The Map of Time (Trilogía Victoriana #1)(126)

“Two days ago,” he said, “the police discovered a man’s body in Manchester Street, Marylebone. He was a tramp, but the injury that killed him was so extraordinary they handed the case over to us. The wound consists of an enormous hole twelve inches wide that goes straight through his chest and is singed at the edges. Our pathologists are baffled. They claim no weapon exists that is capable of inflicting such an injury.” Garrett made a dramatic pause before fixing Murray with a solemn stare, and adding: “At least not here, not in the present.” “What are you suggesting, Inspector?” asked Murray, in a casual manner that did not correspond with the way he was fidgeting in his chair.

“That the pathologists are right,” replied Garrett, “such a weapon hasn’t yet been invented. Only I’ve seen it, Mr. Murray.

Guess where?” Gilliam did not reply but looked at him askance.

“In the year 2000.” “Really,” murmured Murray.

“Yes, Mr. Murray. I’m convinced this wound can only have been inflicted by the weapon I saw the brave Captain Shackleton and his men using. The heat ray that can pierce armor.” “I see …” Gilliam muttered as if to himself, staring into space.

“The weapon used by the soldiers of the future, of course.” “Precisely. I believe one of them, possibly Shackleton, traveled back on the Cronotilus without being noticed and is roaming our streets at this very moment. I’ve no idea why he killed the tramp or where he is hiding now, but that doesn’t matter: I don’t intend to waste time searching the whole of London for him when I know exactly where he is.” He pulled a piece of paper from his inside pocket and handed it to Murray. “This is a warrant signed by the prime minister authorizing me to arrest the murderer on May 20 in the year 2000, before he can even commit his crime. It means I’ll need to travel with two of my officers on the expedition leaving in a week’s time. Once we arrive in the future, we’ll separate from the others so that we can spy on the passengers from the second expedition and discreetly detain anyone who attempts to stow away on the Cronotilus.” As he spoke, it dawned on the inspector that if he lay in wait for the passengers of the second expedition he would unavoidably see himself. He only hoped it would not repulse him as much as the sight of blood. He glanced at Murray, who was carefully studying the warrant. He was silent for so long it occurred to Garrett he might even be examining the consistency of the paper.

“But have no fear, Mr. Murray,” he felt obliged to add, “if Shackleton does turn out to be the murderer, my arresting him after his duel with Solomon won’t affect the outcome of the war.

It will still end in victory for the human race, and it won’t affect your show either.” “I understand,” murmured Gilliam without looking up from the document.

“May I count on your cooperation, Mr. Murray?” Gilliam slowly raised his head and looked at Garrett with what for a moment the inspector imagined was contempt, but he soon realized his mistake when Murray quickly beamed at him, and replied: “Certainly, Inspector, certainly. I shall reserve three seats for you on the next expedition.” “I’m most grateful to you, Mr. Murray.” “And now, if you’ll excuse me,” said Murray, standing up and handing him back the document. “I’m extremely busy.” “Of course, Mr. Murray.” Slightly taken aback by the way Murray had abruptly ended the interview, Garrett rose from his armchair, thanked him once more for his cooperation, and left his office. A smile played across the inspector’s lips as he walked along the interminable corridor lined with clocks. By the time he reached the stairs. he was in an excellent mood and began chanting to himself: “Peritoneum, spleen, left kidney, suprarenal gland, urinary tract, prostate gland … ,” he sang.





36


Not even the touch on the skin of the delicious breeze heralding the arrival of summer, nor caressing a woman’s body, nor sipping Scotch whiskey in the bathtub until the water goes cold, in short, no other pleasure Wells could think of gave him a greater sense of well-being than when he added the final full stop to a novel. This culminating act always filled him with a sense of giddy satisfaction born of the certainty that nothing he could achieve in life could fulfill him more than writing a novel, no matter how tedious, difficult, and thankless he found the task, for Wells was one of those writers who detest writing but love “having written.” He pulled the last folio from the carriage of his Hammond typewriter, laid it on top of the pile, and placed his hand on it with a triumphant smile, like a hunter resting his boot on a lion’s head, because for Wells the act of writing was much like a struggle, a bloodthirsty battle with an idea that refuses to be seized.

An idea that nonetheless originated with him; and perhaps that was the most frustrating thing of all, the eternal yawning gap between the fruit of his efforts and his initial goal, which admittedly was always more instinctive than deliberate. He had learned from experience that what he succeeded in putting down on paper was only ever a pale reflection of what he had imagined, and so he had come to accept that this would only be half as good as the original, half as acceptable as the flawless, unachievable novel that had acted as a guide, and which he imagined pulsating mockingly behind each book like some ghostly presence. Even so, here was the result of all those months of toil, he told himself; and it felt wonderful to see transformed into something palpable what until he typed that last full stop had been no more than a vague premise. He would deliver it to Henley the next day and could stop thinking about it.