The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(110)

“You’re alive!” Wells exclaimed, once he had recovered from the shock.

“Considering what this hand cost me, the least it can do is to save my life,” the inspector explained, showing Wells the deplorable state of his prosthesis after it had taken a direct hit. The inspector stood up, slowly rubbing his neck, then added, as though to himself, “I must have been knocked unconscious when I hit the floor.”

“I’m glad one of us is capable of stopping a bullet,” Wells remarked.

“Anything is possible in this life, Mr. Wells, as you will soon discover.”

Although the inspector’s pompous reply nettled Wells, he was relieved that Clayton was alive. Not just because the inspector had risked his life for them, or because he no longer needed to decide whether to bury him or take him to London, but also because it meant he was spared the tedious task of having to urge the others to resume their journey.

“What is the situation?” Clayton asked Wells, as if reading his mind, surprised there was only one dead body in the sitting room.

“Er, you might say we handled things rather well, Inspector,” the author told him. “The lame man is upstairs . . . dead, I believe.”

“Good. What about the fellow who shot me?” he inquired.

“Well . . .” The author paused, unsure how to respond to that question. “He’s in the barn milking a cow.”

Clayton looked at him, perplexed.

“I’m quite serious, Inspector, I assure you,” the author replied, irritated. “Murray has taken him prisoner and . . . well, you had better come with me.”

The pair left the house and made their way over to the barn, gazing up at the magnificent spring sky unfurling above them, an unlikely backdrop for a Martian invasion.

“I thought that for those on the side of the law killing was a last resort,” Wells remarked, recalling the redhead’s demise.

“And so it is,” Clayton replied with a somber expression that made it clear he had been forced to use the cleaver.

“I see,” murmured the author, who was beginning to feel at a definite disadvantage for not having killed anyone during the fight.

They arrived at the barn to discover that the milking had been successfully completed. Apparently the man with the apelike face had not been boasting simply to save his skin, and now, his task completed, he stood expectantly, hardly daring to interrupt the millionaire and the girl, who were gorging themselves on the fruits of his labor, to inquire about his fate.

“You’re alive!” Murray and Emma declared as one to the inspector.

“Yes, indeed,” Clayton affirmed unnecessarily, and, after studying the duo with a contented smile, he added, “I’m glad you two are safe, particularly you, Miss Harlow.”

“Miss Harlow is in the best of health,” Murray said coldly, offering him a bowl of milk. “Here, drink some of this. You must be thirsty.”

“Thank you,” the inspector said, raising the bowl to his lips. Passing it on to Wells, he said, to no one in particular, “I suppose I must have fainted at the station.”

“Just so,” Murray confirmed with a smirk. “But as you see, despite being in your custody, we didn’t abandon you there.”

“And thanks to that we are all still alive,” Emma intervened, flashing the millionaire a disapproving look.

Murray shrugged, declining to add another comment. Clayton then went over to where a snarl of ropes lay amid a pile of tools by the door. He plucked one out and, after dismissing the possibility of accomplishing his task alone, held it out to the author.

“Would you mind, Mr. Wells?”

The author took it from him grudgingly and began tying up the prisoner, who meekly offered no resistance.

“Can someone tell me where we are?” Clayton said.

“At an abandoned farmhouse on the Addlestone road,” the prisoner himself politely informed the inspector.

“Good,” said Clayton, and then, holding his hand out to the millionaire, he ventured: “Would you be so kind as to return my gun, Mr. Murray?”

“I don’t see why I should,” the millionaire began to protest.

“Gilliam . . .” Emma cautioned him with the dreamy indulgence of a mother.

“Of course, Inspector,” the millionaire replied, handing the revolver over with a vexed expression.

Once he had it in his hands, Clayton examined the chamber.

“Hmm . . . only one bullet left. I hope we won’t need to shoot anyone else on our way to London, because, if you are all sufficiently rested, I suggest we continue our journey at once.”





XXVI

THE ROAD TO ADDLESTONE GAVE OFF A CERTAIN disquieting calm. There was no sign of any destruction, from which the group deduced that the tripods had not yet organized themselves for their advance on London. It probably would not take them long, but in the meantime it was easy to forget about them, for not only had the sporadic cannon fire ceased, but the air was filled with the smell of fresh hay. And so the passengers might easily have been mistaken for a party of friends enjoying an outing in the country. Except for the fact that instead of a picnic hamper, they had brought along a man bound with rope.

Wells glared sullenly at the fellow whose finger marks were on his neck, sitting opposite him and the inspector. Clayton’s pistol was resting on his lap like some sinister cat, but it offered Wells little reassurance; they all knew the gun contained a single bullet, which for the moment had no name on it. It bothered Wells that the inspector had, as the hours went by, stopped pointing it at the prisoner, even though the man called Mike appeared to have no intention of trying to escape. Why would he, seeing as the carriage was headed for the only place where he might be safe? Better to travel by coach than on foot, he must have thought. And now the oaf was gazing out the window at the scenery, a mournful expression on his face. Perhaps he was ruing what he had been obliged to do during the past few hours, spurred on by the hapless lame man, or perhaps he was simply afraid of impending death. He had told the others that after their failed attempt to seize the millionaire’s carriage, they had succeeded in making off with another, moments before the tripod demolished Woking Station. None of them had glimpsed the machine, but from a nearby rise they had seen the flaming pile of rubble to which within a few minutes it had reduced the station where they had fetched and carried so many suitcases and trunks. This story had been his sole contribution to the conversation, after which he had lapsed into the anguished state of a Romantic martyr that so irked Wells. What was the meaning of such an attitude? Why was this oaf behaving as though his death were a great loss to humanity when he had only been born to make up the numbers, because someone had to perish during invasions to provide excitement? Deep down, it bothered Wells that they were both forced to flee death, that the invaders made no distinction between their enemies and did not notice they were firing indiscriminately at those who had been born to endure life and those who had been born to create it. He closed his eyes, tired of looking at that apelike face with its ridiculously wounded expression.