The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(91)

Then Wells took a deep breath and . . . Ah, but what can I tell you, dear readers, that you don’t already know about man’s irresistible need to defend his most misguided and outmoded beliefs when someone else questions them! I am sure that you have found yourselves more than once justifying absurd notions you no longer believed in simply because someone doubted your ability to do so. And so, in order to spare you the lengthy and tedious conversation that ensued, in which both men put forward arguments those of you who have been paying attention will be only too familiar with, suffice it to say that Wells’s discourse was never more brilliant, lucid, and convincing, more ruthless and irrefutable in his reasoning and responses than in that debate that took place in the intimacy of the small room, amid clouds of plaster dust floating in the air like snowflakes in a storm. So that by the time the two friends heard Doyle’s booming voice as he came looking for them, concerned about how long they were taking, Murray left the room transformed once more into a man overcome with remorse, more eager than ever to atone for the unforgivable sin weighing on his conscience, whereas Wells did so puffed up with pride, triumphant and exhilarated, at least until the moment when it occurred to him what he had done.

When the group gathered in the driveway to organize their departure for the second house they were to visit, Murray went over to Doyle, apparently keen to start honoring the pledge he had made to Wells that day.

“I’m so glad you enjoyed the tour, Arthur.” Murray smiled, clapping Doyle on the back, to which the latter responded with a look of disbelief at his host’s sudden preoccupation with his well-being. “I say, the tale of the Cabells and the curse of the bloodhound would make an excellent idea for a novel, don’t you think?”

“Possibly,” Doyle conceded reluctantly.

“I knew you’d agree!” Murray rejoiced. “After all, we share the same taste in literature . . .”

“Really, then why don’t you write it yourself?”

“I would. But don’t forget: there has to be a logical explanation behind the ghostly dog the locals claim to have seen, and who better to discover it than Sherlock Holmes, the champion of reason? Wouldn’t a case with a supernatural twist challenge the mind of the greatest detective of all time and thrill your readers at the same time? Anyway, Arthur, you’re welcome to use my idea. Think of it as a gift. Only an immense talent such as yours could do it justice—even if that does mean rescuing poor Holmes from his watery grave. Don’t you agree?” Murray laughed and clapped Doyle on the back again. “But I’ve already explained to you how to do that.”

“Yes, you have. But as I keep telling you, like it or not, Holmes is going to remain at the bottom of the Reichenbach Falls, where he plunged together with Professor Moriarty, from whose embrace he was unable to free himself because he had never practiced jujitsu or wushu or . . .”

“Of course, of course, splendid . . . ,” murmured Murray, who had just spied Emma waiting for him in the Mercedes and was no longer listening.

She was perched in the driver’s seat, playing at steering the automobile. Murray swallowed. She looked so lovely, she trusted him so much, and he was going to hurt her so dreadfully . . .

“Montgomery!” Wells shouted at his side. “Did you hear me?”

“What?” Murray blinked.

“I asked you where your coachman is hiding,” Wells replied, trying to conceal his annoyance.

Murray looked about absentmindedly.

“Oh, well . . . I don’t expect he can have gone very far at his age . . .”

“I daresay he’s back in his prison cell . . .”

Murray sighed.

“Oh, damnation! I’ll go and find him. But not another word, George! I warn you, I’m not in the mood.”

Wells snorted and climbed into the carriage, where Doyle and the two ladies were already settling into their seats.

“But why are you resistant, darling?” Jean was saying to Doyle. “Montgomery’s idea is wonderful.”

“Really? I don’t think it’s that good.”

“Oh, but it would be so exciting . . . A new Sherlock Holmes adventure!” Jean declared eagerly. “Perhaps you could call it The Curse of the Hound.”

“Don’t insist, my dear . . . ,” said Doyle. “Besides, that’s a terrible title.”

“All right, what about . . . The Hound of Dartmoor?”

“Please, Jean, leave it . . .”

“Or Holmes Hounds a Hound?” Wells suggested.

“Very amusing, Wells,” Doyle muttered. “Very amusing.”

“The Hound of the Cabells?” Jane proposed.

Doyle sighed and, finally surrendering, thought about it for a moment:

“Hmm, The Hound of the Cabells isn’t bad at all. The Hound of the . . .”

“Baskervilles!” Murray thundered, making the passengers in the carriage jump.

“What the blazes is going on now?” Wells grumbled, leaning his head out of the window.

“Baskervilles!” Murray boomed again, as if his coachman were several miles away, and at that very moment the old man emerged from the side house. “Damn it, Baskervilles!” he cried. “Where the devil have you been?”

Wells watched with distaste as the old man made his way slowly over to the carriage while continuing to cast furtive glances toward the moor. Good heavens, was he really the only one who suspected that the old fellow was hiding something? In any event, since his and Murray’s stupid conversation in the room with the sacks of plaster, the man’s peculiar behavior had become the least of Wells’s worries. He sank back in his seat, annoyed at himself, sad, irritable, and depressed, while the old fellow scrambled onto the driver’s perch with surprising alacrity. The two women began a leisurely conversation about the latest Paris fashions, and Doyle shut his eyes. Wells wondered whether he was mulling over Murray’s idea for a novel but thought it far more likely that he was attempting to participate in the bubbling energies of the place. Wells sighed and let his gaze wander out of the window as he reflected about their excursion. So far it had been a disaster, although at least he had not had to confront any invisible men, he consoled himself darkly.