The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(109)
“The others?” Murray replied absentmindedly, as though he hadn’t a clue what she was talking about, then suddenly he exclaimed: “Damnation, Wells!”
Remembering the precarious situation in which he had left the author, Murray led Emma downstairs, where the girl was startled to find Wells grappling with one of their aggressors on the sitting-room floor. But she could see immediately that, owing to their matched strength and their apparently flagging energy, the fight looked more like a scrap between two boys: the man called Mike was rather clumsily attempting to throttle Wells, who was defending himself as best he could, hitting his opponent haphazardly in the face, twisting his ears, and pulling his hair. What horrified her was the sight of the redhead sprawled on the floor next to them, a cleaver buried in his chest. And beside him, she recognized with alarm Inspector Clayton. She wondered first how he had got there, and then whether he was dead. Judging from his position (which was oddly contorted, his nose squashed against the floor as if he were sniffing the wood), she thought the latter was the most likely answer. He must have received the bullet she had heard fired from upstairs, which had distracted the lame man long enough for her to knee him in the groin.
“I was forced to shoot Roy, George,” Murray confessed, giving Wells a knowing smile. “He was about to stab Miss Harlow with his knife.”
Hearing Murray’s voice, Wells and Mike stopped grappling with each other, and, as though they had been caught doing something shameful, they scrambled to their feet, only to find the millionaire and the girl standing next to them. Wells noticed the torn collar of Emma’s dress.
“Miss Harlow . . . That man . . . ? I mean . . . are you all right?” he asked, blushing slightly.
“Perfectly all right, Mr. Wells,” the girl declared blithely. “In fact, it was unkind of you all not to warn that wretched man about the feisty nature of New York women.”
“Good, I . . . you can’t imagine how glad I am,” said Wells in relief, then turning suddenly to the millionaire, he added, “You’re a complete blackguard, Gilliam! This fellow might have strangled me.” He spat, gesturing toward the man with the apelike face.
“I thought the young lady was more in need of assistance than you, George,” Murray said, grinning contritely.
“Even so, you must confess I was managing quite well before you arrived, Mr. Murray,” Emma declared, smoothing out the creases in her dress.
“Oh, no. Definitely not, Miss Harlow. Whilst I praise your pluck, ahem, I have to confess that when I entered the room, well . . . let us say the situation was such that I was . . . obliged to shoot that rogue in order to defend your honor.”
“Oh, yes, of course,” the girl hurriedly agreed, glancing furtively at the astonished Wells. “Your intervention was absolutely necessary, Mr. Murray. If you hadn’t appeared when you did, I couldn’t have held that brute at bay a moment longer.”
“My dear Miss Harlow, that is something we shall never know. And I don’t mean to imply that you couldn’t have managed without me. If I decided to intervene it was simply because I didn’t think it was appropriate to wait and see . . . ,” Murray replied politely. He glanced out of the corner of his eye at Wells, who was by now contemplating them suspiciously. Then, still wearing the vapid smile of an opium eater, Murray turned to the man called Mike. “But let us not quarrel in front of our guest, Miss Harlow. Whatever will he think of us?”
“I—I . . . ,” the man with the apelike face stammered.
The millionaire smiled at him amiably.
“Well, Mike, I am the one with the pistol now. Interesting the way a weapon confers power, isn’t it? But you know all about that, don’t you?” he added in a friendly tone, weighing the pistol in his hand. “I believe this is a Webley double-action revolver, no less. I daresay that while you were holding it you felt capable of playing with our lives, didn’t you, Mike? You even wanted us to dance for you.”
“Is this necessary, Gilliam?” Wells intervened.
“Don’t you think Mike should at least learn something from all this, George?” the millionaire asked.
Wells gave a sigh.
“Go ahead, carry on playing the tough,” he said.
The millionaire smiled at him good-naturedly, then looked back at the man with the apelike face.
“Well, Mike,” he said, “how shall we amuse ourselves?”
“I don’t know, I—I . . . ,” the other man stammered. “I swear I didn’t want to go after you, it was Roy who forced Joss and me to—”
Murray interrupted suddenly, as though he’d had a flash of inspiration. “Can you milk a cow?”
“Yes . . . ,” Mike replied, bewildered.
“Wonderful, isn’t it, Miss Harlow?” the millionaire declared, apparently unable to contain his joy at having the girl beside him, unharmed. “Let’s go to the barn and find out!”
“What the . . . ?” Wells murmured.
But no one paid him any mind, for Murray, the girl, and the man called Mike were already headed for the barn. Wells shook his head in disbelief. Unsure what to do next, he glanced about the room, contemplating the two bodies on the floor, then gazed toward the top of the stairs leading to the bedroom where the other dead man lay. He tried to absorb everything that had just happened: only moments before, they were about to be killed or roughed up at least by those thugs, hideously mutilated perhaps, although this would have been nothing in comparison to the girl’s fate, and now, here they were, alive and well thanks to the actions of poor Inspector Clayton. Wells congratulated himself on his own crucial intervention and wondered whether they should take the inspector to London or give him a Christian burial there. He sighed deeply: clearly he would have to decide this alone, since Murray was too busy milking cows. Just then, Clayton raised his head, startling the author.