The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(78)
“Good, then you’ll know how mistaken she is.”
So that was what was tormenting Murray. Yet again. Wells sighed, realizing they were about to become embroiled in another of their endless discussions about the convenience or not of revealing Murray’s true identity to Emma. Those conversations the two men were obliged to have behind the women’s backs never resolved anything; they simply allowed Murray to let off steam. Wells glanced over his shoulder toward the sitting room window and saw Doyle waving his arms in the air, as if he were making a couple of marionettes dance. For the moment no one seemed about to come looking for them.
“But, Monty,” he said, “we’ve been over this a hundred times. If you want to tell Emma who you really are, do it now, because the longer you stall, the more difficult it will become. Remember, it’s been two years since you stepped out of that silly balloon. On the other hand, if you decide not to tell her, you must convince yourself it is the best thing for you both, so you can stop being affected by that kind of remark.”
“I know, George, but the problem is I can’t decide. Part of me thinks I should come clean with her. Find the right moment and explain it to her as best I can. I’m sure she’ll understand . . . Or at least I like to think so.”
“Then do it.”
“But the other part of me doesn’t want to risk spoiling our happiness. If I lose Emma . . . if I lose her, George, I don’t know what I’d do . . . I’m afraid I would lose the will to live.”
“Then don’t do it.”
“You aren’t much help, George,” Murray muttered.
“Damn it, Monty, it’s for you to decide, not me!” exclaimed Wells, “And the sooner the better, because if you keep dragging this burden around with you, it will end up driving you crazy.”
Murray nodded, pursing his lips until they resembled a freshly stitched wound.
“It almost has, George. I spend half the time racked with guilt when I remember that she doesn’t know who I am and the other half worrying that she might find out. Do you remember that Scotland Yard detective who kept hounding me a while back? The arrogant, lanky fellow to whom you revealed my identity so as to save your own skin . . .”
“Yes, yes, I remember,” Wells replied uncomfortably. “I already told you I was sorry. What was I supposed to do? At the time you and I were—”
“I know, George, I know, and I don’t blame you. But the fact remains that during those few months when he was pursuing me I had a dreadful time. I spent a fortune thwarting his various attempts to unmask me. He was like a dog with a bone. It got to the point where I ran out of ideas. I had bribed half of London, but that arrogant devil was still intent upon exposing me. I tell you, it was a veritable war of attrition, but the most difficult part was trying to hide my alarm from Emma. And then one day, out of the blue, when he all but had me cornered, he stopped chasing me.”
“Really?”
“Yes, he suddenly seemed to lose all interest in the investigation, and he hasn’t troubled me since.”
“And you never discovered why he gave up?”
“I imagine some superior of his whom I bribed must have called him off, but I find it hard to believe that a fellow like that wouldn’t kick up a fuss. It could be that he gave up of his own accord, unaware that his quarry was about to surrender. Who knows, perhaps he isn’t as dogged as I thought. Then I calmed down, you see. And I began to toy with the idea that after this no one could ever discover my secret. Until this afternoon.”
“This afternoon?” Wells was surprised.
“Yes, all my old fears came flooding back when I saw Doyle. I was afraid he might recognize me, that he’d use his powers of deduction, and in no time he’d be calling me by my real name.”
Wells laughed.
“Oh, come now, why on earth would Doyle connect you to Gilliam Murray? That would be like thinking I have a time machine in my attic.”
Murray shrugged.
“I imagine that like most of his readers I have always assumed he was as shrewd as his detective.” He paused and seemed to reflect. “In fact, when Murray’s Time Travel still existed, Doyle was one of my most passionate defenders. Did you know he wrote several articles attacking those who accused me of being an impostor? We even exchanged correspondence, in which I described in great detail how I had discovered the hole leading to the fourth dimension during a trip to Africa. When he showed an interest in traveling to the year 2000, I even wrote to tell him that, as a sign of my appreciation for his vindication of me, I would organize an expedition especially for him, just as I had for the queen. But unfortunately, while I was organizing it . . . well, you know . . . the hole disappeared.”
“Hmm. A real pity. Doyle would have loved your future.”
“And so when I saw him here . . . ,” Murray went on, ignoring Wells’s remark, “Good God, George, I thought one glimpse of me and he would give the game away. And what’s more, in front of Emma. And yet he didn’t recognize me, and the fact that not even the creator of Sherlock Holmes himself was able to do so makes me think my secret is safe. Everyone seems to have forgotten all about the Master of Time. Emma need never know my secret, unless I reveal it to her myself.”
Murray’s head started to droop, as if his thoughts weighed him down like lead, until finally he was staring at his shoes. Wells waited patiently for him to continue.