The Map of Time (Trilogía Victoriana #1)(59)
After bobbing around clumsily, he doubled over, letting go of the knife dripping with Andrew’s blood, which ricocheted over the cobblestones and disappeared into the shadows. Then, after giving a hoarse bellow, he bent down on one knee, as though to acknowledge in his murderer the traits of nobility, and continued to moan with a few reedier, more staccato versions of his original grunt. Finally, just when Andrew was beginning to tire of all this display of dying and was toying with the idea of kicking the man to the ground, he collapsed in a heap onto the cobblestones and lay there, stretched out at his feet.
Andrew was about to kneel down and check the man’s pulse when Marie Kelly, no doubt alarmed by the skirmish, opened the door to her little room. Before she could recognize him, and, resisting the temptation to look at her after eight years of her being dead, Andrew turned on his heel. No longer worried about the corpse, he ran towards the exit as he heard her scream, “Murder, murder!” Only when he had reached the stone archway did he allow himself to look back over his shoulder. He saw his beloved kneeling down in a shimmering halo of light, gently closing the eyes of the man, who in a far-off time, in a world that had taken on the consistency of a dream, had mutilated her to the point where she was unrecognizable.
The horse was standing where he had left it. Out of breath from running, Andrew mounted and rode off as fast as he could.
Despite his agitation, he managed to find his way out of the maze of alleyways and onto the main road that would take him back to Woking. It was only when he had left London that he began to calm down, to acknowledge what he had done. He had killed a man, but at least he had done so in self-defense. And besides, it had not been any man. He had killed Jack the Ripper, saved Marie Kelly, changed events that had already taken place. He urged the horse on violently, anxious to travel back to his own time and discover the results of his action. If things had gone well, then Marie would not only be alive but would probably be his wife. Would they have had a child, possibly two or three? He drove the horse to the limit, as though afraid this idyllic present would dissolve like a mirage if he took too long to reach it.
Woking was still bathed in the same serene calm that had so roused his suspicions a few hours earlier. Now, though, he was grateful for that tranquillity which would allow him to end his mission without further incident. He leapt off the horse and opened the gate, but something made him stop dead in his tracks: a figure was waiting for him beside the door to the house.
Andrew immediately remembered what had happened to Wells’s friend, and realized this must be some sort of guardian of time with orders to kill him for having meddled with the past. Trying hard not to give way to panic, he pulled the gun from his pocket as fast as he could and aimed it at the man’s chest, just as his cousin had suggested he do with the Ripper. The intruder dived to one side and rolled across the lawn until he was swallowed up by darkness. Andrew tried to follow the man’s catlike movements with his revolver, not knowing what else to do, until he saw him nimbly scale the fence and leap into the road.
Only when he heard the tap of his feet running away did he lower his weapon, calming himself by taking slow deep breaths.
Could that man have killed Wells’s friend? He did not know, but now that he had escaped, it did not matter very much. Andrew gave him no more thought and began climbing back up the creeper. This he was obliged to do using only one arm, as his wounded left shoulder had started to throb painfully at the slightest effort. Even so, he managed to reach the attic, where the time machine stood waiting for him. Exhausted and a little faint owing to the loss of blood, he collapsed onto the seat, set the return date on the contraption’s control panel, and after bidding 1888 farewell with a longing gaze, pulled on the glass lever without delay.
This time he felt no fear at all when the flashing lights engulfed him, only the pleasant sensation of going home.
16
Once the sparks had stopped flying, leaving wisps of smoke swirling in the air like feathers after a pillow fight, Andrew was surprise to see Charles, Wells, and his wife huddled by the door exactly as he had left them. He attempted a triumphant smile but only managed a weak grimace due to his light-headedness and his increasingly painful wound. As he prepared to climb down from the machine, the others were able to glimpse with horror his blood-soaked sleeve.
“Good God, Andrew!” shouted his cousin, leaping towards him. “What happened to you?” “It’s nothing, Charles,” replied Andrew, leaning on him to steady himself. “Only a scratch.” Wells took his other arm, and between them, the two men helped him down the attic stairs. Andrew tried to walk on his own, but seeing that they ignored his efforts, meekly allowed himself to be guided into a small sitting room, just as at that moment he would have let himself be carried off by a horde of demons to the depths of hell itself. There was nothing else he could do: the buildup of nervous tension, the loss of blood, and the arduous ride had completely drained all his energy. They sat him down gently on the armchair nearest the hearth, where a roaring fire was blazing. After examining his wound with what looked to Andrew like an annoyed twist of the mouth, Wells ordered his wife to fetch bandages and everything else necessary to stem the bleeding. He all but told her to hurry up before the gushing flow permanently ruined the carpet. Almost at once the fire’s healing warmth calmed his shivering, but it also threatened to send him to sleep. Luckily, it occurred to Charles to give him a glass of brandy, which he even helped raise to his lips. The alcohol took the edge off his giddiness and the crushing fatigue he felt. Jane soon returned and began seeing to his wound with the neat competence of a war nurse. She cut away his jacket sleeve with a pair of scissors, then applied a series of stinging potions and dressings to the knife wound. To finish off she bandaged it tightly, before stepping back to contemplate her handiwork. It was only when the most pressing issue had been resolved that the motley rescue team gathered eagerly around the chair where Andrew lay in a state of semicollapse. They waited for him to recount what had happened. As though he had dreamt it, Andrew remembered the Ripper lying on the ground, and Marie closing his eyes. That could only mean he had succeeded.