The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(183)

“Ah, that explains why we have never met before. Still, I am sure you have already heard about the Guardians of the Chamber, isn’t that so?”

The two men loosened their shirt collars slightly, and Eric could see the two little keys with angel’s wings round their necks.

“Oh . . . are those keys to the . . . ?” he whispered. The two detectives nodded. “Well, I never . . . I was wondering what was in there . . .”

“Nothing much. Imagining it is more interesting than seeing it,” the younger of the two replied with a wink that seemed to Eric more arrogant than friendly.

“Er, excuse me a moment, lad,” the horsey-faced man piped up. “You didn’t happen to have noticed anything out of the ordinary in the last couple of hours, did you?”

“Out of the ordinary? What exactly do you mean, sir?”

“Anything, for example . . .” The man looked hesitantly at his companions. “Well, I don’t know . . . anything odd, different. An impression of multiple edges when looking at a building, or passersby with a translucent quality about them . . . Anything resembling a . . . mirage, or that gave you a feeling of . . . unreality.”

Eric shook his head, puzzled.

“For the love of God! What sort of questions are these?” the burly man with the wispy beard exclaimed impatiently. “Now, listen, lad . . . have you seen a hole in the air that sucked in everything around it? Did an army of elves pass right through you? Has an automaton from the future fired at you?”

“No, sir. As you can see, everything is as it should be,” replied Eric somewhat nervously, gesturing toward Cromwell Road with a sweep of his arm.

The big man snorted exasperatedly while the others contemplated the scene of a sunny autumn morning spreading across the street: a few early risers were strolling on the pavements while carriages rolled sleepily along the road and a couple of white clouds drifted over from the north . . .

“It is as if nothing had ever happened . . . ,” murmured the man who looked like Arthur Conan Doyle. “And yet, only moments ago, I saw my own creation, Sherlock Holmes, fighting with Moriarty at the edge of the—”

Eric’s eyes popped out of his head.

“Good Lord, then you are . . . Arthur Conan Doyle!”

“Yes, my boy, at least I think I am . . . ,” Doyle replied, still staring intently at the nearby buildings.

“I can’t believe it!” exclaimed the young lad excitedly. “I’m a great admirer of your work, Mr. Doyle! You see, I . . . this is just a temporary job. Actually, I’m a writer, too . . . Well, not a real one, of course,” he added in a modest voice. “I’m only an amateur . . . I’m writing my first novel, although, now that I am only able to write in my spare time, I doubt I’ll ever finish it—”

“Young man,” Doyle interrupted in an authoritative voice, “it is up to you whether you invent excuses or stories. I created Sherlock Holmes at my medical practice, where I had no patients. A real writer!” he snorted. “I wish I knew what the devil that is. Why don’t you think of yourself as a make-believe attendant?”

Eric’s face broke into a smile.

“Yes . . .” He nodded thoughtfully. “In fact, that is precisely how I feel, as if everything that takes place in my life should be happening differently, as if this weren’t my real life . . .” Then he stood squarely in front of Doyle. “Sir, may I send you the manuscript I am working on so that you can give me your opinion?”

Responding to Doyle’s alarmed look, Murray came to the rescue.

“If you want a famous author’s opinion about your work, lad, I suggest you send it to H. G. Wells here.” He pointed a thumb at the diminutive gentleman in his nightclothes, to whom Eric had been too polite to pay much attention. “I’ve never known anyone more sincere in his opinions or more discreet when it comes to giving them.”

“Oh . . . Mr. Wells,” the guard exclaimed. “I . . . I beg your pardon, I didn’t recognize you in your . . . ahem . . . Naturally, I am also a fervent admirer of yours . . . I have read all your novels several times, in particular The Island of Doctor Moreau, which is my favorite—” He broke off suddenly and screwed up his eyes exaggeratedly. “That’s odd: I think I had a dream about it last night, though I don’t remember what exactly . . .”

“Perhaps the beast folk were chasing you through the museum?” Wells suggested nonchalantly.

The attendant looked at him openmouthed.

“Yes, that’s exactly right. H-How did you know?”

Wells played it down with a wave of his hand. “It is a fairly common dream among, er . . . budding writers and museum staff.”

“Other parts of that dream are coming back to me . . . ,” Eric went on, slurring his words as if he had just emerged from a long bout of drinking. “Ouroboros, my dragon, was in it, too, setting the whole neighborhood alight from the air, and . . .”

“Ouroboros?” the man with the horsey face inquired.

“Yes, that’s the title of my novel: The Worm Ouroboros.” Eric grinned timidly. “It’s a Scandinavian myth: a sort of dragon or snake that devours its own tail, symbolizing eternal rebirth. You see, I’ve always been fascinated by the Norse myths, and my novel is an attempt to imitate—”