The Map of Time (Trilogía Victoriana #1)(147)

And you, Mr. James, will suffer a heart attack in your own home, although, needless to say, your death, like those of your colleagues, will also be murder. I don’t know whether Frost plans to carry out the deeds himself or to hire someone else, although judging from Frost’s frail physique, I would incline towards the latter. In fact, Frost is a typical instance of a time traveler who, afraid to return to his own time, chooses a particular time in the past in which to settle down and build a new life. All perfectly understandable and legitimate. The problem arises because the majority of these time exiles consider earning a living in the traditional sense, by the sweat of their brow—utterly absurd when their knowledge of the future could make them rich. Most give themselves away when they modify the past in order to implement their moneymaking schemes, like this fellow Frost. Otherwise, it would be impossible for us to trace them. But I didn’t bring you here to torment you with tales of your imminent demise, gentlemen, rather to try to prevent it from happening.” “Can you do that?” Stoker asked, suddenly hopeful.

“Not only can I, but it is my duty, for your deaths represent a significant change to the century I have been assigned to protect,” replied Marcus. “My sole aim is to help you, gentlemen, I hope I’ve convinced you of that. And that includes you too, Mr. Wells.” Wells gave a start. How did Marcus know he had come to the meeting filled with misgivings? He found the answer when he followed the direction the traveler and his two henchmen were looking. All three of them were staring at his left shoe, where the knife he had strapped to his back was peeping out. It seemed the knot he had tied had been a little precarious. Shamefaced, Wells picked up the knife and slipped it into his pocket, while James shook his head disapprovingly.

“All of you,” the traveler went on, attaching no further importance to the matter, “will live for many more years in your original universe and will continue delighting your faithful readers, of whom I consider myself one, with many more novels. Forgive me, though, if I refrain from telling you any details about your future, so that once we have resolved this small matter, you will continue to act naturally. In fact, I ought to have intervened without revealing myself to you, but this fellow Frost is devilishly clever and will eliminate you so stealthily that the information I need in order to prevent your deaths, such as the exact time you were pushed down the stairs, Mr. Stoker, will not appear in the newspapers. I only know the days on which you will suffer your respective accidents, and in your case, Mr. James, I won’t even know that, because no one will notice you are dead until a neighbor discovers you body.” James nodded ruefully, perhaps aware for the first time of the utter loneliness enveloping his life, an entrenched loneliness that would make of his death a silent act, unseen by the world.

“Let us say that bringing you here was a desperate measure, gentlemen, for I could think of no other way to prevent your deaths than by asking for your cooperation, which I feel sure will be forthcoming.” “Naturally,” said Stoker, hastily, apparently physically ill at the thought he could be dead in a few days. “What do we have to do?” “Oh, it’s quite simple,” said Marcus. “Providing this fellow Frost cannot find your manuscripts, he won’t be able to kill you.

I therefore suggest you bring them to me at the first opportunity.

Tomorrow, if at all possible. This simple act will create another bifurcation in the timeline, because Frost will not have killed you. Once I am in possession of the novels, I shall travel forward to the year 1899, and take another look at reality in order to decide what to do next.” “I think it’s an excellent plan,” said Stoker. “I shall bring you my manuscript tomorrow.” James agreed to do the same, and although Wells had the impression they were mere pawns in a game of chess between Marcus and this fellow Frost, he had no choice but to consent.

He felt too disoriented by events to try to think of a better way than the one Marcus was proposing. And so, like the others, he agreed to bring him his manuscript the next morning, although if Marcus finally apprehended Frost and unraveled the muddle of the future, it did not guarantee him being able to ride his bicycle in complete safety without first resolving the matter pending with Gilliam Murray. And to do this he had no choice but to help Inspector Garrett catch Marcus, the very man who was trying to save his life.

But if there was a more difficult undertaking than captur-ing a time traveler, it was undoubtedly catching a cab in London in the early hours of the morning. James, Stoker, and Wells spent almost an hour trawling the area around Berkeley Square without success. Only when they decided to walk towards Piccadilly, shivering with cold and cursing their luck, did they catch sight of a berlin. They gave a start as it emerged from the thick fog that had settled over London, rolling along the street towards them almost solely thanks to the horse’s own efforts, because the driver was half-asleep on his perch. It would have passed straight by them, like a visitation from the beyond, had the driver not finally noticed the redheaded giant blocking the street and waving his arms wildly. After the cab came to a hasty halt, the three men spent what seemed like an eternity trying to explain their itinerary to the driver: first, he would take Stoker to his house, then drop James off at his hotel, and finally leave London for Woking, which was where Wells lived. When the driver signaled that he had understood the route by blinking a couple of times and grunt-ing, the three men clambered into the carriage, flopping onto the seat amid loud sighs, like castaways having finally reached shore after spending days in a lifeboat.