The Map of Time Collection, page 140
At this, Burke asked to be tied to his chair, for fear he could not control his actions, and they all laughed, rejoicing in their manly celebration of Madame Amber’s loveliness.
“Let us not allow beauty to sidetrack us from our scientific experiment, gentlemen,” warned Clayton, unable to conceal his disdain for those men who couldn’t help giving in to their weaknesses.
A sudden commotion on the far side of the screen interrupted their conversation, and everyone watched as the two ladies from the committee stepped out from behind its panels. After pausing deliberately for a few seconds, the way an actress would to create a sense of anticipation among the audience, Madame Amber emerged. The luminescent strips sewn onto her gown by Mrs. Jones, head nurse at the Nightingale Training School at St Thomas’s Hospital, and Mrs. Holland, the engineer’s stout wife, caused the medium to glow as if she were made of strands of interwoven sunlight. She waited beside the screen for a moment, soaking up the admiration, a faint smile playing on her lips, then walked over to the gathering escorted by the two women. She wore a close-fitting silk gown, which, far from clothing her, seemed to leave her naked. As she walked, the fabric alternately hinted at and hid her small, pert breasts, like an intermittent spell. Her hair, so blond it was almost white, was parted in a zigzag, separating it into two strips that fell in graceful curls over the gentle curve of her shoulders. She was slender, not very tall, and the calculated languidness of her movements gave her childlike body an even more otherworldly appearance. She came to a halt as she reached the center of the room and greeted the committee members with a haughty smile, which Clayton assumed was part of the performance. She had such an air of lightness that in comparison her two escorts seemed hewn from heavy, rough stone. A scent of violets enveloped her, and her fine, pale features had the allure of virtue about to be corrupted. But more than anything, Clayton was struck by her huge, round eyes, which the Creator had colored an almost diaphanous blue.
“We have finished examining Madame Amber, gentlemen,” Nurse Jones declared in a professional tone, “and can guarantee she has nothing concealed in her garments, mouth, or hair.”
Sinclair nodded, half-entranced, half-satisfied, and was about to invite everyone to take a seat at the table to begin the séance when Clayton interrupted him.
“I’m sure your examination has been more than thorough, ladies, but let me remind you that a woman has other natural orifices in addition to her mouth,” he said calmly.
The ladies stared at the inspector aghast; even some of the gentlemen were shocked by his words. Madame Amber looked deeply offended but almost instantly adopted the righteous smile of a selfless martyr prepared to undergo any sacrifice.
“Perhaps you wish to examine me in person, Inspector,” she said with a childish pout, which caused more than one gentleman to loosen his necktie.
Clayton observed her impassively.
“Oh, I fear one of my hands is not delicate enough to do the job,” he parried with a slight shrug. “I might hurt you.”
“What if you only used the one made of flesh and blood?” She grinned suggestively.
“That is the one I was referring to,” said the inspector. “With the other I would simply rip you to shreds.”
He glanced at Nurse Jones with a hint of impatience. “When you’re ready, Nurse.”
Nurse Jones looked inquiringly at the group and, when nobody said anything, shrugged.
“Very well . . . ,” she said, making no attempt to conceal the fact that she found the whole idea abhorrent. “If you have no objection, Madame Amber, shall we perform the task in your rooms?”
The medium nodded quietly, gave Clayton an icy look, and walked out behind the two ladies. The inspector watched her leave with a look of indifference.
“Good God, Inspector, aren’t you being unnecessarily demanding?” said Holland, once they were alone. “Let’s not stoop to indelicacy or rudeness, what?”
“I quite agree,” chimed in Burke. “It was obvious Madame Amber felt offended by your insistence—”
“Gentlemen, let us not forget that this is a scientific experiment,” retorted Clayton. “A woman can be completely naked and yet conceal a small object, such as a scrap of muslin, or even a rubber mask.”
An abrupt silence fell. Even Sinclair appeared unable to come up with the appropriate words to salvage the situation.
“Inspector Clayton is right, gentlemen.” Doctor Ramsey spoke at last, cracking the knuckles of each hand one by one. “Our only aim is, and always has been, to seek the truth, and in doing so we will inevitably subject mediums to certain, er . . . indelicacies.”
“Even so, for the sake of decorum and our honor as gentlemen . . . ,” Holland protested.
“Poppycock!” declared Colonel Garrick, who until then had remained silent. “Most mediums exploit our decency to carry out their infamous trickery, which is why we have to be as rigorous as possible. Remember, they are mostly charlatans, like that priest who calls himself Doctor Monck.”
“Or that swindler Slade,” added Count Duggan, referring to an expert in automatic writing whose trial for fraud had given rise to a spate of complaints and prosecutions against mediums. “I attended one of his séances myself, you know. He used to give them where he lodged at a boardinghouse in Russell Square, and he charged twenty shillings, though they barely lasted fifteen minutes. But that was ample time for me to—”
“Yes, Henry Slade was a true confidence trickster, doubtless the cleverest of all,” Garrick interrupted. “Although it requires no special talent to convince someone who is gullible.”
Hearing this, Crookes stiffened. “I’d like to think your remark wasn’t directed at anyone in particular, Colonel.”
“Only at whoever wishes to take it personally.” Garrick shrugged.
There was flurry of laughter, which Doctor Ramsey swiftly quelled.
“Come, come, gentlemen . . . Let’s not lower ourselves to personal insult.”
“Oh, many thanks for your defense, Ramsey, dear chap,” Crookes warbled, “although I fear it is a little late and quite unnecessary, for, as you know, lately I have learned to defend myself.”
“For heaven’s sake, Crookes, there’s no need to take it personally,” the doctor implored, producing a succession of deafening cracks with his knuckles. “You know my opinion about your studies. I regret that at the time you saw it as a betrayal, but I haven’t changed my mind: few mediums are free of suspicion, and I’m afraid they don’t include your sainted Florence, who as you are aware was exposed during a séance eight years ago.”
“I wasn’t at that tragic séance, and only fools speak of things they don’t know about,” Crookes retorted. “But I can speak of the miracles that occurred under my own roof, as can numerous others who witnessed them. And I have proof! The photographs I took are at the disposition of—”
“Those photographs prove nothing, Crookes. I saw them, remember? And I pointed out to you that in one of them you could see the edge of a black dress peeping out from beneath Katie King’s white robes—”
“Lies!” roared Crookes. Then he looked at his friend in despair. “Oh, Ramsey, what the blazes has happened to you over the past few years? I appreciate your skepticism—I respect it, even—but I shall never understand your blindness: Do you honestly deny the possibility of life after death, despite there being reports of apparitions dating back to the days of Tertullian? The Hereafter exists, and I am sure it is an exact replica of our world, as affirmed by Swedenborg, the greatest medium of modern times.”
“I have never denied or affirmed the existence of the Hereafter, whether it resembles this world or not,” Ramsey insisted wearily. He remained silent for a few moments before adding, in a philosophical tone, “In the end, every reality is an imitation of itself.”
“An imitation of itself . . . ! You don’t know how right you are, Doctor Ramsey!” Mrs. Lansbury guffawed.
Ramsey glanced at her, somewhat surprised by her interjection, and then once more addressed Crookes.
“But you must admit, William, that those historical apparitions were vague and sporadic. And yet, if we believed all the recent cases, we would find ourselves confronted with an organized invasion, or dare I say it . . . with an epidemic. Besides, I was merely questioning Florence’s honesty,” he added, avoiding his old friend’s offended, angry gaze.
“And don’t forget, Crookes,” Holland piped up, “that Margaretta Fox herself sent a letter from New York proclaiming that all her séances had been hoaxes. What further proof do we need that mediums are a bunch of charlatans who prey on people’s tragedies and hopes in order to line their own pockets?”
“The press only know how to feed drivel to the public!” said Crookes with disdain.
“I have to agree with you there, Crookes,” said Colonel Garrick. “Let’s be fair, gentlemen: if a member of the public goes to any newspaper with a story about exposing a fraudulent medium, they publish it amid great fanfare; but if the same individual proclaims the truth of some supernatural phenomenon they have witnessed, it barely gets a mention.”
Crookes gave a nod of gratitude, although it was clear from his stony expression that he hadn’t forgotten the colonel’s earlier remarks, or the hilarity they had produced.
“I agree that the press isn’t what it used to be,” complained Burke. “Look at the way they are treating the murders of those two prostitutes in Whitechapel . . .”
The conversation then turned to the two horrific crimes, whose grisly details the press had revealed without caring how accurate they were, thus hindering the police investigation, with the sole aim, Sinclair hastened to add, of satisfying their readers’ morbid appetites. Everyone gave their opinion on the matter, apart from Clayton. Once he had finished investigating Madame Amber, he would study the reports on those ruthless killings written up by Inspector Reid of the Criminal Investigation Department and draw his own conclusions.
Like Ramsey and Garrick, Clayton believed that the majority of mediums were impostors, but that didn’t mean there weren’t any genuine seers capable of producing true miracles, as Crookes claimed. That was something he, who wore around his neck a key to a secret chamber full of miracles, was in no position to deny. Not to mention the fact that every morning he knotted his tie with a mechanical hand that constantly reminded him that the fantastical existed. Thus his misgivings about Madame Amber were not the result of any prejudice toward the supernatural: a certain countess had immunized him against that for life, although it seemed she had also prevented him ever again from believing in the innocence of a beautiful woman.
The door then opened, and the medium reentered the room, the humiliating examination to which she had just been subjected having failed to wipe the virginal smile from her lips. Seeing her appear like a delicate butterfly after its wings have been plucked by a cruel child, Captain Sinclair steeled himself and gave Clayton a meaningful look, silently ordering him, with the wrath of his one good eye, to think twice before inventing some fresh demand. Then, smiling gallantly at Madame Amber, he invited everyone to be seated at the table.
The séance would now begin.
5
FOR SEVERAL MINUTES NOT A living sound was heard in the spacious room bathed in the dim light of an infrared lamp, not even the breathing of the twelve people seated around the table. From the moment when Captain Sinclair had commanded silence and they had all obediently joined hands, no one dared to move or make the slightest noise. Even the captain’s glass eye appeared to have stopped its habitual flashing and buzzing like an ember slowly fizzling out as it sinks into water. The twelve remained suspended in that silent glow as though frozen in time. Only two things betrayed life’s unceasing flow: the placid hum of the phonograph working away in a corner of the room, its spinning cylinder oblivious to the wound inflicted on it by the stylus, and Clayton’s eyes, which despite his motionless body flitted around the room, examining every corner.
Once he had checked that the various machines were functioning properly, the inspector contemplated the medium. She was sitting opposite him, her eyes gently closed, bound to her chair and with two short chains, each equipped with a padlock fastening her wrists to those of Doctor Ramsey and Colonel Garrick. As Clayton cast his gaze over his fellow committee members, he was unable to detect on their faces any trace of the skepticism they had shown moments before. Their fingertips touching those of their neighbors, they all seemed absorbed in an almost pious meditation, convinced something was about to occur that would shake them to the core, whether it came from this world or the next.
Sinclair’s voice suddenly boomed out, causing them to jump out of their skins. Without warning, the captain had launched into his record of the séance, in a voice loud enough to be picked up by phonographs as far away as Paris. Having recovered from the shock, the committee members hurriedly resumed their frozen postures. Only the medium remained as motionless as a sphinx, deep in the supposed trance she had entered into as soon as the séance began. The young woman’s lips were parted, and she was breathing slowly and deeply, her small breasts lifting at regular intervals, constrained by the fine silk gown, attracting the furtive glances of the men around the table like moths around a fire. Breathing too regularly, Clayton thought skeptically.
“Subject: séance of twelve September 1888. Time: nine o’clock p.m. Place: Madame Amber’s residence, number twelve Mayflower Road, London. Monitor on the right side: Colonel Garrick; monitor on the left side: Doctor Ramsey. Assistants: Mrs. Holland, Mr. Holland, Professor Crookes, Count Duggan . . .”
And while Sinclair continued his breakdown of the rigorous scientific conditions under which the séance was being monitored, Clayton’s eyes alighted on the three objects in the middle of the table awaiting telekinetic experiments: a small gilt bell, a gardenia, and a lace handkerchief. They were still immobile, and might continue to be, and yet the inspector had the impression they were charged with an air of anticipation, as if they had already secretly decided to move and were simply awaiting Madame Amber’s command. He shook his head, attempting to rid himself of such an absurd idea, no doubt a result of his mind playing tricks on him.
Captain Sinclair’s presentation ended as abruptly as it had begun, and silence once again fell on the gathering. Moments later, Madame Amber, her face still registering a look of intense ecstasy whose alchemy none of the mortals gathered around would ever comprehend, gave a succession of faint moans from her parted lips. Soon afterward, her lovely brow wrinkled, then gradually recovered its original smoothness, as though a light breeze had rippled the calm surface of a lake. This caused an almost electric shiver to pass through the human circle. Although everything about the medium’s face appeared genuine, Clayton was certain that she was faking: something deep inside him insisted that a woman that beautiful couldn’t possibly be honest, couldn’t possibly be at the service of truth. No supreme power was whole and incorruptible, and was there any power greater than that possessed by a beautiful woman? He glanced around him and discovered four pairs of eyes belonging to four of the men around the table—including, to his astonishment, Captain Sinclair—descending lasciviously toward Madame Amber’s pulsating cleavage. None of the men concentrated on monitoring the séance, unable to tear their gaze from the slow rise and fall of the medium’s fragile, provocative, almost girlish breasts. His eyes then crossed those of Count Duggan, who gave him a knowing wink. Disgusted by the thought that this eccentric character assumed he was prey to the same lustfulness as the others, Clayton considered calling them to attention but then thought better of it. He didn’t relish the idea of the cylinder preserving in time one of his admonishments, which might even offend the ladies. He frowned at the count and concentrated once more on the medium.
It was then that the little bell on the table started making a noise, emitting several short, loud tinkles. All eyes fell on the completely mundane object that had suddenly been transformed into a bridge between two worlds. Following the brief call to attention, the bell was silent again. Then Madame Amber resumed her moaning, arching her back and shaking her head violently from side to side; her platinum hair lashed her face like a seagull trying to peck out her eyes. At that moment the bell began to lift very slowly into the air until it was floating about eight inches above the tabletop, where it began to ring furiously, as though shaken by a relentless, invisible hand. At the same time, a series of loud thuds rang out quite clearly, although no one could quite make out which part of the room they were coming from. Clayton had read numerous accounts of loud noises, like huge fists pummeling the walls, but these sounded more like knitting needles dropped on a marble floor, only painfully amplified. As though competing with the thuds, the bell continued tinkling hysterically, and in the midst of that cacophony the gardenia began sliding toward the edge of the table, where it toppled into Nurse Jones’s lap, causing her to throw herself back in her chair with a look of horror, as though a scorpion had just landed on her skirts. It was then that the lace handkerchief took to the air with a delicate flourish and began to float past the flabbergasted onlookers like a jellyfish.
In the meantime, Clayton’s eyes darted frenetically around the room, checking the different monitors again and again. He was certain the bells attached to the curtains hadn’t made a sound before the hubbub had started, although he had to admit that they were of no use now. If anything was moving the weighty hangings, there was no way he could have heard, or indeed seen anything through that bloodred half-light. However, from where he was sitting he could glimpse the recording thermometers, the infrared apparatus, and the other devices set up around the room, none of which appeared to detect any movement in their immediate vicinity. Leaning away from the table just far enough so as not to break the human chain imposed by his neighbors’ hands, Clayton noticed the sawdust was undisturbed, as was the plank blocking off the chimney opening and the seals around the windows. As for his fellow participants, most of them had eschewed their role of strict observer and were gazing spellbound at the riotous activity of the bell, the leisurely progress of the handkerchief, or at Madame Amber herself as she writhed on her chair in a manner as lewd as it was hair-raising.
