The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(175)
“I left out the most important part!” Clayton cried as he walked toward him, straining to make his voice heard above the roar of the columns. “These masts also give off a very special kind of radiation. We commissioned them from Sir William Crookes, one of the greatest scientists of our time . . . I met him at that séance at Madame Amber’s and took an instant liking to him, which wasn’t the case with you. I have a sixth sense that allows me to see people’s true natures; it is a gift that has failed me only once in my life . . . but not with Sir William. When I went to see him a few days ago to tell him about an outlandish theory of parallel worlds, and to ask whether he could design some sort of machine to stop people from jumping between them, he didn’t so much as raise an eyebrow. And yesterday he sent us these splendid columns. Just in the nick of time, it would seem. Obviously, he didn’t have time to test them, but he thought there was a good chance they would work. And judging from your expression, Mr. Rhys, and more important from the fact that you are still here, I don’t think Sir William was boasting.” Clayton had walked right up to the Villain, who was roaring like a caged animal, baring his teeth and clenching his fists. The inspector knelt down, picked up his pistol, and put it back in his jacket. Then he took a book out of one of his pockets and dangled it in front of the watery silhouette into which the Villain had been transformed. “This is the real book, Mr. Rhys, The Map of Chaos! I have kept it safe from you for twelve years, knowing that one day you would come back for it! And now, finally, it is all over. You have lost, Mr. Rhys. You will spend the rest of your life in a miserable cell specially designed for you, from which you will never be able to escape. The book is no longer in danger, and all its mysteries have been unraveled,” he said, almost to himself, unable to hide his satisfaction. “It only remains for me to find those for whom it was intended, those who come from the Other Side, and I will have fulfilled the promise I made to Mrs.—”
Inspector Clayton broke off suddenly, his eyes glazed, the blood draining from his face. He staggered back a few paces, murmuring softly, “No, please, not now . . .”
Then he fainted.
38
BY THIS TIME, GILLIAM MURRAY and Arthur Conan Doyle were hastening down Cromwell Road toward the Natural History Museum. They had passed through a Kensington in uproar, with streets overrun by transparent ghosts. Doyle was maneuvering the carriage with difficulty through the terrified crowd fleeing in all directions, trying not to be distracted by the translucent figures all around him. Murray wasn’t helping much.
“Would you believe me if I told you I had just seen a white rabbit in a waistcoat looking at his watch?” he said with the same amazement he had been expressing ever since they left the house.
“In any other situation, no. But in this one I will believe anything you tell me, Gilliam,” muttered Doyle.
He tried to concentrate on the road ahead, dodging the real carriages and letting the translucent ones pass through them with a shudder while Murray enumerated each preposterous apparition that popped up, like a child in a safari park.
“Good God, Arthur! Was that a Cyclops?”
Doyle ignored him. If, as he suspected, the troupe of fantastical creatures Murray was describing ceased to be harmless mirages and became flesh and bone, they would be in serious trouble. They had to reach the Chamber of Marvels before that happened, although he wasn’t sure what awaited them there. If Clayton’s idea of setting a trap had been successful, they would find the Invisible Man caught in the device Crookes had invented. Wells and Jane would also be there, and between them all they might come up with a solution. It was conceivable the creature knew how to use the book to put a stop to this mayhem and could be persuaded to reveal its secrets. Doyle knew how to help the creature overcome any reluctance he might have; all he needed was a few minutes alone with him and a heavy stone to crush his hands with. And if that got them nowhere, it was still possible they could find the solution on their own, in a flash of collective inspiration. Human beings rose to the occasion in moments of great crisis, and he doubted there could be a greater crisis than this . . . He breathed a sigh. Who was he trying to fool? According to Clayton, the most celebrated mathematicians in the land had pored over the book and had not been able to decipher a single page, so what chance did they have? They were doomed to perish along with the rest of the universe . . .
When they reached Marloes Road, they found the street blocked by a barricade of rubble. Doyle pulled up the carriage and observed with irritation the obstruction they would be forced to climb. The museum was not far, but this would certainly delay them. Stepping wearily down from the carriage, he began to scale the hillock, with Murray following him. When they reached the tiny summit, they saw that the rest of the street revealed the same devastation; as far as the eye could see it was littered with a layer of rubble and chunks of masonry. Treading gingerly, they started to make their way along it.
“How odd,” Doyle murmured, noticing that the buildings along either side of the street were intact.
Where did all that rubble come from? It was as though someone had brought it there simply to pave that stretch of Cromwell Road. They had scarcely walked a few yards when, on the corner of Gloucester Road, they glimpsed the clock tower of Big Ben lying at the end of the street like a severed fish head, flattening several buildings. Murray contemplated it with a mixture of suspicion and melancholy, which Doyle couldn’t help noticing. They proceeded to pick their way among the mounds of debris, and as they walked past the remains of a staircase sticking out of the rubble, a sound of clanking metal reached their ears on the breeze. The two men stopped in their tracks and squinted. Emerging from a cloud of black smoke at the end of the street, they saw a group of strange, vaguely human metallic creatures walking with a sinister swaying movement, propelled by what appeared to be miniature steam engines on their backs. Four of them were bearing a throne, on which another automaton sat stiffly, a crown on his iron head.