The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(99)

“My dear Arthur, I’m so glad you came back in one piece!” exclaimed Wells.

“Likewise, George. And I assure you it was no easy feat,” Doyle said with a grin that suggested all manner of death-defying adventures.

With a commanding gesture that was doubtless a carryover from his days in the army, Doyle signaled to Wells to sit down again while he went over to the drinks table to serve them a couple of glasses of port. He did so with such agility that Wells had the impression he had received the drink even before it was poured. In any event, he promptly found himself clutching a glass, with Doyle sitting opposite him on an identical chair.

“Well, Arthur,” he began, “I expect you have much to tell me.”

“You are quite right, my dear fellow. The return voyage on the Briton was so entertaining I could write several novels about it. I was traveling with the Duke of Norfolk and his brother Lord Edward Talbot, you know? An amusing pair. There were also several prominent army chaps, with whom I spent the crossing exchanging war stories into the small hours. Unfortunately, were joined along the way by a journalist called Bertram Fletcher Robinson, a terrible bore who almost ruined the entire journey.”

“How awful for you!” remarked Wells.

“It was, although not nearly as awful as whatever made you come here desperately seeking my help.”

Wells looked at him in astonishment.

“H-How did you know?” he stammered.

“Elementary, my dear Wells, elementary.” Doyle grinned. “You came here unannounced, when, as a stickler for etiquette, you usually send a telegram the day before, and furthermore, you look as if you’ve been dragged through a hedge backward: you are unkempt, you have bags under your eyes, and your suit is crumpled. But the most significant clue is the polite interest you showed while I recounted my adventures, which were no more than the chronicle of a tedious, banal ocean crossing. The old Wells would have interrupted me to say he had no interest in hearing about a cruise for retired people, yet you remained silent, nodding as I droned on, which proves you weren’t listening to a word I said but were waiting for the best moment to broach your request. I don’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to deduce that! Even my young son would have noticed. There is something seriously worrying you, my dear George, and the moment you knew I had returned from Africa, you came here because you think I can help . . . Am I wrong?”

Wells paused before running his hand across his brow. “Damn it, Arthur, you’re right! I . . . Well, I apologize for not announcing my visit, but—”

“Oh, there’s no need. I’m the one who should apologize. I regret having left . . . under those circumstances. I would have liked to attend the funeral at least.”

Wells waved a hand in the air. “Don’t fret,” he said. “We all understood perfectly.”

“How are you?” Doyle asked gently.

Wells grunted, as though wanting to make it clear that this was not an easy question to answer.

“You know, when one half of a couple dies in such circumstances, the survivor always feels guilty for not having died in his or her place,” he said, as if this were something he knew from his own bitter experience.

“Quite so.” Doyle nodded, as if he, too, had firsthand knowledge of it.

“Except that Montgomery isn’t only racked with guilt because he was driving, Arthur. Above all it is because Emma died before he was able to confess his secret to her,” Wells explained.

“His secret?”

“Yes, a secret very few know about. And that I am about to tell you.”

Like a cat about to pounce, a tense silence hung over the two men. It was finally broken by Doyle.

“Wait a moment, George! Whatever Gilmore’s secret is, I don’t think it’s right that you tell me. I hardly know the fellow, and besides—”

“You have to know, Arthur. Because, as you said earlier, I need your help. And unless you know the whole story you won’t be able to help me.”

“Very well, George. Whatever you say,” replied Doyle a little uneasily.

“Good, now listen: Montgomery Gilmore is actually an assumed name. Gilmore’s real name is—”

Wells broke off in mid-sentence, not for dramatic effect, but rather because he wasn’t even convinced that revealing Murray’s true identity to Doyle would not simply make matters worse. All of a sudden, the plan he had spent the past few weeks dreaming up seemed unrealistic and absurd. But it was the only one he had.

“Well?” said Doyle expectantly.

“His real name is Gilliam Murray,” Wells declared at last, “better known as the Master of Time.”

Doyle contemplated him, dumbfounded.

“B-But . . . the Master of Time died,” he finally stammered.

“No, Arthur, he didn’t die. He staged his own death and started a new life in New York under the assumed name of Montgomery Gilmore.”

“Good heavens!” Doyle exclaimed, then fell silent for a moment as he attempted to digest the revelation. Wells waited rather warily for him to say something else. “Now that you mention it, George, his face always seemed familiar. Well, I’ll be darned: here am I, the creator of the most famous detective in the world, and yet it never occurred to me that—”

“How could it have?” Wells hastened to reassure him.