The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(124)
“And why bring him back? Maybe this Owen is happier in that other world frolicking with five-legged dogs,” the author jested.
The inspector ignored his remark, deciding at last on one of the more real-looking fake hands, which did not appear to have been converted into a weapon, although Wells noticed some kind of screw or spring mechanism attached to the wrist.
“Perhaps the time has come to give you a first outing, my friend,” the inspector murmured with a wistful smile, cradling the prosthesis.
He screwed it on carefully and turned toward the author, slowly bobbing his head.
“I understand your reluctance to believe in such things, Mr. Wells,” he said. “Countless times I would find myself staring into the same skeptical face in the mirror, until gradually that face disappeared. Believe me, Mr. Wells, one can get used to anything. And once you have accepted that there are things in this world that have no explanation, you will be able to believe that the impossible is possible. Indeed, you will be able to believe in magic.”
“If you say so,” murmured Wells.
For a few moments, Clayton fell silent, gazing benevolently at the author, and then he said, “Let me tell you about when I was like you, when I was not yet Inspector Cornelius Clayton. Perhaps it will help. More than a decade ago, I was an ordinary man. Yes, a man who thought the world was what it was. I had the same impoverished, narrow idea of it you have now, except that then I had no difficulty picking up peas with a fork, because both my hands were made of flesh and bone.”
The inspector uttered these last words in a tone of joviality, but Wells fancied his voice contained an underlying air of melancholy like the rustle of dead leaves in autumn. He seemed reluctant to weigh up what he had lost, for fear the balance might go against the decision he had made, so long ago now that he could no longer see himself in that youth who had casually chosen his fate.
“My father was a policeman, and following in his footsteps I joined Scotland Yard to fight against crime. My dedication, together with the advice and training I received from my father, soon yielded an excellent reputation, which, added to my extreme youth, quickly won me the admiration of my superiors, who would frequently and unreservedly congratulate me. One of these, Superintendent Thomas Arnold, called me to his office when I had scarcely been two years with the force. He told me someone was keen to meet me and, there and then, introduced me to the oddest-looking fellow I had ever seen in my life, until that moment at least.
“He was about fifty years old, stout, but with a lively manner, and he wore a peculiar-looking patch over his right eye. At first I wasn’t sure whether he had lost the real one or whether it was still intact beneath the artificial one now occupying its socket. This was a kind of globular lens with a carved edge, held on by a strap that went over his forehead. Inside the globe, which appeared to move, was a smaller circle that gave off a faint reddish glow. Unflustered by my bewilderment, he stretched out a chubby yet vigorous hand laden with rings with strange symbols on them and introduced himself as Angus Sinclair, captain of a division inside the police force that I had no knowledge of. The superintendent beat a swift retreat, leaving me alone with this eccentric fellow, who immediately ensconced himself in the superintendent’s chair, gesturing with a wave of his hand for me to sit opposite him. Once I had done so, he beamed at me, browsing with a satisfied expression through the papers in front of him, which I soon discovered was my curriculum vitae.
“‘You have a brilliant record, Inspector Clayton, I congratulate you,’ he said in a solemn tone.
“‘Thank you, sir,’ I replied, noticing the strange badge on the left-hand lapel of his black three-piece suit: a tiny winged dragon.
“‘Mmm . . . with your youth and intelligence, I imagine you’ll go far. Yes, indeed, very far. In time, you will doubtless achieve the rank of colonel. And when you reach seventy or eighty years old, you’ll die a happy man, stout like me, and with a shock of white hair, content, no doubt, to look back on what could only be seen as a happy life and a career built on solving crimes and sending wrongdoers to prison, and so forth.’
“‘Thank you for the exercise in fortune-telling,’ I replied, vexed by the provocative tone with which he had belittled not only my achievements thus far, but also my future achievements.
“The captain grinned, amused at my display of youthful insolence.
“‘Oh, they are admirable achievements, of which anyone could be proud. However, I am sure you aspire to more, much more than this.’ He stared at me fixedly for a few moments. His mechanical eye glowed intensely, and I fancied I even heard a strange buzzing noise coming from behind the lens. ‘The problem is you have no idea what this more entails, or am I mistaken?’
“He wasn’t mistaken, but I preferred not to admit it. I simply remained silent, curious to know what this fellow wanted from me.
“‘Yes, thanks to your intelligence and commitment you’ll make the grade of colonel, or whatever it is you aspire to. Yet you will know nothing of the world, my boy. Absolutely nothing, however much you might think you know everything.’ He leaned over the desk and gave me a challenging smile. ‘That is your future. But I am offering you a far more exciting one.’
“‘What are you talking about, sir?’ I asked, startled by the eccentric fellow’s fervent tone.
“‘I am inviting you to use your talents to solve other kinds of cases. Special cases,’ he explained. ‘This is what we do in my division, Inspector Clayton, we solve special cases. However, it is not enough to have a brilliant record. You must possess a certain, shall I say . . . temperament.’