Crookes’s claims that Florence’s powers were genuine secured the reputation of the young medium, although, unfortunately, the same could not be said of his own. However, this time it was not because the scientist had once more risked his credibility defending the existence of life after death, but rather because in his articles he couldn’t conceal the fact that he had fallen head over heels in love with Katie King, the pirate’s daughter who had been dead for many years. Crookes’s descriptions of her, which Clayton had read with a wry smile, had more in common with the doggerel of a second-rate poet than the dry discourse of a scientist: “The photographs fail to do justice to Katie’s flawless beauty, as words are insufficient to describe her allure. Her enchanting presence makes you want to kneel down and worship her.” It was clear that the brilliant scientist, discoverer of thallium and inventor of the radiometer, had allowed himself to be seduced by the adorable ghost with whom he strolled through his study like lovers in a park. It made him the laughingstock of every salon in London, and his few remaining friends, including Doctor Ramsey, turned their backs on him in shame, weary perhaps of defending the indefensible, or simply afraid society would tar them with the same brush. But during the spring of 1874, Katie had made her final farewells to Florence and Crookes. She had fulfilled her mission, she told them, by proving to the skeptics the existence of the Beyond and was now able to rest in peace. Since then, Crookes had not seen or spoken of Katie again, and time, ever merciful, had finally silenced the mocking voices. Besides scandalizing half of London, it was obvious that the unearthly love affair had left Crookes heartbroken, but at least his prestige as a scientist had survived, and whilst his presence at any function still aroused a few pitying smiles, his discoveries continued to win him the admiration of his colleagues, and it was even rumored he might receive a knighthood in the not-too-distant future. However, it was enough for Clayton to note the intense look of yearning in Crookes’s eyes to realize he still had not forgotten Katie King. The inspector would even have wagered his good hand that, for all Crookes’s claims that his interest in spiritualism was purely scientific, his real aim was to find her again.
• • •
CLAYTON TURNED HIS ATTENTION from Crookes to the remaining member of the group, a frail old lady whose commitment to the cause of spiritualism he found almost touching. Catherine Lansbury was the only one who was not part of the committee but had been given permission to attend the séance thanks to her generous donations, which had replenished its empty coffers. That benevolent contribution had allowed her to participate in all of the committee’s investigations. So far that year, according to Clayton’s information, Mrs. Lansbury had attended no fewer than a dozen séances in London and beyond. That interest in spiritualism had puzzled Clayton, because, despite her apparent fragility, Mrs. Lansbury’s eyes sparkled with a determination that had none of the benign befuddlement one expects in somebody approaching eighty. They radiated tenacity of spirit and a clearheaded intelligence, and it was no surprise to discover that she was the inventor of the Mechanical Servant, a device that had conquered the homes of the wealthiest English families. This was why Clayton found it all the harder to understand her decision to squander her fortune on something as dubious as spiritualism.
“I’ve been wanting to attend one of Madame Amber’s séances,” she had confessed to him excitedly during the brief exchange they had enjoyed on arriving at the house. “Her waiting list is so long I can scarcely believe I’m finally here. She really does excel at spiritualism in all its forms, but they say her materializations are second to none. Perhaps she is a genuine Maelstrom coordinator . . . It’s a long time since I met one.”
Clayton had no idea what Mrs. Lansbury was talking about, but simply said, “I hope she doesn’t disappoint you.”
What else could he say to her? Apparently, the old lady’s mental faculties weren’t as keen as her lucid gaze suggested. Clayton regretted the existence of unscrupulous people who took advantage of such people and was unable to prevent that regret from showing in his gaze. To his astonishment, however, he discovered Mrs. Lansbury staring back at him with a similar look of compassion, as if she had glimpsed behind his eyes his dark, barren soul and had realized that the ashes covering it were simply the remnants of the spectacular fire that had consumed him seven months earlier.
Professor Burke’s voice brought the inspector back to reality.
“Ah, how I wish I could examine Madame Amber personally!” he whispered conspiratorially so that the ladies could not hear. “This might be our only chance to touch such a beautiful woman, don’t you agree, gentlemen?”
The men all nodded hastily, except for Professor Crookes and the engineer named Holland—Crookes because his spectral romance appeared to have placed him above the temptations of the flesh, and Holland because one of the ladies behind the screen disrobing the medium was his wife.
“Undoubtedly, Professor,” Count Duggan said dolefully, also in hushed tones. Then he appeared to reflect and added, “Perhaps I could offer to conclude the examination myself, because there is more than likely a hidden pocket in her undergarments. I say, Captain, don’t you think that we ought to verify . . .”
“I’m afraid I cannot allow that, Count Duggan,” Sinclair interrupted him rather coldly.
“But she’s so ravishing!” moaned Duggan. “You gentlemen don’t appreciate that, because, unlike me, you didn’t see her close up at Lady Colesberry’s ball. And I can assure you she is even more beautiful than in the photographs of her.”
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.
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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 coun
tess 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.
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