The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(62)

“Damn it, George, I never thought I’d find you in this crowd!”

Wells turned around with exaggerated caution. And there was Murray. Standing in front of him. The late Master of Time. Smiling at him with the warm enthusiasm of one who has just bumped into a childhood friend.

“George!” he exclaimed again, clapping Wells repeatedly on the shoulder. “What a wonderful coincidence! Oh, no, please don’t say a word: you must think me terribly rude, and you are quite right.” Murray lowered his head in a gesture of remorse. “I’m a bounder, I know. Not a word of thanks during all this time, after what you did for me . . . Although I am not lying when I say I have thought of writing to you many times!”

Wells looked at Murray with the blank expression of a roast suckling pig, somewhat dampening his enthusiasm.

“Oh, come now, are you annoyed with me? Well, I suppose you have every right to be. What can I say in my defense? Only that during the past few months I have been floating on a cloud, that the Earth and everyone on it seems as remote and unreal to me as in a dream. But what can I say about love that you couldn’t express far more poetically than I? Oh, George, George . . .” Murray seized Wells by both shoulders as if he were going to wring him out like a dishcloth, gazing into his eyes with such tenderness, Wells was afraid Murray’s euphoria might end in an embrace. “But I shan’t let you go on being annoyed! Why, I was going to write to you tomorrow to invite you to the reception I am giving next month at my residence, and I can tell you now that no excuse in the world is good enough to justify your not coming. However, it seems that fate has brought us together this evening and I am able to give you the wonderful news in person. Do you have any idea what I’m referring to?”

Wells could only shake his head feebly, dizzied by the frantic tirade of Murray, who was dragging out the suspense like a skilled conjuror.

“The charming Miss Harlow and myself . . . we are to be married!”

Murray smiled triumphantly, anticipating the other man’s response. Until then, Wells had listened to Murray’s prattle with a mixture of wonder and dread, like someone hearing a magic tree talk, but now he felt an age-old fury stirring inside. Wells took a step toward him.

“What are you playing at, Murray?” he hissed, almost choking with rage. “What the devil are you—”

But Murray didn’t let him finish. He seized Wells by the arm and dragged him behind the column farthest from the crowd.

“Are you crazy, George?” he whispered dramatically, “You called me by my real name!”

“Let go of me, damn you!” Wells roared. “What do you think you’re doing? And what the devil do you expect me to call you?”

Murray looked bewildered.

“You know perfectly well, George! Everyone calls me Montgomery Gilmore now.”

“Oh, yes, I know. But not me,” Wells hissed between gritted teeth. “I know perfectly well who you are and what you’re capable of, Gilliam Murray.”

“Be quiet, George, I implore you!” the other man pleaded. “Emma might come over here at any moment and—”

Wells looked at him aghast.

“You mean to tell me even your betrothed doesn’t know who you really are?”

“I—I . . . ,” Murray stammered. “I haven’t gotten round to telling her yet, but I fully intend to do so . . . Of course I do! I just have to find the right moment . . .”

“The right moment,” repeated Wells sarcastically. “Perhaps you’ll find it when she goes to visit you in jail. Assuming that she does, naturally.”

Murray narrowed his eyes.

“What are you insinuating?” he asked menacingly.

Wells recoiled slightly.

“Oh, nothing.”

“Do you know something about that accursed inspector who won’t leave me in peace?” whispered Murray, seizing Wells’s arm again. “Of course you do. I saw you with him when I stepped out of the balloon.”

“Let go of me,” Wells said firmly, trying to disguise the fear he felt at that flash of violence in Murray’s eyes, which seemed to have risen to the surface from the depths of the old Gilliam. He was afraid now that the conversation would end in something less delicate than an embrace. “I said let—”

“You told him who I was, didn’t you?” Murray interjected, clasping Wells’s arm more tightly.

“Yes, damn it!” muttered Wells, torn between fear and rage. “I was forced to show him your letter. What choice did I have? He showed up at my house accusing me of having unleashed a Martian invasion. And for the love of God, Gilliam, if you wanted to go on pretending you were dead, do you really think the best way of doing it was to create a spectacle like that on Horsell Common?”

Murray remained silent, apparently engaged in some kind of inner struggle. Then he gazed with curiosity at his own hand clutching Wells’s arm, almost as if it belonged to someone else. He instantly relaxed his grip, disgusted by his own gesture.

“Forgive me, George, I didn’t mean to hurt you . . .” He rubbed his hands over his face, trying to take hold of himself. “I’m at my wit’s end; that detective is driving me crazy, you know?” He contemplated Wells and screwed up his face. “Did Scotland Yard honestly think you had planned a Martian invasion? And was that long-legged pompous ass supposed to save us all? I’d like to see him fight a real Martian invasion . . . That pain in the neck is intent on investigating my old company, and he won’t stop badgering me with questions . . . But have no fear. He won’t find anything, because I have nothing to hide. And as far as I know, you can’t be sent to prison for pretending to be dead, can you? What really worries me is that he is sparking rumors, and I couldn’t bear any of them to reach Emma before I have a chance to tell her myself. Luckily, so far I’ve managed to hush them up.”