The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(84)

The idea of settling both issues had made Wells await the excursion with impatience, even though in the end they had to make the journey in Murray’s carriage (for different reasons neither Doyle nor Wells had the use of their respective carriages that day), thus exposing themselves to the eccentric interrogations of Murray’s coachman. Still, it was a small price to pay for the happy prospect of the trip, and Wells had been in an excellent frame of mind when he awoke that day. He had gone down to the kitchen to enjoy a cup of tea and browse through the newspaper while he waited for Murray’s coach, which was stopping off on the way to pick up Doyle, unaware that his festive spirit would soon be crushed.

The first shock came from the newspaper itself: “The Invisible Man Is Coming!” the headline proclaimed. Wells had to blink several times, as if he had gotten lemon juice in his eyes. It seemed that the person responsible for the news item, one of many journalists reporting on the series of paranormal occurrences on Dartmoor, had thought it would be funny to use as his title the warning cry Wells’s characters uttered as they fled in terror from the Invisible Man in his eponymous novel. As you may imagine, dear reader, Wells was not amused, for he did not like people appropriating his ideas. His aim when writing those words had been to shock the reader, dredging up his most primeval fears—the horror of what can be imagined but not seen—and so it vexed him that this disrespectful hack should use his words to make his readers laugh. But the article itself he found even less amusing, because after the original title, the second-rate reporter went on to describe disdainfully the recent spate of strange phenomena that had occurred on Dartmoor. It seemed as if the place had become the favorite haunt of spirits—although, perhaps, Wells speculated sarcastically, it was there that the Invisible Man had met the woman of his dreams, a creature as ethereal as he, and the two of them had given birth to a large ghost family that had infiltrated the local population of “visibles” and was trying to take over the county by instigating a reign of terror. Why not? he had concluded with an airy shrug: judging from the numerous chairs that moved by their own volition and plates that suddenly flew through the air in that sinister place, any explanation could be as or more compelling than the absurd notion that half of England’s ghosts had chosen that barren area as a holiday destination.

Wells stopped reading. He felt a growing queasiness in the pit of his stomach. Wasn’t it too much of a coincidence that, precisely that morning, the papers had borrowed a sentence from his novel as a title for an article, which also spoke of the very place they were going to on their outing? Much as he tried, Wells could not overlook this coincidence. Why, some of the terrifying events described had even occurred at Brook Manor, the first of the houses they were to visit! The locals swore they had seen a candle flame dancing like a wayward firefly from window to window in the supposedly deserted house, and a host of caretakers who had worked there had handed in their notice, they told the papers, unable to bear the continuous noise of voices, footsteps, and howls that echoed through the gloomy corridors of the mansion day and night.

And this was the house they would be visiting in a few hours’ time? thought Wells uneasily, not because of the rumored ghosts, which didn’t bother him much, but because of his disquiet at the hidden meaning he always read into every coincidence. Why had they published the article on that particular day and not the day before or after? Was this a mysterious warning? Perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea to visit the place where his tormented creation appeared to be concealed after stepping out of the pages in which Wells had imprisoned him . . . Wells tried to curb his feverish imagination and think rationally. Yes, he told himself, he objected to anyone blurring the line between his novels and reality—even as a joke. But however childish his misgivings might appear, they were understandable, for whenever that happened, his life was always affected in one way or another. After he wrote The Time Machine, the appearance of Murray’s Time Travel had given him a lot of headaches as well as an archenemy. Although, to be fair, the re-creation of the Martian invasion from his book The War of the Worlds had converted that same enemy into one of his closest friends. He found it difficult to imagine what a possible encounter with the invisible man of his novel might bestow on him. A new pet? Triplets?

But Wells had scarcely had time to laugh at his own joke when he heard the sound of horses’ hooves announcing the arrival of the carriage with the pompous “G” emblazoned on its side. Through the kitchen window, he saw Doyle step out of the coach and then watched with irritation as he helped Miss Jean Leckie down. That put him in a bad mood. Not that Wells had anything against the young woman, who possessed the kind of exquisite, ethereal beauty (hazel eyes, ash-blond hair, and slender, petite figure) found in the illustrations of fairies Doyle was so fond of. On the contrary, he admired her shrewd intelligence and her straightforward sense of humor, and both couples tried to meet up whenever they could, as this wasn’t the first time Doyle and Jean had been seen together in mixed company, although hitherto for the sake of appearances Jean had invariably been accompanied by her brother Malcolm or some female chaperone. But although Wells liked Jean, he couldn’t help considering her presence that morning a hindrance to his plans. He cursed Doyle under his breath for having invited her along, for he knew the author well enough to be aware that never in the presence of his lady friend would he allow anyone to tell him how he should treat the impertinent Montgomery Gilmore.