The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(111)
“Have you lost your mind, Arthur?” Wells protested. “Forget about the creature! We must get out of here immediately!”
“It’s true, the fire is spreading fast,” Murray added.
Doyle studied the progress of the flames, which had now enveloped an entire wall and were making their way across the ceiling, curling around the supporting beams.
“I realize that, damn it!” he bellowed, trying to make himself heard above the noise of the crackling flames. “But listen to me: that monster will stop at nothing, don’t you see? If he had wanted to flee, he would have left through the front door and disappeared onto the moor. Yet he remained in the house, clearly because he means to kill us before we can get away. If we don’t stop him now that he is at a disadvantage, half-blind and unarmed, none of us will ever sleep easily again, especially not you, George.”
“But in case you hadn’t noticed, that thing is invisible!” Wells shouted frantically. “How the devil do you intend to find him if he doesn’t want you to?”
“We’ll find him!” exclaimed Murray before Doyle had a chance to reply. “Look, he’s showing us the way!”
Before their astonished eyes, spots of blood began to appear as if by magic on the floor. The reddish trail ran between Doyle’s feet, across the hall, and up the staircase.
“He’s leaving a trail of blood!” Doyle exclaimed, scarcely able to believe their luck. “We must move quickly!”
He strode over to Wood, who was still lying crumpled on the table, took him by the shoulders, and began to drag him toward the door. Infected by Doyle’s sudden burst of energy, the others picked up the old man, who groaned softly, as though not wishing to inconvenience them with his suffering. When they laid him on the hall floor, he looked feverishly at Jane.
“Are you all right, my dear?” he stammered, summoning every ounce of his waning strength to force a smile. “I couldn’t bear anything to happen to you . . .”
Moved by the words of this old man whom she barely knew, Jane assured him that she was perfectly well.
“The poor fellow’s delirious . . . ,” Wells muttered, slightly wary of the coachman’s excessive concern for his wife.
Doyle placed Wood next to Baskerville, who was gazing at the ceiling, gasping like a fish out of water. Blood trickled slowly from the corner of the old man’s mouth. After casting a professional eye over his wound, Doyle gave him a look of infinite sorrow, and they all knew there was no hope for him.
“George, carry them out to the coach. And try to stanch the bleeding with . . . well, I’m sure you’ll find something you can use.” Doyle sighed helplessly before looking straight at Wells. “Now listen carefully: Gilmore and I are going after that thing.” He glanced toward the staircase. “If we haven’t come out after fifteen minutes, go for help. Fifteen minutes, do you hear? Not a moment longer!”
Wells nodded resignedly. He still considered Doyle’s plan to hunt the creature down an act of folly, but he didn’t have the strength to argue about it. Doyle had ordered him to evacuate the wounded, which, compared to the task he had allotted himself, was incredibly simple, and so the best thing to do was obey. Doyle looked across at Murray.
“Are you with me, Gilmore?”
“Of course.” Murray grinned. “But if we are going to die together, Arthur, I think you should call me Gilliam—at least for this evening.”
21
WHILE JANE AND WELLS CARRIED the old man out of the house, Murray and Doyle headed toward the staircase. Wells feared for their lives, though less for that of Doyle, whom he had always considered quite indestructible—immune to the everyday events that killed off ordinary folk. He was more concerned about Gilliam, whom Death had begun stalking lately, disgruntled perhaps by the irreverent disappearing act he had performed in the fourth dimension.
“Wait, Arthur!” Murray exclaimed at that very instant. “Why limit ourselves to a pair of swords?” He approached one of the walls in the hallway, took down the enormous iron mace, and handed it ceremoniously to Doyle. “This admirable weapon was apparently made for you. Besides, I hear you’re a talented batsman, isn’t that right?”
Doyle hung his sword from his belt, gripped the mace in both hands, and felt the weight of it with satisfaction.
“What a splendid weapon!” he declared, striking the air with a couple of almighty blows. “What about you, Gilliam? Which weapon will you choose?”
Murray wheeled round. He was holding the big crossbow, which he had loaded with an arrow; Doyle had explained its complicated mechanism to them on the day of the excursion.
“The truth is, I’ve never considered myself a very honorable man,” he apologized with a half grin.
Despite the gloom, the trail of blood was quite visible against the marble steps. Doyle started the ascent, with Murray close behind, trying to fasten a second arrow to his belt. After hesitating a moment, he had finally taken it down off the wall. Two were better than one, he had thought, though he dearly hoped he wouldn’t have to reload the crossbow. Doyle located Jane’s hairpin on one of the stairs and stooped to pick it up carefully by one end. Noticing that it felt heavier than it should, he ran his finger slowly along it until he encountered an obstruction, something soft and viscous. He pulled a face.