The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(114)
“Inspector Clayton,” he whispered at last, as though he had plucked his name from a distant hazy memory, despite the fact that they regularly bumped into each other at Scotland Yard.
Garrett fell silent again, staring fixedly at Clayton with a startling coldness that made the latter shudder. Clayton had imagined exchanging excited impressions about what was going on, or discussing the possibility of joining forces and devising a plan together: anything but this unnerving indifference. A few steps away, the two uniformed police constables contemplated Clayton with the same cold expectancy. Not knowing what to say, Clayton motioned with his chin toward the robbery taking place on the other side of the street.
“Do you need some assistance, Inspector?” said Clayton, pointing his chin at the looters.
Garrett gazed nonchalantly toward the looters.
“Oh, no, we have the situation under control,” he assured Clayton.
“Good . . . ,” Clayton said skeptically, as Garrett turned back to look at him with the same disconcerting indifference. “Then I’ll continue on to Scotland Yard.”
“Why are you going there?” the young man inquired abruptly.
“I have a prisoner to deliver,” Clayton replied, thrown by this sudden show of interest.
Garrett nodded slowly, his lips pursed in a grimace of regret, and then, breaking off the conversation, he gestured to his men, and the three of them sauntered over to the bicycle shop. Seeing them approach, the thieves abandoned what they were doing and, after a brief exchange, ran off down the street. At this, Inspector Garrett glanced over his shoulder to see whether Clayton was still there and found the other man watching him. Clayton wheeled round uneasily to return to the carriage, but not before taking one last look to make sure the two policemen were picking up the bicycles and replacing them in the shop. As he moved away, Clayton puzzled over the policemen’s strange behavior, in particular that of the young inspector. Garrett was a mere acquaintance, yet Clayton knew he was one of the Yard’s finest brains. His ability to solve cases, apparently without stepping out of his office, was legendary, as was his squeamishness about blood. Perhaps this detachment was the only way a sensitive mind such as his could respond to the invasion, Clayton told himself. The situation had undoubtedly overwhelmed him, turning the flawless logic with which he solved everyday crimes on its head and leaving him all at sea, incapable of responding or giving orders to his men.
Clayton shrugged and climbed aboard the coach. They were soon heading toward Scotland Yard, threading their way through streets filled with the same leisurely crowds. Leaving the carriage in front of the building on Great George Street, they marched into police headquarters. Clayton headed the motley band, pulling along the man with the ape face with his good hand while the other dangled, shattered, from his right sleeve; then came Wells, haggard and cross and worrying about Jane, while Murray and Emma brought up the rear, exchanging joyous glances and engaging in lively banter, like a couple out choosing wedding presents. To the group’s surprise, they found the entire place deserted. There was no one in the main entrance or the adjacent offices, and the pervading silence made them think they would probably not find a soul in the whole building. Startled, they walked warily around the entrance hall, here and there discovering disturbing signs of violence: an occasional upturned table, a smashed typewriter that had been thrown against the wall, a dented filing cabinet. But the most eerie things of all were the splashes of blood on the walls and floor. Hundreds of stains everywhere, like macabre symbols no one dared decipher.
“What the devil happened here?” Murray declared at last, puzzled by the enormous stain in the shape of Australia that covered one of the walls.
“I don’t know,” murmured Clayton.
“What’s that smell?” Emma asked.
“Yes,” Wells remarked, sniffing the air, “what a stench.”
“It seems to be coming from upstairs,” Clayton observed, gesturing toward the staircase leading to the upper floor housing the inspectors’ offices.
The group glanced nervously at one another, realizing they had no choice but to go up there. Handing the prisoner over to Murray, Clayton took out his pistol and led the hesitant procession as they climbed the stairs. With each step, the evil smell grew more intense. When they reached the floor above, which was equally deserted, it became unbearable. Grimacing with revulsion, Clayton led the others down the corridor where Scotland Yard’s inspectors and other high-ranking officers had their offices. By chance, the nauseating odor guided him to the end room, which belonged to Inspector Colin Garrett. The coincidence baffled Clayton. The office door was closed, but the stink was clearly coming from within. Clayton swallowed hard, placed his metal hand on the doorknob, and gave the others a solemn look, as though warning them to be prepared for anything. The others nodded, equally solemn, and watched as he tried to open the door with his fake hand while brandishing his firearm with the other. For a few moments, Clayton struggled feebly, testing his companions’ patience, until finally he succeeded in prising open the door. The putrid odor wafted from the room, turning their stomachs. Gritting their teeth, they ventured into the office, trying hard not to retch. But the bloody vision they found inside was more appalling than any of them could have expected.
The room seemed to have been turned into a kind of makeshift abattoir. In the center, piled on top of one another like sacks of flour, lay more than a dozen half-dismembered bodies. Besuited inspectors, uniformed policemen, and even a few high-ranking officers in full dress lay in a ghastly jumble, faces twisted, guts ripped out, blood dripping from their multiple injuries, red rivulets slowly merging as they trickled down the pile, pooling on the floor below. All of them had met a grisly end, throats slit, bones snapped, stomachs brutally sliced open, slain by a killer with no notion of pity. Limbs torn from sockets and various organs lay strewn about the macabre monument, giving the impression that whatever had done this had slaughtered its victims all over the building and then hidden them there, gathering up every piece down to the last morsel of lung.