The Map of Time (Trilogía Victoriana #1)(125)

Garrett legs had turned to jelly the first time he had crossed the threshold of Murray’s headquarters, clutching the money his father had left him that was to be transformed into something straight out of a dream: a ticket to the future, to the year 2000. This time he did so with a resolute stride, even though he had something just as incredible in his jacket pocket, a warrant that seemed all the more extraordinary considering it was for the arrest of a phantom. And Garrett was convinced that if time travel were to become routine, this would be the first in a long line of similar warrants enabling police officers to make arrests in different eras, provided that the crimes were committed in the same place: London. When he had scrawled his signature on the slip of paper Garrett was carrying in his inside pocket, the prime minister, doubtless unawares, had taken an epoch-making step, blazed a new trail. As Garrett had predicted, science and its amazing creations would beat the rhythm to which humanity would dance.

But this warrant would also allow Garrett certain liberties in space. Like not being forced to languish in some waiting room until that busiest of men, Gilliam Murray, deigned to see him.

Invested with the power conferred on him by the scrap of paper in his inside pocket, Garrett marched straight past the secretaries guarding Murray’s privacy, and, ignoring their objections, went up the stairs to the first floor, then along the corridor lined with clocks, and breezed in to Murray’s office, a bevy of breathless assistants in his wake. Gilliam Murray was lying on the carpet playing with a huge dog. He frowned slightly when he saw Garrett come in without knocking, but the inspector did not allow himself to be intimidated. He knew his behavior was more than justified.

“Good morning, Mr. Murray. Inspector Colin Garrett of Scotland Yard,” he introduced himself, “Forgive me for barging in like this, but there’s an urgent matter I need to discuss with you.” Murray rose to his feet very slowly, eyeing the inspector suspiciously before dismissing his assistants with a wave of his hand.

“You needn’t apologize, Inspector, any matter you deal with must by definition be urgent,” he said, offering him an armchair as he crammed his huge frame into one opposite.

Once they were seated, Gilliam picked up a small wooden box from the table between their two chairs, opened it, and, in a brisk, friendly manner that contrasted with his initial aloofness, offered Garrett a cigar. The inspector refused politely, smiling to himself at Murray’s brusque change of attitude, reflecting how swiftly he must have weighed up the pros and cons of getting on the wrong side of an inspector from the Yard and decided that playing up to him was a far better strategy. It was thanks to this that Garrett was sitting in a comfortable armchair and not on the footstool next to it.

“So, you don’t like smoke?” remarked Gilliam, putting the box back on the table and picking up a cut-glass decanter containing a peculiar blackish substance, which he poured into two glasses.

“Perhaps I can tempt you to a drink.” Garrett balked slightly at the glass of dark liquid Murray was holding out to him. But Murray grinned amiably, encouraging him to try it as he took a swig of his. Garrett did the same and felt the strange beverage sting his throat as it went down, the tears starting to his eyes.

“What is it, Mr. Murray?” he asked, perplexed, unable to refrain from letting out a loud belch. “A drink from the future?” “Oh, no, Inspector. It’s a tonic made from coca leaves and cola seeds invented by a chemist in Atlanta. It’s all the rage in the United States. Some people prefer taking it with a little soda, like me. I expect they’ll soon be importing it over here.” Garrett put down his glass on the table, disinclined to take another sip.

“It has a peculiar flavor. I don’t imagine people will take to it very easily,” he predicted, for the sake of saying something.

Gilliam smiled his assent, emptied his glass, and, visibly eager to ingratiate himself, asked: “Tell me, Inspector, did you enjoy your trip to the year 2000?” “Very much, Mr. Murray,” replied Garrett, in earnest. “What’s more, I’d like to take this opportunity to say that I fully endorse your project, regardless of what some newspapers say about the impropriety of visiting a time that doesn’t belong to us. I have an open mind, and I find the idea of time travel enormously appealing. I eagerly await the opening up of new routes to other eras.” Murray thanked Garrett for his comments with a timid smile, then sat expectantly in his chair, no doubt inviting the inspector to reveal the reason for his visit. Garrett cleared his throat and came straight to the point: “We live in fascinating but tremendously volatile times, Mr. Murray,” he said, reeling off the little preamble he had prepared.

“Science drives events, and mankind must adapt. Above all, if our laws are to remain effective, we must update them to suit the changing face of the world. Even more so when it comes to time travel. We are at the dawn of an extraordinary era of discovery that will doubtless redefine the world as we know it, and whose inherent dangers are impossible, or extremely difficult, to judge.

It is precisely these dangers I came here to speak to you about, Mr. Murray.” “I couldn’t agree with you more, Inspector,” Murray conceded. “Science will change the face of the world, and oblige us to modify our laws, and even many of our principles, the way that time travel is already doing. But, tell me, what are these dangers you wish to speak to me about? I confess you’ve aroused my curiosity.” Garrett sat up in his chair and cleared his throat once more.