The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(121)
“George, is that you . . . ?” whispered Murray, who had knelt down beside Jane.
The old man nodded, smiling at him weakly, his eyes suddenly lighting up.
“Gilliam, my dear friend,” he said in a croaky voice, “how happy it made me to find you again! Despite how bothersome it has been calling you ‘sir’ for the past two years—”
He broke off, a brief coughing fit obliging him to turn his head and spit out a gobbet of blood; then, wearily, he closed his eyes. Murray hurriedly shook his arm, which earned him a disapproving look from Jane.
“George, George, don’t you dare die . . . I beg you, there is something I need to ask you.”
The old man opened his eyes with great difficulty.
“You always were a pain in the neck, Gilliam . . .” His voice sounded distant, as if he were already speaking to them from the Hereafter. “As an employer, as an enemy . . . I think I can only tolerate you when you are my closest friend.”
“You are also a better friend than you are a coachman, George,” Murray chuckled, relieved that the old man had opened his eyes again. “But there is one thing I do need to know . . . Were Emma and I happy in your world? Tell me the truth . . .”
“Gilliam, please,” Wells interjected behind him, “there are more urgent matters to—”
The dying old man and his younger twin exchanged a glance. A glance so subtle and swift that Murray, who was waiting for the least sign that his coachman was fading to shake him to life again, didn’t notice it. But Doyle did, and his heart sank as he also saw the young Wells shake his head imperceptibly in response.
“My dear Gilliam . . . ,” the old fellow murmured with visible difficulty, “Emma and you were terribly happy in my world. In order to be together you had to overcome many things—too many things—but in the end you succeeded. Although I am ashamed to confess that it was no thanks to me . . . That is why, when I arrived here, I resolved to make every effort to bring you two together . . . And so I allowed myself to reply to the letter you sent to my twin, afraid that he would be as embittered as I was and decide to ignore it.”
When Wells, who had been watching the scene with a beatific smile, heard the old man’s last words, his jaw dropped.
“So it was you!” he cried, unable to restrain himself. “You replied to that accursed letter in my place! I told you all that it wasn’t me! But . . . but . . . surely you and I must have the same handwriting!”
Feebly, the old man raised the hand with the two fingers missing.
“I never did learn to write properly with my left hand . . . ,” he murmured apologetically. All at once, he screwed up his face, as if he were trying to swallow a huge, burning ember stuck in his gullet. He opened his mouth and inhaled a few meager mouthfuls of air, which scarcely filled his lungs. His next words, spoken between gasps, were barely intelligible. “Gilliam, I’m so sorry your love affair ended so tragically in this world. But believe me when I tell you that in the world I come from, nothing came between you . . . Please, cherish that thought as long as you live.”
Murray lowered his head, his eyes brimming with tears. Jane began to sob loudly. Wells knelt down beside them and contemplated the old man, bewildered, trying to assimilate the fact that he was witnessing his own death.
“George, please,” he implored. “We need to know where The Map of Chaos is.”
Doyle, who had remained standing, and had been doing his best to stay silent, stepped forward. The old man’s mouth was gaping open, and his chest was shaking convulsively as he contemplated Jane, trying to convey with his eyes how much he loved her. His eyelids fluttered momentarily and his gaze finally alighted on the younger Wells.
“Look for Inspector Cornelius Clayton, of the Special Branch at Scotland Yard,” he managed to whisper. “He has the book. And please, George, be extremely careful. I am afraid my curse is also latent in . . .”
The old man was unable to finish the sentence. His eyes opened very wide, and his chest arched upward. Jane let out a stifled scream. For a few seconds, the old man struggled to breathe in air that had suddenly grown immensely thick, but almost immediately his body collapsed and his eyes, staring vacantly, gradually clouded, until the brightness illuminating them went out. Doyle said a silent prayer, fully aware of the miracle he had just witnessed, of those bonds of love and friendship that had breached infinity to join two whole universes. The young Wells placed his fingers on the wrinkled eyelids that would one day be his, and with a gentle movement, as though he were turning a page of a missal, he closed them forever. At that precise moment, the old man’s body vanished from view.
For a long time, in that place on the moor, the only sound to be heard was the crackle of the flames daubing the trees in the driveway with golden reflections. The glow dimly illuminated the four silent figures and the emptiness where the coachman had lain, an emptiness that spoke of other worlds besides the one they knew. Perhaps three worlds. Or hundreds, or thousands, or millions of worlds. Perhaps an infinity. And in one of them, on a moor similar to this one, the body of an old man suddenly appeared, as though emerging from the dark night, adding another mystery to that world.
PART THREE
IS THAT THE SOUND OF BREATHING YOU HEAR BEHIND YOU? COULD IT BE THAT SOMEONE IS READING THIS TALE OVER YOUR SHOULDER . . . ?
DO NOT LET THAT DETER YOU, VALIANT READER, FOR WE HAVE REACHED THE POINT IN OUR STORY WHERE YOU WILL DISCOVER WHETHER OUR HEROES ARE ABLE TO SAVE THE WORLD, AND WHERE ALL YOUR QUESTIONS WILL FINALLY BE ANSWERED, INCLUDING THE MYSTERY OF MY IDENTITY.