The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(117)
“He’s still breathing, albeit very faintly. I don’t think it will be long before . . .” His words hung in the air as he stood up. Jane began to sob quietly. “Don’t cry, my dear, he is no longer suffering, and he’ll soon be at peace. He was able to tell us what he wanted. There is nothing more we can do for him. We must think of ourselves now, and of our friends and . . . God, I wish we hadn’t heard what he had to say!”
“Do you mean that?” Jane exclaimed, astonished. “Would you honestly have preferred not to know?”
“Yes! No! I suppose . . . Oh, Jane, of course I prefer to know! It is so incredible . . . But what if the price of knowing turns out to be the lives of Arthur and Monty?”
“They are all right, Bertie, I am sure of it,” Jane said, looking toward the house and striving to lend her voice a certainty she was far from feeling. “Any moment now they will come rushing through that door.”
“How can you be so sure?” asked Wells. He gave a sigh of despair, took his wife by the arms, and announced firmly: “Jane, I think you should go for help while I . . . go inside the house.” His perfect imitation of an assertive husband lost some of its plausibility as his voice quavered on his last words.
“Don’t even consider it, Herbert George Wells!” Jane was adamant. “I won’t have you burned alive in some stupid haunted house! Do you want me to be the only woman in the world to be widowed twice in the same day?”
Before Wells could reply, the front door swung open and two bodies enveloped in flames burst upon the night, rending the darkness like two wavering human torches.
“Well, I never!” exclaimed Wells.
As if in a choreographed routine, Murray and Doyle tore off the flaming sacks and flung themselves on the ground, where they rolled around amid cries of pain and whoops of joy. After recovering from their shock, Wells and Jane hurried to help their two friends, unsure of what they might find. But by the time they reached Murray and Doyle, the two men were already struggling to their feet, joking as if they had just come back from a sleigh ride instead of having escaped from an inferno. Their hair was singed and whiffs of smoke rose from their clothes, but apart from Doyle’s ear, his hand, which was covered in blood, and a few superficial burns, they seemed unscathed. For several minutes, the four of them exchanged emotional embraces, clapping one another on the back so excitedly that Murray even went as far as to plant a kiss on Jane’s lips. Amid all the rejoicing, Wells approved of the gesture, although he made sure that Doyle did not express his excitement in a similar manner. After the embraces came the explanations, somewhat disjointed due to the two men’s euphoria at being alive: the Invisible Man had been hit probably by the best crossbowman those ancient walls had ever known, but unfortunately, before they could apprehend him, the creature had vanished, taking with him the mystery of his unimaginable wickedness.
“But have no fear, George, I doubt your invisible man will be bothering you again in a hurry,” Murray declared theatrically as a series of random explosions inside the house solemnly underlined his pronouncements.
Doyle begged to differ: “I wouldn’t be so sure if I were you. I don’t think the story ends there. I suspect we shall be hearing from him again very soon . . . and I shan’t deny how eagerly I await that day! I want to find out who that evil creature is who knows you so well, George, and what the devil he wants from you . . . I refuse to add another mystery to the world!”
Wells and Jane exchanged looks, which did not escape Doyle’s eagle eye.
“What’s going on?” he asked suspiciously. The couple opened their mouths, but neither spoke. Doyle became alarmed. “Did something happen while we were in there? Why didn’t you go for help? And how is Woodie?”
“Oh, don’t worry, he is fine,” Wells replied, content to be able to provide a straightforward answer to at least one of Doyle’s questions. “He’s in the carriage. He hasn’t come round yet, but his pulse and breathing are normal. I think he is severely concussed, that’s all.”
“What about Baskerville?” Murray asked sadly. “Is he . . . ?”
Jane let out a cry that made everyone jump.
“Oh, no! I forgot all about my beloved Bertie!” she exclaimed, hurrying toward the body sprawled under the rug.
They all watched as she knelt down beside the old man and clasped his hand with infinite tenderness.
“Is he still alive?” asked Murray.
“I think so . . . ,” replied Wells.
Doyle looked at Wells askance.
“Just a moment,” he said. “Why did Jane call Baskerville ‘my beloved Bertie’? And why the devil didn’t you evacuate the wounded and go for help? My orders were clear, George,” Doyle barked as he fashioned a makeshift bandage for his injured hand with his handkerchief.
“I didn’t realize we were in the army, Arthur,” Wells retorted, with more weariness than sarcasm. “Besides, we were going to, but Baskerville refused to let us put him in the carriage.”
“And you listened to an old man’s ravings, George?” said Murray, taken aback.
“I assure you he wasn’t raving,” protested Wells. “He implored us not to take him anywhere, because he doubted he would survive the journey, and he had something to tell us before he died, something terribly important, for us and for . . . the whole of humanity. And so we laid him on the ground, covered him with a rug, and . . . well, we let him tell us his . . . extraordinary story.”