who could it be at that hour? he wondered, glancing at the tiny window in one of the walls through which the pale dawn light was beginning to seep. But he immediately had the answer as he saw, framed against the door, a stout figure with a flashing red light in place of one of his eyes. When Captain Sinclair discovered him leaning on the desk, he gave a sigh and weaved his way through the fantastical bric-a-brac that filled the room.

I am sure any of you would wager that during the ten years that had passed, the relationship between Clayton and the captain could only have grown closer, given the dozens of cases they had worked on, the dangers they had braved together, and the secret adventures they had lived through. However, anyone placing his bets on that card would lose everything down to his socks, because some souls are only prepared to reveal so much and will not allow you to delve any deeper, and both Clayton and the captain possessed that sort of impermeable soul. And so the relationship between them had scarcely evolved from what it was at the beginning of this story.

In some cases that lack of intimacy had worked in the inspector’s favor. For example, it had freed him from the need to address in any depth the matter of his fainting fits, whose resolution is something you must all be wondering about, for when we left Clayton ten years ago he was sneaking out of Dr. Higgins’s consulting rooms. You should know that Clayton was later informed that the tests our mysterious doctor carried out revealed no abnormalities, and although the inspector sought advice from a few other medical practitioners, he eventually gave up trying to find a solution to his problem because it ceased to be one, at least in his work, which was what most concerned him. And how was that possible? Thanks to Captain Sinclair deciding to ignore it. Yes, during those ten years, Clayton had collapsed dozens of times while on duty, mostly in full view of Sinclair. At first Clayton had explained these lapses away with a variety of excuses (lack of sleep, anxiety associated with the case they were working on, not eating properly . . .), but as soon as he realized that the captain accepted them with an impassive silence, he stopped justifying them and simply grinned idiotically when he came to, in whatever corner his boss had put him so he wouldn’t be in the way. Clayton never knew if the captain had believed any of his excuses, or whether he had mentioned it to his superiors, but the fact is he was never called into anyone’s office, leading him to assume that, regardless of the many problems it caused them, Sinclair had decided to overlook his eccentric habit of collapsing all over the place without prior warning. Despite the relative peace of mind this gave him, Clayton continued to be intrigued by the reasons for the captain’s behavior—that is, until one afternoon when Mrs. Sinclair confessed to Clayton, during one of her frequent attacks of honesty over tea, that her husband’s potent seed couldn’t take root in her barren womb. In a voice dripping with melancholy, Marcia Julia Sinclair had described to him the long, arduous years during which they had struggled to produce an heir, the endless frustrations, and, above all, the enormous disappointment of discovering that, after a certain age, not even the hardest-fought battle of this kind had any chance of success. After that, the inspector was in no doubt as to why the captain had chosen to help him bear his heavy burden. Fate had decided that he filled perfectly the empty space left in his captain’s marriage, and the immunity that granted him, although he had not asked for it, proved very convenient. He showed his gratitude to Sinclair every day in the only way their lack of intimacy allowed: mutely. The captain responded in kind, also using that coded language of awkward smiles, subtle nods, and significant raisings of the eyebrows, whereby each told the other he knew that the other knew. Thus Clayton’s fainting fits ceased to be a problem and became something he had to learn to live with. As you will understand, he couldn’t help feeling grateful that things had worked out that way, because it enabled him to go on dreaming about Valerie.

“Heaven knows why I went looking for you at your house, the club, or the Yard, when I know perfectly well you like to spend every spare moment shut away in here,” the captain grumbled, more to himself than to Clayton, panting for breath as he came to a halt near the inspector.