The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(58)

But then, when he had almost succeeded, Murray’s ridiculous letter had arrived in his mailbox. And although he hadn’t replied to it, he hadn’t thrown it away either. It was too beautiful. He would occasionally slip it out from between the pages of the book where he kept it hidden and relish the bit where Murray acknowledged his superiority. Although Wells had never doubted that truth, he nevertheless delighted in the fact that Murray had finally accepted it. The last time he had read the letter was that very morning, the last day Murray had in which to fulfill his beloved’s wish. As Wells put the kettle on, he imagined Murray’s frustration when he realized that, despite all his money, he had failed to reproduce a Martian invasion and that some things were beyond even his reach. And that thought both reassured and pleased Wells, for imagination was a sublime gift that raised man above the level of animals, opened the doors to awareness, to the evolution and advancement of the human race, and consequently should be protected from crass impersonators, talentless upstarts, entrepreneurs, and above all lovers exposing themselves to public ridicule.

It was then that Clayton knocked on his door to inform him that a Martian cylinder had appeared on Horsell Common. And, cursing Murray for being unable to admit defeat, Wells climbed aboard the inspector’s carriage. What else could he have done? After all, if a Martian cylinder identical to the one he had described in his novel had landed on Horsell Common, it was only logical that Scotland Yard would require him to go there. What Wells found less logical was that the inspector seemed to believe this might be a genuine Martian invasion, possibly orchestrated by the author himself through his novel. Wells was obliged to show the inspector Murray’s letter to persuade him that the whole thing was a hoax cooked up by the ex–Master of Time, who was given to this sort of prank. But, to Wells’s surprise, the inspector had tucked the letter away in his jacket pocket. He confessed that whilst this opened up a whole new perspective on the matter, it was nevertheless the job of Scotland Yard’s Special Branch to leave no stone unturned, and he could not rule out the possibility that Wells himself had written the letter and was hindering the investigation by pointing the finger at a dead man. Wells had been rendered speechless by such a wild assertion, and the two men had spent the remainder of the journey in strained silence.

“It is absurd of you to think that I might be in league with Martians simply because I wrote a novel announcing their arrival!” he had protested at last, unable to contain his rage.

“As absurd as someone re-creating a Martian invasion to win a lady’s heart” had been the inspector’s disdainful reply.

You see, Wells now thought to himself, glancing away from Murray’s stupid steaming hat and grinning smugly at the inspector: apparently someone had orchestrated all this precisely to steal the love of a lady. Clayton clearly owed him an apology, and yet he seemed unwilling to do so.

“So the Master of Time is alive and kicking . . . ,” he said simply. Wells had grown weary of telling him that repeatedly on the way there.

The author rolled his eyes and raised his hands, as though expecting a pair of doves to land on them. No, Gilliam Murray hadn’t died. The brute who had stepped out of the hot-air balloon was certainly he—although Wells had to admit with all the weight he had lost, and that red beard obscuring his face, not to mention his ridiculous outfit, few would have recognized him. But those sly animal eyes capable of concealing anything, like a magician’s hat, had not changed. And Wells noticed the old animosity he felt for Murray stirring inside him. There he was, making a mockery of him again, turning his latest novel into a vulgar fairground attraction, this time to further his romantic interests. And there was Wells, dragged out of his house halfway through his cup of tea, his shoes caked in mud, forced to witness Murray’s pantomime in the midst of a deafening crowd—drawn as always by the magnetism of that man who snared everything in his path—and, furthermore, to defend himself against charges of espionage and treason on a planetary level. Would he never be rid of Murray? Would their lives be forever joined until one of them died, untangling the infuriating knot?

“Interesting, most interesting,” he heard Clayton reflect aloud, his eyes glued to the spectacle. “This resurrection is very timely, as I happen to have a few unanswered questions I’d like to put to Mr. Murray concerning his business, questions that are no doubt still pertinent. A great many questions, in fact.”

Wells looked in astonishment at Clayton, whose lips had twisted into a malevolent smile as he doubtless anticipated the moment when the Master of Time would finally be at his mercy, sitting in the interrogation room, forced to answer all his questions.

“I congratulate you on your good fortune, Inspector Clayton,” Wells remarked disdainfully. “And since the absence of any Martians clears me of all suspicion, I beg you to excuse me, but I have far more important things to do than stand around waiting for the dénouement of this ridiculous melodrama.”

Clayton nodded absentmindedly, hypnotized by the spectacle, yet Wells did not stir either. It was difficult for them to take their eyes off the sight unfolding before them. The crowd had begun to separate until a human corridor opened between Murray and the charming young lady with the parasol, doubtless the one for whom Murray had organized the whole charade. And as Wells looked at her more closely, he had to admit that, if anything, Murray’s description of her in his letter did not do her justice. The girl was astonishingly beautiful: she possessed the delicate lightness of a soap bubble, her skin seemed to be coated in gold, and her eyes, despite being wide-open with astonishment, expressed that perfect blend of charm and high-spiritedness capable of turning any man’s head. For a few seemingly eternal moments, Wells watched her remain motionless, nervously twirling her parasol, while at the other end of the corridor formed by the hushed crowd, Murray’s bow tie was also rotating. It was the only part of him that was moving, for the man appeared frozen, arms flung open, the hat he had just removed clasped in one hand, a broad grin on his face, waiting, like a suspended jellyfish, for Emma to breathe life into him with a loving eye. But that wouldn’t happen, Wells thought to himself, convinced the girl would turn on her heel and go back the way she had come, leaving Murray with his steaming hat and his rotating bow tie in the midst of the admiring crowd. What else could she do? Murray had failed to reproduce the invasion, no matter how hard he tried to make up for it with this gaudy display. And Emma Harlow seemed too intelligent to let herself be bamboozled by all that. But then, to Wells’s astonishment, a smile began to flutter on the girl’s lips, and although at first she tried to resist, she finally gave a charming giggle. A sigh of delight instantly spread through the crowd. Deflated, Wells watched the girl walk toward Murray amid the applause of the public, and he decided that he had seen enough.