The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(90)

“Well, your coachman doesn’t seem to be on such good terms with the prison guards. Don’t you find that a bit strange?”

Murray chuckled.

“Do you think he’s an escaped convict? The poor fellow is over eighty, George! How unforgiving you are when you take a dislike to someone. What must my villainous coachman do for you to give him a second chance?” He grinned ironically. “Save Jane’s life?”

“Don’t joke about such things, Monty. But speaking of second chances . . . ,” said Wells, realizing this might be his only opportunity to speak to Murray alone that day. “Don’t you think you might make an effort to give Doyle a second chance? I don’t know whether you’ve noticed that he doesn’t care much for your jokes . . . Damn it, Monty, Arthur is a friend of mine, and I only introduced you to him because I knew he was one of your favorite authors! I thought you two would get on so well. I don’t understand why you insist on riling him all the time.”

“I do nothing of the kind!” protested Murray. “At least, not intentionally. Frankly, I’ve never met anyone as thin-skinned. Except for you, of course.”

“Have it your own way, Monty. But in a few weeks’ time Doyle will be setting sail for the war in Africa.”

“Did he manage to enlist? But he’s no longer a young man!”

“No, but a friend has hired him as an assistant doctor in his field hospital. So he’ll be leaving soon, which is why I think you ought to be nicer to him, don’t you think? You know, men often don’t return from wars.”

“Oh, I have no doubt that Doyle is the sort who does. And if not, he’ll doubtless come back as an irascible ectoplasm.” Murray chortled. “But you’re right, George. I’ll try to be a bit nicer to our fastidious friend . . .”

“I don’t know whether ‘a bit’ will suffice, though I suspect that’s all you’re capable of . . . But let’s change the subject,” said Wells, adding in a hushed voice, “What about that other thing?”

“What other thing?”

“You know . . . Emma and you.”

“You mean the wedding? Oh, it’s all going splendidly. I think the first rehearsal will be—”

“Don’t try to bamboozle me, Monty! I’m asking you whether you have told Emma yet that you are the Master of Time!” Wells exploded, angrily stamping his foot.

Murray looked at him, taken aback.

“Would you mind awfully venting your frustration in some other way, George? This floor is particularly badly affected by damp. Another blow like that and we’ll both end up in the dining room.”

“Don’t change the subject!”

Murray contemplated him in silence for a few moments, grunted, and then darted down the right-hand corridor, leaving Wells alone in the empty gallery. Wells followed him into the corridor, pausing at the doorway where he had seen Murray slip through. It led to a small room, which the builders appeared to be using, as it was scattered with sacks of plaster and various tools. Wells discovered Murray pacing round the room like a caged animal. He observed with dismay as each step his friend took kicked up clouds of white dust that formed into pretty swirls in the air before settling on his polished shoes and his immaculate suit.

“Will you stand still for a moment, Monty?” he exclaimed, brushing off the sleeves of his jacket. “Otherwise we soon won’t be able to breathe in here! And tell me once and for all whether you’ve told Emma your secret.”

Murray came to a halt and looked at Wells with anguish.

“Since you mention it, George . . . There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell to you about that . . . ,” he began, and then fell silent, gazing at his hands, as if the remainder of his speech were written on them.

Wells sighed. It was just as he had thought. Murray still hadn’t said a word about it to Emma! He had suspected as much when he saw them climb out of the automobile, and now Murray had confirmed it. Good, good, Wells told himself; Murray hadn’t burned any bridges yet, and so he could still retract the advice he had given him. He had found the perfect opportunity, and when he had done so, he would finally be able to stop tormenting himself.

“Don’t imagine I haven’t thought a great deal about the advice you gave me,” Murray resumed at last while Wells nodded with a paternal smile. “In fact, I have pondered it at length and have reached the conclusion that . . . er, how can I put this without sounding rude . . . I think it is one of the stupidest pieces of advice I have ever been given in my life.”

The smile vanished from Wells’s lips.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I said it was a stupid piece of advice, George, and I’m sure you’d agree with me if you thought about it for a second. I shan’t deny that two years ago it would have been an excellent idea to confess everything to Emma, but not now . . . In any case, all couples have their secrets, don’t they? Look at your beloved Doyle . . . Not to mention you yourself! Yes, you, too, George. I understand your not wanting to admit to me that you replied to my letter, but I think it is terrible that you are incapable of confessing the truth to Jane . . . your own wife, George!” Murray wagged his head disapprovingly. “Come to think of it, compared to you two, I’m not so bad as all that . . . a tiny secret from my past that has nothing to do with the man I am today. So I have decided not to tell Emma anything.” Murray folded his arms as a sign of his determination. “And nothing you say, George, will make me change my mind.”