The Map of Time (Trilogía Victoriana #1)(56)
“Forgive my inquisitiveness, Mr. Wells,” he apologized hurriedly. “Of course not everyone can afford a hundred pounds.” “Oh, it isn’t the money,” Jane broke in. “Mr. Murray has invited Bertie to take part in his voyages on several occasions, but he always refuses.” As she said this, she glanced at her husband, perhaps in the hope he might feel encouraged to explain his systematic refusals. But Wells simply stared at the joint of lamb with a mournful smile.
“Who would want to travel in a crowded tramcar when they can make the same journey in a luxurious carriage?” Andrew interposed.
The three others looked at the young man, exchanged puzzled glances for a moment then nodded slowly in agreement.
With renewed enthusiasm, Wells declared, wiping the grease from his mouth with a napkin, “But let’s get back to the matter in hand. On one of my exploratory trips in the machine, I traveled six years back in time, arriving in the same attic when the house was occupied by the previous tenants. If I remember correctly, they had a horse tethered in the garden. I propose that you climb down the vine quietly, so as not to wake them. Then jump on the horse and ride to London as fast as you can. Once you have killed the Ripper, come straight back here.
Climb onto the machine, set the date for today, and pull on the lever. Do you understand?” “Yes, I understand …” Andrew was able to stammer.
Charles leaned back in his seat and gazed at him affectionately.
“You are about to change the past, cousin …” he mused. “I still can’t believe it.” Then Jane brought in a bottle of port and poured a glass for the guests. They sipped slowly, from time to time glancing at their watches, visibly impatient, until the author said: “Well, the time has come to make history.” He set down his glass on the table and nodding solemnly steered them once more up to the attic.
“Here, cousin,” Charles said, handing Andrew the pistol. “It’s already loaded. When you shoot the swine, make sure you aim at his chest.” “At his chest,” echoed Andrew, his hand shaking as he took the pistol, quickly slipping it into his pocket so that neither Wells nor his cousin would see how terrified he was.
The two men each took him by one arm and guided him ceremoniously towards the machine. Andrew climbed over the brass rail and sat in the seat. Despite his feeling of unreality, he could not help noticing the dark splatter of blood on the upholstery.
“Now listen to me,” said Wells in a commanding tone. “Try to avoid making contact with anyone, even with your beloved, no matter how much you want to see her alive again. Just shoot the Ripper and come straight back the same way you went, before you meet your past self. I don’t know what the consequences of such an unnatural encounter might be, but I suspect it would wreak havoc in the fabric of time and could bring about a catastrophe that could destroy the world. Now, tell me, have I made myself clear?” “Yes, don’t worry,” murmured Andrew, more intimidated by the harsh tone of Wells’s voice than by the possible fatal consequences of his desire to save Marie Kelly if he made a mistake.
“Another thing,” said Wells, returning to the fray, although this time in a less menacing voice. “Your journey won’t be anything like in my novel. You won’t see any snails walking backwards. I confess to having used a certain amount of poetic license. The effects of time travel are far less exhilarating. The moment you pull on the lever, you’ll notice a surge of energy, followed almost immediately by a blinding flash. That’s all. Then, quite simply, you’ll be in 1888. You might feel dizzy or sick after the journey, but I hope this won’t affect your aim,” he added sarcastically.
“I’ll bear that in mind,” Andrew muttered, absolutely terrified.
Wells nodded, reassured. Apparently, he had no other advice to give him, because he then began to hunt for something on a shelf full of knickknacks. The others watched him without saying a word.
When at last Wells found what he had been looking for, he declared: “If you don’t mind, we’ll keep the cutting in this little box. When you come back, we’ll open it and find out whether you have managed to change the past. I imagine that if your mission has been successful, the headline will announce the death of Jack the Ripper.” Andrew nodded feebly, and handed Wells the cutting. Then Charles went over to his cousin, placed his hand solemnly on his shoulder, and gave him an encouraging smile, in which Andrew thought he glimpsed a hint of anxiety. When his cousin stepped aside, Jane approached the machine, wished Andrew good luck, and gave him a little peck on the cheek. Wells beamed as he watched the ritual, visibly pleased.
“Andrew, you’re a pioneer,” he declared once these displays of encouragement were over, as though he felt he must close the ceremony with a lofty remark of the sort carved in stone. “Enjoy the journey. If in the next few decades time travel becomes commonplace, changing the past will doubtless be considered a crime.” Then, adding to Andrew’s unease, he asked the others to take a few steps back to avoid being singed by the burst of energy the machine would give off as soon as its occupant pulled the lever.
Andrew watched them step back, trying to conceal his helplessness. He took a deep breath, struggling to control the panic and confusion overwhelming him; he was going to save Marie, he told himself, trying to feel emboldened. He was traveling back in time, to the night of her death, to shoot her killer before he had a chance to rip her guts out, thus changing history and at the same time erasing the eight years of suffering he had gone through. He looked at the date on the panel, the accursed date that had ruined his life. He could not believe it was in his power to save her, and yet all he had to do to overcome his disbelief was to pull that lever. Nothing more. Then whether or not he believed in time travel would become irrelevant. His trembling hand glistened with sweat as he grasped the handle, and the coolness of the glass lever in his palm seemed both unbelievable and absurd because it was such a familiar, commonplace sensation. He glanced at the three figures waiting expectantly by the attic door.