The Map of Time (Trilogía Victoriana #1)(63)

I, on the other hand, see and hear everything whether I want to or not, and it my task to separate the seed from the chaff, to decide which events I consider most important in the tale I have chosen to tell. I must therefore go back to the point at which Charles realizes he has forgotten his hat and returns to the author’s house. You may be wondering what bearing such an insignificant act as the fetching of a hat could possibly have on this story. None whatsoever, I would say, if Charles really had forgotten his hat purely by accident. But things are not always what they seem, and save me the trouble of burdening you with a list of examples which you could easily find by rummaging around a little in your own lives, regardless of whether you live near a cake shop or a have garden full of azaleas. And so let us return to Charles without further ado: “Blast, I’ve forgotten my hat,” said his cousin, after Andrew had clambered into the cab. “I’ll be back in a jiffy, cousin.” Charles strode hurriedly across the tiny front garden and entered the author’s house, looking for the tiny sitting room where they had taken Andrew. There was his hat, calmly waiting for him on a peg on the coat-stand exactly where he had left it. He seized it, smiling, and went out into the passageway, but instead of going back the way he had come, as would appear logical, he turned round and mounted the stairs to the attic. There he found the author and his wife hovering around the time machine in the dim glow of a candle placed on the floor. Charles made his presence known, clearing his throat loudly before declaring triumphantly: “I think everything turned out perfectly. My cousin was completely taken in!” Wells and Jane were collecting the Ruhmkorff coils they had hidden earlier among the shelves of knickknacks. Charles took care to avoid treading on the switch that activated them from the door, setting off the series of deafening electrical charges that had so terrified his cousin. After asking for Wells’s help and telling him about his plan, Charles had been skeptical when the author came up with the idea of using those diabolical coils. He had confessed rather sheepishly to being one of the many spectators who had fled like frightened rabbits from the museum where their inventor, a pale, lanky Croat named Nikola Tesla had introduced to the public his devilish device and the hair-raising blue flashes that caused the air in the room to quiver. However, Wells had assured him that these harmless contraptions would be the least of his worries. Besides, he ought to start getting used to the invention that would revolutionize the world, he had added, before going on to tell him with a tremor of respect in his voice how Tesla had set up a hydroelectric power station at Niagara Falls that had bathed the town of Buffalo in electric light. It was the first step in a project that signaled the end of night on Earth, Wells had affirmed. Evidently, the author considered the Croat a genius, and was eager for him to invent a voice-activated typewriter that would free him from the burden of tapping the keys with his fingers while his imagination raced ahead, at impossible speed. In view of the plan’s success, Charles had to agree in hindsight that Wells had been brilliant: the journey back in time would never have been as believable without the lightning flashes, which in the end had provided the perfect buildup, before the magnesium powder concealed behind the false control panel blinded whoever pulled the lever.

“Magnificently,” Wells rejoiced, getting rid of the coils he was holding and going to greet Charles, “I confess I had my doubts; there were too many things that could have gone wrong.” “True,” admitted Charles, “but we had nothing to lose and much to gain. I already told you that if we succeeded, my cousin might give up the idea of killing himself.” He looked at Wells with genuine admiration, before adding, “And I must say that your theory about parallel universes to explain why the Ripper’s death did not change anything in the present was so convincing even I believed it.” “I’m so glad. But I don’t deserve all the credit. You had the most difficult task of hiring the actors, replacing the bullets with blanks, and most of all getting this thing built,” said Wells, pointing to the time machine.

The two men gazed at it fondly for a few moments.

“Yes, and the end result is truly splendid,” Charles agreed, and then joked: “What a pity it doesn’t work.” After a brief pause, Wells hastened to chortle politely at his joke, emitting a sound from his throat like a walnut being cracked.

“What do you intend doing with it?” Wells asked abruptly, as though wanting to smother as soon as possible the impression of that sickly laugh with which he had dared to show the world he had a sense of humor.

“Nothing, really,” the other man replied. “I’d like you to keep it.” “Me?” “Of course, where better than at your house? Consider it a thank-you present for your invaluable help.” “You needn’t thank me for anything,” protested Wells. “I found the whole thing hugely enjoyable.” Charles smiled to himself: how fortunate that the author had agreed to help him. Also that Gilliam Murray had been willing to join in the charade—which he even helped plan—after seeing how devastated Charles was when he informed him the company did not provide journeys into the past. And the wealthy entrepreneur agreeing to play a role had made everything that much easier. Taking Andrew straight to the author’s house without calling in at Murray’s offices first, in the hope that he would believe Charles’s suspicions about Wells having a time machine, would not have been nearly as convincing.

“I’d like to thank you again from the bottom of my heart,” said Charles, genuinely moved. “And you, too, Jane, for persuading the cab driver to hide down a side street and to tether the horse to the front gate while we pretended to intimidate your husband.” “You’ve nothing to thank me for either, Mr. Winslow, it was a pleasure. Although I’ll never forgive you for having instructed the actor to stab your cousin …” she chided, with the amused smile of someone gently scolding a naughty child.