The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(87)
“Oh, that’s a brilliant idea, darling,” Murray said enthusiastically.
“Actually it would be rather good to have somewhere like that,” added Wells, who could think of dozens of people he would invite to such dinners.
“Very well, perhaps we’ll keep it just as it is,” Murray went on jovially. “On second thought, it could be put to other similar uses. We could even”—he grinned mischievously—“hire it out for séances.”
“Oh, no, Monty, not that again . . . ,” Emma began, suddenly growing serious.
“But, darling, feel the atmosphere!” Murray interrupted, signaling the room around them with feigned admiration. “I imagine this is what Mr. Doyle would call . . . what was it again? An atmosphere conducive to the power of suggestion.”
Doyle only scowled at Murray.
“Why, yes,” Murray said, spreading his arms, as though wanting to clasp all that darkness to him, “I think I’ve just found another perfect idea for a business. Any medium would happily pay whatever we asked to hold his séances here. With such a conducive atmosphere, he would scarcely need to employ his usual tricks—”
“That’s enough, Monty,” Emma cut in. “Arthur, I beg you to forgive us once more: we didn’t mean to offend you by mocking your beliefs; we were only teasing.” She looked sternly at Murray. “Isn’t that right, darling?”
“Of course, it was just teasing, Doyle,” Murray confirmed with a shrug.
“I appreciate your concern, Miss Harlow,” said Doyle, ignoring Murray and addressing his fiancée with a look of injured pride. “As I already said when we first met, I know how to enjoy a good joke.”
“Oh, I’m sure you do,” Emma replied, without clarifying either whether or not Murray’s remarks fell into that category. “Although, speaking of sinister atmospheres, it has to be said there is something very intimidating about this house.”
“Well, it doesn’t intimidate me in the slightest,” Murray declared.
“Oh, come now, Monty,” said Wells, who was praying Murray and Doyle weren’t going to get into another unpleasant argument, “you must admit the place gives you the shivers, regardless of whether we came here expecting that or not.”
“Well, I’d say the house is contaminated with energies beyond our understanding,” Doyle announced with an authoritative air, casting an eye slowly around the room. “I don’t think it is simply a matter of suggestion, George. We all perceive it, even if some of us daren’t admit it.”
“Who dares not admit it?” asked Murray.
“You, of course, darling,” Emma replied.
“Really? And what exactly is it I’m meant to perceive? That the souls of this jolly lot are watching us to make sure we don’t make fun of their whiskers?” Murray argued, pointing at the portraits.
“That’s not what I meant, darling,” replied Emma, maintaining her composure. “But, like Arthur, I, too, believe there is something in this house that our senses perceive without understanding. Maybe not the souls of the departed, or the idea we have of souls. But perhaps everything these people experienced”—she pointed at the portraits lining the walls, and pivoted slowly round—“what made them suffer, and what they loved, has somehow outlived them . . .” She walked over to the table and ran her finger gently along the back of one of the chairs while she went on dreamily. “Imagine all the scenes that have taken place in this dining room: the dinners, the family dramas, the news of war, the joyous tidings . . . Perhaps it is all still here, eternally taking place, somehow vibrating in the air, even though we neither hear nor see it, because our minds are only able to perceive the present . . . There could be places, like this, that are like backwaters in a river, places where the flow of time stagnates and experiences accumulate in layers over the centuries to form a unique, complex present, and that this . . . existential sedimentation, so to speak, is what we perceive. Perhaps the shiver you felt, George, was because at that very moment a butler walked through you carrying a tray of glasses”—at which Wells looked at Emma, startled, and took a discreet step to one side—“and you, Jane, right this minute, you might be standing in the sight line of two rivals who will fight a duel at dawn. And in this chair I am leaning against, perhaps a man is caressing his lover’s foot under the table, while she is writing their initials on the table with her finger”—and with this, Emma’s own slender forefinger traced in the dust an “M” and an “E.” Then Emma contemplated the two letters with a pensive smile, probably wondering whether a hundred years from then, when those letters were long gone, and she herself wasn’t even alive, some visitor would sense her making that gesture, until she realized they had all fallen silent. She looked up, her cheeks turning a delightful shade of pink. “Oh, please forgive my silly daydreams. I was born in a very young country, where the buildings have no memories, so that places like this seem completely magical to me . . .”
“There’s no need to apologize, my dear,” said Jane. “It was a truly beautiful description.”
Everyone agreed except for Murray, who simply gazed at Emma in admiration.
“And not only that,” Doyle chipped in excitedly. “It is also another way of expressing what I have always said: that part of what we are survives the death of our bodies. And why not? Perhaps death is a mere repetition of our lives on a higher plane, a sort of Hinton’s cube where we experience every instant of our lives simultaneously . . . And anyway, mediums have relayed numerous messages from spirits who describe the Hereafter as a carbon copy of their former lives.”