The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(120)
“I didn’t say that, Gilliam,” Wells hastened to reassure him, feeling a lump rise in his throat. “All I meant was that I had a lot of questions to ask, and your coachman was fading so fast that—”
“Of course you had a lot of questions! I can think of several myself,” said Doyle, who didn’t consider it an opportune moment for anguish or melodrama. “For example, who is this invisible man? Did you ask him that, George? Perhaps he comes from another dimension as well.”
“Of course I did, Arthur!” Wells retorted, peeved that Doyle doubted him even as he noticed Murray move away from them slightly, a forlorn expression on his face. Clearly he was no longer interested in their conversation. “But he told me that he didn’t know him. That as far as he knows he has never come across an invisible man before today. However, he is convinced that there is a link between that creature and the mysterious men who have been pursuing him for the past two years, apparently with the intention of killing him.”
“Good Lord, and I thought my life was full of excitement!” Doyle exclaimed.
“He calls them the Hunters,” Wells went on. “And we saw them, too. Do you remember the incident at the opera house, Gilliam, when you saved Jane’s life?”
“Naturally: How could I forget the day our friendship began?” Murray replied sullenly.
Wells sighed.
“Then you will also remember the strange man dressed in a cloak and hat who startled the horses before quickly vanishing down a side street.” Murray nodded disdainfully. “Well, he was one of those Hunters. And guess whom he was pursuing? Baskerville! Because Baskerville was there, right behind us, eavesdropping on our conversation. That was how he found out that you intended to dismiss your coachman, and so he applied for the job. As I already told you, one of his greatest consolations was to watch over Jane and me from afar, but also over you and Emma, because in his world you were two of his closest friends. He knew you called yourself Montgomery Gilmore now, and he even watched your theatrical proposal of marriage from the top of a hill. And do you remember the figure we saw on the moor the day we went to Brook Manor, which we all assumed was a prison guard?”
“It was another Hunter,” deduced Murray, who seemed to have laid aside his annoyance. “That explains why Baskerville was behaving so oddly that morning.”
“Precisely. For the past two years, the Hunters have been tightening the net around him, forcing him to change names and jobs, although he has always eluded them, mostly through luck.”
“And what is the connection between his pursuers and the monster that attacked us this evening?” Doyle wanted to know.
“The Map of Chaos,” said Wells. “When Baskerville was alerted to our cries and came running, he heard the creature demanding I hand over that book, a book he is familiar with and that bears an eight-pointed star on the cover, identical to the one on the Hunters’ weapons.”
“Baskerville knows about the book! Then he must know its whereabouts as well as what it is for,” Doyle exclaimed excitedly.
“Er . . . I suppose he must,” Wells said gravely, “only he lost consciousness before he was able to tell me,”
“I don’t believe it!” cried Doyle. “So you are saying that all we have is a long list of facts that are apparently meaningless?” Wells shrugged, avoiding Doyle’s flashing eyes until he seemed to calm down. “Good. Let’s not get agitated. We have two Wellses from two different worlds, both of whose lives are in danger, for reasons unknown to us, and the only thing linking their strange pursuers is a mysterious book whose whereabouts are also unknown . . . It is obvious which piece of the puzzle is missing. And it is regrettable, dear George, that you didn’t manage to wheedle it out of Baskerville during your little chat.”
“Let me remind you that his words were those of a dying man, dear Arthur. He kept losing the thread, or simply repeating himself . . .”
“All the more reason for you to have reflected a bit more about what you were going to ask him. A good investigator must always make the person questioned discover that he knows more than he thinks he knows.”
“I agree with Arthur entirely, George: I don’t think you asked the right questions either,” Murray chipped in. “If it had been me, I would have remembered to ask about my best friend’s fate in whatever world.”
“Oh, I beg your pardon! Forgive me for being such a disappointment!” Wells exploded, raising his arms to heaven. “I am sure any one of you would have done much better in my place. Oh, yes, I can just see you: confronted by your twin from another world, discovering the true nature of the universe, while your two closest friends do battle with an invisible villain inside a burning house, and yet perfectly able to ponder each question calmly.”
At that moment, a terrible crash from the house shook the night, and they turned as one just in time to see the roof begin to cave in. As the house gradually collapsed in on itself, it seemed to cower, like a bludgeoned animal. Then, from among the rubble, flames appeared, reaching up to the sky as though intending to burn that, too. The din slowly began to die away, and they heard Jane’s cries.
“Bertie, he has come round!”
The three men hastened to where the old fellow was lying. Reaching him, they paused uneasily, less because of the extraordinary miracle of knowing they were in the presence of a man from another world than because they were confronted by the solemn, distressing spectacle of death. The old man had opened his eyes and was gazing at them as if he could see right through them.