The Map of Time (Trilogía Victoriana #1)(114)
That is all, my love. In a few months” time, our love story will begin for you. But for me it ends here, when I put the last full stop on this page. However, I will not say a final farewell and so deny all hope of our seeing one another again, because as I told you before, I live in the hope of you coming back to find me. All you have to do is follow the scent of the flower in the envelope.
With all my love, C.
Wells let out a sigh of dismay as he folded the letter Tom had brought him and placed it on the table. Then he took the envelope and tipped it over his open palm, but there was nothing inside. What had he expected? The flower was not for him. And, sitting there in the kitchen, touched by the rays of the evening sun, he realized his expectations had been too high. Although he appeared to be, he was not the protagonist of that romance spanning time. Wells saw himself, empty hand absurdly outstretched, as though checking to see if it was raining inside the house, and he could not help feeling as if he were the intruder in this story.
32
Very carefully, Tom slipped the delicate flower between the pages of the only book he owned, his battered copy of The Time Machine.
He had decided to let Wells keep Claire’s letters, as a sort of thank-you gift for services rendered, but mainly because in the end he considered they belonged to the writer. In the same way, he had held on to the narcissus he found in the final envelope, because he believed it was meant for him. And, after all, its perfume conveyed more meaning to him than her letters.
He lay back on his bed, and wondered what Claire Haggerty would do now that the letter writing was over and she was officially in love with a man from the future. He imagined her thinking of him each day, as she had predicted in her letters, from dawn to dusk, year in, year out, indifferent to the fact that real life, the one she ought to be living, was slipping away from her. This cruel fate, to which he had contributed, or rather which he had orchestrated, made him deeply unhappy, but he could think of no way of putting things right without making them worse. His only consolation was that in her letters Claire had assured him she would die happy. And perhaps, in the end, nothing else mattered. She probably would be happier in this impossible love affair than if she married one of her insipid suitors. If so, why did it matter if her happiness was based on a lie, provided that she never found out, died without knowing she had been deceived, ended her days believing she had been loved by Captain Derek Shackleton? He stopped thinking about the girl’s fate and focused on his own. He had sworn to himself he would stay alive until he had saved Claire’s life, and he had succeeded by staying hidden and sleeping outside in the fields. But now he was ready for death; he was even looking forward to it. There was nothing left for him to do in life except struggle to survive, which felt like a terribly exhausting and in the end pointless exercise, and far harder to achieve with the memory of Claire piercing his heart like a painful splinter. And yet twelve days had gone by since his meeting with the girl in the tearoom, in full view of the whole of London, and Gilliam’s hired assassin had still not managed to find him.
He could not count on Solomon either, who apparently preferred to haunt his dreams. But someone had to kill him, or he would end up dying of hunger. Perhaps he ought to make things easier for his killer? Added to this was another consideration: rehearsals would soon begin for the third expedition to the year 2000, which was in less than a fortnight. Was Gilliam waiting for him to show up at Greek Street, to kill him in his lair with his own bare hands? Turning up to the first rehearsal was as good as placing his head voluntarily in the lion’s mouth, but despite everything, Tom knew that was what he would do, if only to solve once and for all the riddle of his existence.
Just then someone hammered on his door. Tom sprang to his feet but made no move to open it. He stood waiting, every muscle in his body tensed, ready for anything. “Had his time come?” he thought. A few moments later, the barrage of thuds resumed.
“Tom? Are you there, you miserable scoundrel?” Someone outside roared. “Open up or I’ll have to knock down the door.” He instantly recognized Jeff Wayne’s voice. He put Wells’s book in his pocket and somewhat reluctantly opened the door. Jeff burst into the room and gave him a bear hug. Bradley and Mike greeted him from the landing.
“Where have you been hiding the last few days, Tom? The boys and I have been looking everywhere for you … Woman trouble, was it? Well, that doesn’t matter now, we’ve found you, and just in time. We’re going to celebrate in style tonight, thanks to our good old friend Mike,” he said, pointing to the giant, who was waiting in the doorway looking as gormless as ever.
As far as Tom could gather from Jeff’s muddled explanation, some days earlier Murray had paid Mike to do a special job for him. He had played the role of the infamous Jack the Ripper, the monster who had murdered five prostitutes in Whitechapel in the autumn of 1888.
“Some are born to play heroes, while others …” Jeff jeered, shrugging his shoulders. “In any case, he got the lead role and that calls for a proper splurge, wouldn’t you say?” Tom nodded. What could he do? This was clearly not Mike Spurrell’s idea but had been cooked up by Jeff, who was always ready to spend other people’s money. Tom had no desire to go with them, but he knew he did not have the strength to resist.
His companions all but dragged him downstairs to one of the adjoining taverns, where the trays of sausages and roast meat spread out on the table in the private room finally overcame his feeble resistance. Tom might not care for their company, but his stomach would never forgive him if he walked away from all that food.