The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(167)

The inspector guided them toward his desk through the sea of objects. As they walked behind him, Wells glanced fleetingly at some of the marvels they passed—a mermaid’s skeleton, a Minotaur’s head, the skin of a gigantic werewolf—but all the while his eyes returned again and again to the knife hovering at Jane’s back, the tip of the blade almost touching the nape of her neck.

“I would offer you some tea,” Clayton remarked as they reached his desk, “but I am afraid it has gone cold. I doubt it is drinkable . . .”

“Oh, don’t worry, Inspector, we have had our breakfast,” Wells said, and then, pointing timidly at the book on the table, he added, “Er . . . isn’t that The Map of Chaos?”

“Yes, it is,” replied Clayton.

All at once, Wells was propelled toward the inspector, as if he had been seized by a sudden urge to embrace him. Then a knife appeared from behind Jane and its sharp tip pressed into her neck.

“Good morning, Inspector Clayton,” a voice said. “We meet again. It has been a long time.”

Clayton, who had just dodged Wells’s hurtling body, contemplated the knife no one was holding with a look of revulsion but said nothing.

“George, while the inspector is recovering from the shock,” the creature went on, “relieve him of his pistol, would you? And don’t try anything, or I shall trace a pretty smile on your wife’s neck!”

Clenching his jaw, Clayton opened his jacket to enable Wells to take his pistol.

“Forgive me, forgive me,” Wells implored. “What could I do? He was going to wound my wife.”

Clayton looked at him scornfully. Wells hung his head and turned round, but he had scarcely taken a step toward the creature when the voice made him stop in his tracks.

“Oh, I am sorry, George, I forgot . . . I don’t wish to abuse your kindness, but while you are at it, bring me the book, would you? Remember, I came here to destroy it.”





35


MEANWHILE, IN A CONSERVATORY CREATED in the image and likeness of the Taj Mahal, Arthur Conan Doyle was listening to the feeblest defense he had heard in his entire life.

“Actually, I was only making them dream, Arthur,” Murray was saying. “And dreams are necessary. They are humanity’s pick-me-up!”

“?‘Making them dream’! Is that what how you would describe it?” Doyle said indignantly, his booming voice echoing through the empty conservatory.

“You did the same with Sherlock Holmes,” Murray protested. “You provided your readers with the balm they needed to be able to bear their wretched lives. And then you snatched it from them!”

“Holmes was a character in a book, damn it,” Doyle objected, increasingly irritated. “I never tried to pass him off as a real person.”

Murray snorted and tried a fresh approach. “True. But what about the Great Ankoma? Didn’t you and George pass him off as a genuine medium capable of putting me in touch with Emma? You thought if I believed your charade I would forget about killing myself.”

“That lie was meant to save your life, which is why I agreed to be part of it. But the aim of Murray’s Time Travel was very different. And to think I defended you! I wrote dozens of articles pleading your cause!”

“And didn’t I thank you for it at the time? It is hardly my fault if you are gullible!”

“I am not gullible!” Doyle roared, beside himself with rage.

Murray raised his eyes to heaven, but before he had time to let out the chortle rising up his throat, a speck in the sky drew his attention. He narrowed his eyes in an attempt to focus on it, and as the shape grew clearer, his jaw began to drop. When he realized what it was, he said with a splutter, “And would you believe me if I told you a pterodactyl is about to fly overhead?”

“A pterodactyl? For God’s sake, Gilliam!” Doyle said, incensed. “What do you take me for! Of course I wouldn’t!”

He had scarcely finished speaking when a sound like sheets whipped by a gale began to grow steadily louder. Then the sky suddenly clouded over as an enormous shadow passed overhead. Taken aback, Doyle looked up, and, through the roof of the conservatory, witnessed an enormous pterodactyl flying over their heads. Identical to the reconstructions he had seen in engravings, it had a narrow skull and an elongated jaw bristling with teeth, while its greenish-grey wings must have measured over six feet.

When the creature had vanished into the distance, Doyle asked in a trembling voice, “How the devil did you do that?”

Murray shrugged, the blood draining from his face. “Would you believe me if I tell you it isn’t my doing?”

Doyle concealed his astonishment. So, what had just crossed the sky was real? They had seen a flying reptile extinct for millions of years? It was then the two men heard the sound that their heated argument and the subsequent noise of the creature’s flapping wings had drowned out: the frenzied tinkling of a hundred bells. They rushed out of the conservatory, only to find Elmer running toward them.

“Mr. Gilmore, sir!” cried the butler as he reached them. “The mirrors . . . the servants . . . fantastical things . . . centaurs . . . dragons.”

“Elmer, my good man, try to speak properly. Otherwise, how do you expect Mr. Doyle and me to understand you?” Murray said good-naturedly.