The Map of Time (Trilogía Victoriana #1)(134)

You must be wondering what made me do it. I suppose devising hoaxes can become addictive. And I won’t deny, Mr. Wells, that it amused me to involve you in a pantomime similar to the one I had already orchestrated, to see whether you’d agree to take part in it or not.” Wells was scarcely able to pay attention to what Gilliam was saying. Clambering up the hill, as well as requiring a good deal of concentration, was making him feel distinctly uneasy, for the distant horizon had begun drawing nearer until it was within arm’s length. Once they reached the summit, Wells could see that what was in front of them was no more than a painted wall. Astonished, he passed his hand over the mural. Gilliam looked at him affectionately.

“Following the success of the second expedition, and although things had calmed down a lot, I couldn’t help wondering whether there was any sense in carrying on with all this now that I had more than proved my point. The only reason I could think of to justify the effort it would take to organize a third expedition,” he said, recalling with irritation Jeff Wayne’s pompous delivery of Shackleton’s lines, and how scrawny he looked brandishing his rifle on top of the rock, “was money. But I’d already made enough for a dozen lifetimes, so that was no excuse either. On the other hand, I was sure my critics would sooner or later mount a concerted attack on me that not even Conan Doyle would be able to head off.” Murray seized the door handle protruding from the wall, but made no attempt to turn it. Instead, he turned to Wells, a contrite look on his face.

“Doubtless I should have stopped then,” he said with regret, “setting in motion the plan I’d prepared even before creating the company: I would stage my own accidental death in the fourth dimension, eaten alive by one of my imaginary dragons before the eyes of a group of employees who, filled with grief, would see to it that the newspapers were informed of the tragic news. While I began my new life in America under another name, all England would mourn the passing of Gilliam Murray, the man who had revealed the mysteries of the future to them. However, despite the beauty of such an ending, something compelled me to carry on with my deception. Do you want to know what that was, Mr. Wells?” The writer merely shrugged.

“I’ll do my best to explain, although I doubt you will understand. You see, in creating all of this not only had I proved that my vision of the future was plausible, I had become a different person. I had become a character in my own story. I was no longer a simple glasshouse manufacturer. In your eyes, I’m no more than an impostor, but to everyone else I’m a time lord, an intrepid entrepreneur who has braved a thousand adventures in Africa and who sleeps every night with his magical dog in a place where time has stopped. I suppose I didn’t want to close the company down because that meant being an ordinary person again—a terribly rich but terribly ordinary person.” And with this, he turned the knob and stepped into a cloud.

Wells followed him a few seconds later, behind the magical dog, only to discover his bad-tempered face multiplied by half a dozen mirrors. He was in a cramped dressing room full of boxes and frames, hanging from which were several helmets and suits of armor. Gilliam was watching him from a corner, a serene smile on his lips.

“And I suppose I’ll deserve what I get, if you refuse to help me,” he said.

There it was at last. As Wells had suspected, Gilliam had not gone to all the trouble of bringing him there simply to offer him a guided tour. No, something had happened and Gilliam had come unstuck. And now Gilliam needed his help. This was the pièce de résistance he was expecting his guest to swallow after having forcefed him with explanations. Yes, he needed his help. Alas, the fact that Murray had never stopped addressing him in that condescending, almost fatherly tone suggested he had no intention of deigning to beg him for it. He simply assumed he would get it. For Wells it only remained to be seen what kind of threat the charlatan would use to extort it.

“Yesterday, I had a visit from Inspector Colin Garrett of Scotland Yard,” Murray went on. “He is investigating the case of a tramp found murdered in Marylebone, not exactly an unusual occurrence in that neighborhood. What makes this case so special is the murder weapon. The corpse has a huge hole right through the chest, which you can look through as if it were a window. It appears to have been caused by some sort of heat ray.

According to the pathologists, no weapon capable of inflicting such a wound exists. Not in our time, anyway. All of which has led the young inspector to suspect that the wretched tramp was murdered with a weapon of the future, specifically one of the rifles used by Captain Shackleton and his men, whose devastating effects he was able to observe when he formed part of the second expedition.” He took a rifle out of a small cupboard and handed it to Wells.

The writer could see that the so-called weapon was simply a piece of wood with a few knobs and pins added for show, like the accessories on the tram.

“As you can see, it’s just a toy. The automatons” wounds are produced by tiny charges hidden under their armor. But for my customers, of course, it’s a weapon, as real as it is powerful,” Murray explained, relieving Wells of the fake rifle and returning it to the closet with the others. “In short, Inspector Garrett believes one of the soldiers of the future, possibly Captain Shackleton himself, traveled back to our own time as a stowaway on the Cronotilus, and all he can think of is to travel on the third expedition to apprehend him before he does so, and thereby prevent the crime. Yesterday he showed me a warrant signed by the prime minister authorizing him to arrest a man who from where we’re standing hasn’t even been born yet. The inspector asked me to reserve three seats on the third expedition for him and two of his men. And, as I’m sure you’ll understand, I was in no position to refuse. What excuse could I have made? And so in ten days” time the inspector will travel to the year 2000 with the intention of arresting a murderer, but what he’ll in fact do is uncover the greatest swindle of the century. Perhaps, given my lack of scruples, you think I could get out of this fix by handing one of my actors over to him. But to make that believable, not only would I have to produce another Cronotilus out of thin air, I would also have to get round the difficult problem of Garrett seeing himself as part of the second expedition. As you can appreciate, all that is far too complicated even for me. The only person who can prevent Garrett from traveling to the future as he intends is you, Mr. Wells. I need you to find the real murderer before the day of the third expedition.” “And why should I help you?” asked Wells, more resigned than threatening.