The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(70)

“You don’t happen to own a dog?” the old man asked, gesturing with his chin toward the garden gate, which stood ajar.

“I already told you I don’t,” replied Wells impatiently.

The peculiar melancholy he had been experiencing recently seized him once again, confirming his suspicions that it was somehow related to the coachman’s presence. The idea was so absurd he could scarcely believe it, and yet he had realized over the past few months that every time the old man came he brought that uneasiness with him.

“Of course, of course . . . It slipped my mind. The trouble is, you see, I have an irrational fear of them ever since I was bitten by one as a child,” Wells heard the coachman explain as he tried once more to engage him in conversation.

“Then it must be difficult for you to work for Gilmore, as he has a rather large one,” Wells retorted, looking at the man suspiciously.

“Er . . . yes. It is, rather. I spend all day avoiding Buzz. For some reason he insists on sniffing me all the time, as if he were inspecting me.” Wells smiled to himself at the name Murray had chosen for his old dog, Eternal. “Look, this is the scar I got from the dog that bit me when I was a child,” he said, extending his left arm.

Wells showed no interest in examining it. Instead, he used the opportunity to ask the old man what he had been burning to know since the day when, somewhat taken aback, he had noticed the coachman’s other mutilated hand.

“What about the fingers missing on your right hand? Was that from a dog bite as well?”

The coachman looked at the hand Wells had referred to, and his face took on a sad, inscrutable look.

“Oh, no, that came from fighting a rather more formidable foe . . . ,” he said, before going back to the subject that he really seemed interested in. “But I already showed you my scar, didn’t I? And you said you’d once been bitten by a dog, too, isn’t that so?”

“No. Actually, I told you I never had,” Wells replied blankly. “Both times you asked.”

The old man looked straight at him.

“Never? Are you certain?”

“Yes,” replied Wells, no longer trying to hide his annoyance at this absurd exchange, “despite how convinced you seem to be of the contrary.”

“So you have no scar on your left hand . . . But you do have one on your chin, whereas I don’t . . .” The coachman smiled, as though talking to himself.

“When I was fifteen I fell down some stairs,” Wells replied, raising his hand to touch the scar with a mixture of puzzlement and irritation.

“I see. Whereas I didn’t. I was always very careful with stairs.”

Wells looked at the coachman in silence and considered asking him why, if indeed there was a reason, he insisted on having these absurd exchanges with him, but he couldn’t find the right way of putting it.

“I’m very happy for you,” he said at last with a sigh, and made his way toward the house.

Murray and the two women were having an animated conversation while waiting for him in the doorway. Seeing him approach, they all smiled at him knowingly.

“What?” said Wells, trying unsuccessfully to hide his unease.

“Is it those shoes again, George?” Murray chortled. “Goodness, they’ve been pinching your feet for two years now. Isn’t it about time you got rid of them?”

“Stop making fun of him, dear,” Emma scolded, “and tell him the good news.”

“Er, yes, dear . . . Listen, George: Emma’s father has made a full recovery, and so we’ve finally decided on a date for the wedding. We are to be married on the first Sunday in March. Her parents will soon set sail for London and will arrive a few days before the ceremony. And, well . . .” An excited grin appeared on Murray’s face as he clutched Wells’s shoulder with his huge paw. “I’d be delighted if you would be my best man.”

“It will be a true honor,” replied Wells as Jane looked on, smiling.

“After all,” Murray resumed, “it is thanks to you that we are together. If in your letter you hadn’t advised me to—”

“Damn it, man, I never replied to any letter!”

They all laughed quietly, nodding as if this were a private joke between them.

“But, George, aren’t you tired of playing this game?”

“How many times do I have to tell you that isn’t my handwriting? Anyway, let’s drop the subject, shall we?” Wells said, terminating the discussion with a sigh. “Today I have a surprise for you.”

“A surprise?”

“That’s right. This afternoon we have a very special visitor: your pet author,” Wells announced with a mischievous grin.

Before Murray had a chance to react, Wells ushered him and the women into the sitting room, where a man was standing with his back to them, warming himself by the fire. Murray observed the fellow, increasingly intrigued: he was broad shouldered, robust, almost as tall as Murray himself, and seemed to be planted on the ground with the incontestable weightiness of a menhir. His posture, hands clasped behind his back, stooping slightly, gave the impression of a ship’s captain issuing the order to steer his vessel clear of the rocks. Hearing them come in, the man swiveled round and walked over to them with an exaggerated briskness. He had a stern, soldierly face, as though chiseled in stone, and dark, twinkling eyes that betrayed his fiery nature. His hair was starting to thin at the temples, but this was compensated for by a splendid handlebar mustache that flowed over his lips and narrowed into sharp points.