The Map of Time (Trilogía Victoriana #1)(53)

“Mr. Wells, I presume,” he said, raising his arm and pointing a gun at him.





14


A young man with a bird like face.

This was what Andrew thought when he saw the author of The Time Machine, the book that had transformed all England while he was wandering like a ghost amid the trees in Hyde Park. Finding the front door locked, instead of knocking, Charles had led him silently round the back of the house. After crossing a small, rather overgrown garden, they had burst into the small, narrow kitchen whose cramped space the two of them seemed to fill completely.

“Who are you and what are you doing in my house?” the author demanded, remaining seated at the table, perhaps because in that way less of his body would be exposed to the pistol aimed at him, which was also undoubtedly the reason why he had asked the question in such an incongruously polite manner.

Without lowering the gun, Charles turned to his cousin and nodded. It was Andrew’s turn to take part in the performance.

He suppressed a sigh of displeasure. He deemed it unnecessary to have burst into the author’s house at gunpoint, and he regretted not having given some thought during the journey to what they would do once they reached the house, instead of leaving everything up to his cousin, whose impetuosity had put them in a very awkward situation. But there was no turning back now, and so Andrew approached Wells, determined to improvise. He had no idea how to do so, only that he must mimic his cousin’s severe, determined manner. He reached into his jacket pocket for the cutting, and, with the abrupt gesture appropriate to the situation, placed it on the table between the author’s hands.

“I want you to stop this from happening,” he said, trying his best to sound commanding.

Wells stared blankly at the cutting, then contemplated the two intruders, his eyes moving from one to the other like a pendulum, and finally consented to read it. As he did so, his face remained impassive.

“I regret to tell you that this tragic event has already occurred, and as such belongs to the past. And as you are fully aware, the past is unchangeable,” he concluded disdainfully, returning the cutting to Andrew.

Andrew paused for a moment then, a little flustered, took the yellowing piece of paper and put it back in his pocket. Visibly uncomfortable at being forced into such close proximity by the narrowness of the kitchen, which did not seem big enough to squeeze in another person, the three men simply gawked at one another, like actors who have suddenly forgotten their lines. However, they were wrong: there was room for another slim person, and even for one of those newfangled bicycles that were all the rage, with their aluminium spokes, tubular frames, and modern pneumatic tires, which made them much lighter.

“You’re wrong,” said Charles, suddenly brightening up.

“The past isn’t unalterable, not if we have a machine capable of traveling in time.” Wells gazed at him with a mixture of pity and weariness.

“I see,” he murmured, as though it had suddenly dawned on him with dreary disappointment what this business was all about. “But you’re mistaken if you imagine I have one at my disposal. I’m only a writer, gentlemen.” He shrugged, apologetically.

“I have no time machine. I simply made one up.” “I don’t believe you,” replied Charles.

“It’s the truth,” sighed Wells.

Charles tried to catch Andrew’s eye, as though his cousin would know what to do next in their madcap adventure. But they had come to a dead end. Andrew was about to tell him to lower the gun, when a young woman walked into the kitchen wheeling a bicycle. She was a slim, small, amazingly beautiful creature, who looked as though she had been delicately wrought by a god tired of churning out inferior specimens. But what really grabbed Andrew’s attention was the contraption she had with her, one of those so-called bicycles that were replacing horses because they allowed people to ride round peacefully on country roads without exerting themselves too much. Charles, on the other hand, did not let himself be distracted by the thing, and, having instantly identified the girl as Wells’s wife, he swiftly grabbed her arm and placed the barrel of the gun against her temple. Andrew was amazed at his speed and agility, as though he had spent his whole life making this kind of movement.

“I’ll give you one more chance,” Charles said to the author, who had suddenly turned pale.

The exchange that followed was as inconsequential as it was idiotic, but I will reproduce it word for word, despite it being scarcely worth mentioning, simply because I am not trying to make any one episode in this story stand out: “Jane,” said Wells, in a faint, almost inaudible voice.

“Bertie,” replied Jane, alarmed.

“Charles … ,” Andrew began.

“Andrew,” Charles interrupted him.

Then there was silence. The afternoon light threw their shadows into relief. The curtain at the window billowed slightly.

Out in the garden, the branches of the tree that rose from the ground like a crooked pikestaff rustled eerily as they shook in the breeze. A group of pale shadows nodding their heads, embarrassed by the clumsy melodrama of the scene, as if this were a novel by Henry James (who, incidentally, will also make an appearance in this story).

“Very well, gentlemen,” declared Wells at last in a good-natured voice, rising from his chair. “I think we can solve this in a civilized way without anyone getting hurt.” Andrew looked beseechingly at his cousin.