The Map of Time (Trilogía Victoriana #1)(135)
This was the question they both knew would bring everything out into the open. Gilliam walked towards Wells, an alarmingly calm smile on his face, and, placing a plump hand on his shoulder, steered him gently to the other side of the room.
“I’ve thought a great deal about how to answer that question, Mr. Wells,” he said in a soft, almost sweet-sounding voice.
“I could throw myself on your mercy. Yes, I could slump to my knees and beg for your help. Can you imagine that, Mr. Wells? Can you see me sniveling like a child, tears dripping onto your shoes, crying out loud that I don’t want my head chopped off? I’m sure that would do the trick: you think you’re better than me and are anxious to prove it.” Gilliam smiled as he opened a small door and propelled Wells through it with a gentle shove. “But I could also threaten you, by telling you that if you refuse to help me, your beloved Jane will no doubt suffer a nasty accident while out on her afternoon bicycle ride in the suburbs of Woking. I’m sure that would also do the trick. However, I’ve decided instead to appeal to your curiosity. You and I are the only ones who are aware this is all a big farce. Or, to put it another way: you and I are the only ones who are aware that time travel is impossible. And yet someone has done it. Doesn’t that make you curious? Will you just stand by and watch while young Garrett devotes all his energy to pursuing a fantasy when a real time traveler could be roaming the streets of London?” Gilliam and Wells stared silently at one another.
“I’m sure you won’t,” Gilliam concluded.
And with these words, he closed the door of the future and deposited Wells back on the twenty-sixth of November 1896. The writer suddenly found himself in the dank alleyway behind Murray’s Time Travel, where a few cats were foraging among the rubbish. He had the impression that his trip to the year 2000 had been no more than a dream. On impulse, he thrust his hands into his jacket pockets, but they were empty: no one had slipped a flower into them.
37
When Wells called in to see him the next day at his office, Inspector Colin Garrett gave him the impression of being a shy, delicate young lad everything appeared too big for, from the sturdy desk where he was at that moment eating his breakfast, to his brown suit, and especially the murders, burglaries, and other crimes spreading like unsightly weeds all over the city. If he had been interested in writing a detective novel, like those his fellow novelist Doyle penned, for example, he would never have described his detective as looking anything at all like the nervous, frail-looking young man in front of him, who, to judge by the excited way he shook Wells’s hand, was particularly susceptible to the reverential zeal of hero worship.
Once he was seated, Wells stoically endured with his usual modest smile the outpouring of praise for his novel The Time Machine, although, to give the young inspector his due, he ended his eulogy with a most novel observation.
“As I say, I enjoyed your novel enormously, Mr. Wells,” he said, pushing aside his breakfast plate somewhat ashamedly, as though wishing to remove the guilty evidence of his gluttony, “and I regret how hard it must be for you, and for all authors of futuristic novels, not to be able to keep on speculating about the future now that we know what it is like. Otherwise, if the future had remained unfathomable and mysterious, I imagine novels that predict tomorrow’s world would have ended up becoming a genre in themselves.” “I suppose so,” Wells agreed, surprised at the young inspector having thought of something that had never even occurred to him.
Perhaps he was wrong after all to judge him on his youthful appearance. Following this brief exchange, the two men simply smiled affably at one another for the next few moments, as the sun’s rays filtered through the window, bathing them in a golden light. Finally, Wells, seeing that no more praise was forthcoming from the inspector, decided to broach the matter that had brought him there.
“Then, as a reader of my work, I imagine it will come as no surprise if I tell you I am here about the case of the murdered tramp,” he confessed. “I’ve heard a rumor that the culprit might be a time traveler, and while I have no intention of suggesting I am an authority on the matter, I think I may be of some assistance.” Garrett raised his eyebrows, as if he had no idea what Wells was talking about.
“What I’m trying to say, Inspector, is that I came here to offer you my … support.” The inspector cast him a sympathetic glance.
“You’re very kind, Mr. Wells, but that won’t be necessary,” he said. “You see, I’ve already solved the case.” He reached into his desk drawer for an envelope and fanned the photographs it contained out on the table. They were all of the tramp’s corpse. He showed them to Wells, one by one, explaining in great detail and with visible excitement, the chain of reasoning that had led him to suspect Captain Shackleton or one of his soldiers. Wells scarcely paid any attention, as the inspector was merely reiterating what Gilliam had already told him, but became engrossed in studying the intriguing wound on the corpse. He knew nothing of guns, but it did not take an expert to see that the grisly hole could not possibly have been inflicted by any present-day weapon. As Garrett and his team of pathologists maintained, the wound looked as though it had been caused by some sort of heat ray, like a stream of molten lava directed by a human hand.
“As you can see, there is no other explanation,” concluded Garrett with a satisfied grin, placing everything back in the envelope. “To be honest, I’m simply waiting until the third expedition leaves. This morning, for example, I sent a couple of officers to the crime scene simply for appearance’s sake.” “I see,” said Wells, trying not to show his disappointment.