The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(77)
“Do you want to see the hound?” Murray then asked Doyle.
“Naturally, though I fear we must persuade the owner of the house to let us go there, and these things are delicate. In my experience—”
“You needn’t worry about that, Mr. Doyle,” Murray interrupted, “because the house is mine. I bought it this very morning.”
“You bought a haunted house?” said Wells, astonished.
“That’s right, George, and a couple of others besides. No one dared to buy them because of the strange phenomena that have been happening in those parts over the past few years, so they were going for a song. But, as you can see, where others see nothing but ghosts, I see a good business deal. Emma and I are thinking of going to visit the houses next week to see about renovations. You can come with us if you like, Mr. Doyle. And you, too, of course,” he said to Wells and Jane. “In fact, we could organize a jaunt. What do you say, Mr. Doyle? With any luck we’ll bump into the phantom bloodhound.”
“I suspect those are mere folktales,” replied Doyle. “I shan’t deny that I enjoy visiting haunted houses. Unfortunately, most of them turn out to be nothing more than lugubrious places. There are atmospheres that are very conducive to the power of suggestion, Mr. Gilmore, which make it easy to see strange phenomena where there are none.”
“Come with us, please!” Murray insisted. “And if we don’t find any ghosts, you and I can still practice a bit of telepathy.”
“That’s an offer I can’t refuse, Mr. Gilmore,” replied Doyle, beaming at Murray.
Emma shook her head resignedly, then addressed Doyle.
“I’m so glad you’ve agreed to come, Mr. Doyle. It will be a pleasure for us to have you as our guest. And don’t worry: I assure you my future husband means no offense with his boorishness. In fact, it is simply his irrepressible bluntness. Monty is the most genuine person I know. Of all his qualities, that is the one that made me fall in love with him,” she confessed with a charming smile, “though I quite understand that it doesn’t have the same effect on you.”
For the first time since he had arrived at Arnold House, Doyle burst out laughing. A jovial rumble of stones rolling down a hillside, which caused Wells to sigh with relief. Doyle had laughed, and the atmosphere seemed to lighten up. Things might go more smoothly now, he reflected. Yes, perhaps Murray and Doyle would finally be able to enjoy a conversation free of tension, and possibly even get along. Just then, Jane noticed that the biscuits were finished and made ready to get up and bring some more, but Murray stood up first and politely offered to fetch the biscuit tin from the kitchen. And while Murray disappeared down the corridor, Doyle began to regale the two women with the fabulous arctic adventures he had been on when he had barely turned twenty. Wells slumped back in his chair almost voluptuously, content that the afternoon finally seemed to be taking the right turn. The wind was howling outside, whipping up the waves in the distance, and from time to time the attic window creaked menacingly, reminding everyone of Wells’s laziness; the fire in the hearth spread its comforting warmth through the room, and everyone seemed to enjoy that unexpected moment of calm.
Unfortunately for Wells, this oasis of happiness lasted scarcely a few moments, because through the window, to which the others had their backs turned, Wells saw a despondent-looking Murray wandering around the garden, as if he had been told to play the most wretched man on Earth.
“Er . . . Murray seems to be having difficulty finding the biscuits. I’ll go and lend him a hand,” Wells told Jane.
Jane nodded absentmindedly, engrossed in Doyle’s adventures, while Wells headed for the corridor.
“But if that adventure taught me anything, it was that in order truly to appreciate a woman, a man must be separated from her for six months,” Wells heard Doyle say as he ducked out of the corridor and into the garden, making sure none of the others saw him.
14
IF AT THAT MOMENT SOMEONE had sat down in the chair Wells had just vacated, they would have seen the author, whom everyone assumed was in the kitchen, crossing the lawn with his jacket wrapped tightly around him. And if the sight of Wells intrigued him enough to make him get up out of his chair, go over to the window, and crane his neck at the right angle, he would also have seen him approach the burly man who was busy contemplating the hibiscus bush and pat him gingerly on the back a couple of times. Like you, dear readers, I, too, suspect that the conversation about to take place out in the garden promises to be far more interesting than Doyle’s monologue, and so while he is busy describing the vast gatherings of seals that congregate on the icebergs to give birth en masse, let us go over and spy on Wells and Murray.
“You’re quite mistaken if you think we keep the biscuit tin under the hibiscus bushes, Monty,” Wells jested.
Murray smiled glumly.
“I know you keep it in the basket in the kitchen. That’s not why I came out here, George.”
“In that case, why did you decide to expose yourself to this wretched cold? What’s the matter with you? A moment ago you were the world’s most impudent impostor, and now you look like a ghost.”
“?‘Monty is the most genuine person I know.’ Didn’t you hear what she said?” Murray replied without looking up from the shrubs.
“Yes, of course I did,” murmured Wells.