The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(89)
He staggered backward, and his reflection did the same, both of them covering their corresponding chins with their hands. And then, just as he was about to start screaming, the light in the room changed. Wells looked around him, puzzled, trying to perceive the nature of that change, for it wasn’t that there was any more or any less light but rather that a subtle variation in the same light had made everything seem suddenly less scary. He went back to the mirror with bated breath, and the Wells who lived in the mirror stared back at him with the same expectation, the same startled eyes, the same tension seizing his body . . . and the same scar on his chin.
Wells let out the breath he been holding in a whoosh as a growing sense of peace invaded him. Then he noticed the letters Emma had written in the dust, and he wanted to laugh, but he stopped himself, fearing he might succumb to a fit of hysterics. The sensation of normality was so overwhelming now that Wells couldn’t help but feel slightly ridiculous at being so terrified by a mere trick of the light. How could the atmosphere of that place have made him so suggestive? He stood for a long minute in front of the mirror, examining his face from every possible angle, without the illusion happening again. Finally he realized he couldn’t stay there forever, watching his reflection grow old, and he resolved to find his friends.
Wells went out to the hall through the same door the others had used and walked up the marble staircase leading to the first floor, until he reached a kind of gallery that, like an interior balcony, overlooked the entrance on each side of the staircase. Opposite the gallery was a tall window framing a leaden sky, with a long corridor on either side. Unsure which one to take, Wells listened out for a voice that might indicate where his companions were, but a dense silence enveloped him, punctuated only by the occasional creaks with which the wood announced its senescence. He decided to approach the window, in case something outside might give him a clue. It offered a splendid view of the moor, brooding gloomily beneath an ashen light. In the distance, beyond a band of rocks and heath, Wells glimpsed the swamp, where he understood several wretched ponies had drowned, and still farther away, dotted along the rolling hills, he saw a cluster of standing stones, ruined huts, and other relics of the ancient Britons. Wells realized, looking down, that he was above the curved driveway where the carriages were parked, and he contemplated the gloomy avenue bordered by two rows of trees, whose tops the wind continued to stir sensually. Then, on a jagged outcrop, Wells made out a dark, looming figure, outlined against the sky like a statue. It belonged to a very tall man who was leaning on a walking stick (or possibly a rifle, he was too far away for Wells to see) and appeared to be surveying the moor as though the place, and any soul brave enough to venture there, belonged to him. He was enveloped in a flowing cloak, which billowed in the wind so that it looked as if his body had gigantic wings, and he wore a wide-brimmed hat. Everything about him felt so familiar that Wells kept staring at him in astonishment, until a curious scene unfolding below caught his attention. Murray’s coachman was on the driveway and appeared to be behaving in an even odder and more alarming way than usual: he had crouched down behind Murray’s carriage and was peering out, apparently watching the watcher on the moor while simultaneously hiding from him. Astonished, Wells observed the old man as he glanced nervously a few times before making his way over to the Mercedes, stooping even more than his old back demanded, and ducked behind it before repeating the same ritual. Wells felt the urge to open the window and ask him in a very loud voice what on earth he was doing, purely out of a perverse desire to make the old boy jump out of his skin, but at that very moment a huge paw descended on his shoulder, almost causing him to leap out of his own.
“George! Where the devil have you been?”
Wells, exceedingly pale and clutching his chest, spun round to confront Murray.
“For goodness’ sake, Monty, are you trying to scare me out of my wits?”
“Are you joking? We’re the ones who got frightened when we realized you’d disappeared!”
“Well, you took your time,” muttered Wells.
“But I’ve been searching all over the house for you! Doyle was convinced some evil force had detained you, and so he sent me to search while he stayed behind to watch over the ladies in the north gallery. Good heavens, you even had Emma worried. But where the devil have you been?”
“I, er . . .” Wells hesitated to mention the mirror episode for fear of seeming like a madman or a fool. “Where do you think?” he said at last. “I’ve been here, watching your coachman. Monty, as I’ve told you many times, there’s something very peculiar about that old fellow’s behavior. And here you have another example,” he said pointing toward the window. “You can see for yourself. In my opinion he’s either hiding something or he’s off his rocker.”
Murray took a look outside.
“I can’t see anything, George.”
“What?” Wells also looked out. The coachman had gone, the driveway was deserted, and on the craggy rock beyond there was no one either. “Well, he was down there all right,” Wells said crossly, “apparently hiding from a strange figure on the moor. A man enveloped in a—”
“Yes, we all saw him!” Murray cut in. “Doyle says it was probably one of the prison guards from Princetown. Apparently whenever an inmate escapes they are often seen watching the roads and railway stations.”