The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(186)

“George . . .” His voice failed him, and he gave a cough to mask it. “My dear George, I . . . I owe you so much. It is thanks to you that I won Emma over—”

Wells cut him short, exasperated, “Gilliam, you know perfectly well I didn’t write that blasted—”

Before he could finish, Murray clasped him in a tight embrace, to which Wells instantly yielded. When they separated, Murray took Jane’s face in his huge paws and planted a resounding kiss squarely on the young woman’s lips, again before Wells could to do anything.

“Take care of him, Jane,” he whispered to her, gesturing toward Wells with his chin. “And don’t let that big head of his think too much.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t. And give my love to Emma,” she said, her eyes brimming with tears.

Finally, Murray turned to the two inspectors, who were speaking with Ramsey. He shook Sinclair’s hand, bobbing his head, and then, after a moment’s hesitation, he extended it to Clayton as well.

“I hope there is some other world where we will like each other more, Inspector Clayton.” He smiled earnestly.

“Who knows, Mr. Murray?” the inspector replied, shaking his hand. “We have seen things more impossible happen.”

Murray signaled to Ramsey that he was ready to leave, and the two men made their way down the steps while the others stood watching them. When he reached the bottom, Murray stopped abruptly, as if he had forgotten something, and shouted back to Doyle, “Arthur, remember you must write the story about the bloodhound! And I want you to dedicate it to Gilliam Murray, the greatest crossbowman in all the worlds!”

“We shall see, we shall see . . .” Doyle chuckled as he waved his friend good-bye.

At that very instant, a few feet behind Doyle and the Wellses, Sinclair glanced at Clayton, who was watching the two men start down the stairs with the dark, melancholy air of a drenched crow.

“Come on, my lad . . .” The captain sighed, clapping his former disciple on the shoulder. “Let’s go back to the Yard and have a nice cup of coffee. Miss Barkin will be there by now, and you know she always makes yours—”

“Just the way I like it,” Clayton cut in, rolling his eyes. “Do you really think the solution to all my problems is to be found in a cup of coffee?”

Sinclair shrugged.

“I don’t know, lad, I don’t know . . . But what I do know is that, despite all Ramsey’s fine words, man cannot live by dreams alone, believe me. So, you decide.”

Sinclair began descending the steps, whistling a jolly tune, hands in his pockets, nodding to Doyle and the Wellses as he went past them. A few seconds later, Inspector Cornelius Clayton of Scotland Yard’s Special Branch came to the conclusion that the only thing to do if he wanted some peace, in this world at least, was to follow the captain and have that blasted cup of coffee.

As the two detectives walked down Brompton Road away from the museum, Doyle, who still seemed to have energy to spare, offered to go and retrieve his carriage, which he hoped was waiting for him where he and Murray had abandoned it during that morning of madness, and drive Wells and Jane home. The couple accepted, as they didn’t fancy traipsing round London in their nightclothes. Doyle continued down the museum steps at a vigorous trot while Wells and Jane sank onto one of the steps, utterly exhausted.

“Jane, I don’t feel like a dream, or someone’s memory,” Wells sighed, returning to the subject that was troubling him. “Do you really believe what Ramsey said is true? Do you think we are here now because someone is telling our story? Because if that is the truth, then I shan’t write another word as long as I live . . .”

Jane chuckled.

“What do you find so funny? Go on, tell me; you know I don’t like it when you keep your opinions to yourself.”

“I am laughing because I can’t think what else you would do if you didn’t write.”

Wells bridled. “Well, lots of things, actually. Teaching, for example. I was rather good at that, if you remember . . .”

“You hated it, dear.”

Well . . . then I could devote myself to being the most romantic husband in the world. I could come home every day in a hot-air balloon, perform the most incredible feats . . .”

“You have already performed the most incredible feat of all, Bertie: you saved my life, and you saved the world. How could you improve on that?”

“Hmm, well . . . I suppose you are right. I have made it very difficult for myself. I don’t think even Murray could improve on that, do you?”

Jane’s face broke into an amused smile.

“Listen to me, dear,” she said, resting her head on his shoulder. “If writing seems like a terrible thing to you now, it is only because you associate it with the traumatic experience we have just been through. But remember what I have always told you: you must ignore any disturbing factor. You like writing. You always have. And you will like it again. Why should you care if your creations come to life in other worlds? You will probably never see them again . . .”

“But supposing for instance I write about a mother whose child dies. Wouldn’t I feel responsible for—”

“What does that matter?” Jane quickly interjected. “Doubtless another Wells will write about her not losing her child. And as for the idea that we might be someone else’s creations . . .” Jane shrugged. “Well, I only hope our author has good taste in babies’ names.”