The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(113)
“As I told you, George,” the millionaire muttered, recalling with horror the nauseating green pap his governess used to shovel into his mouth as a child, “these are no Germans.”
“No, no they aren’t,” Wells agreed, staring with horror at the body sprawled beside the machine, its sinister appearance striking him as familiar.
“I realize it’s a fascinating sight,” said Clayton, “but if you look up you’ll see something even more startling.”
Wells and Murray raised their heads and witnessed, outlined against the smoke from the blasts, more than a dozen tripods approaching in great strides toward the shattered line of defense.
“My God!” cried Wells. “Murray, get us out of here!”
The millionaire obeyed immediately, seizing the reins and spurring on the horses. Seconds later, the carriage was hurtling toward Sheen, leaving the detachment of soldiers to their fate. On their way through Putney, they heard the roar of cannons start up again, revealing that the tripods had reached the hills. Moments later, the disquieting hiss of the Martian ray fired back. Night was beginning to fall as they crossed Putney Bridge and took the King’s Road toward Scotland Yard. Filled with dread at what they had just seen, they rode in grim silence through the darkened streets of a city that still harbored the na?ve hope of defeating the invaders.
XXVII
ALL LONDON SEEMED TO BE HOLDING ITS breath. In Fulham as in Chelsea the carriage with the ornate “G” had to force its way through clusters of people clogging the streets. Londoners stood on corners, chatting idly or smoking their pipes as they gazed expectantly at the gradually darkening sky. No one wanted to miss any part of the invasion they might glimpse from there. Even those who had followed police instructions and stayed indoors kept leaning out of their windows, waiting for the battle on the outskirts of the city to be over at last so they could resume their lives. From the carriage, the group caught sight of a few solemnly concerned faces, but human nature being unpredictable, they also saw people drinking, singing, or playing cards in taverns, unwilling to let the situation upset their routine. Needless to say, no one there had seen a tripod. The few who had, and had lived to tell the tale, had not yet reached the city. Nor had the news that the invaders were Martians, which meant this flood of people almost certainly had no idea what was attacking the all-powerful British Empire. People had been advised to stay inside the protected area of the city, and to judge by their calm attitude, no one appeared to believe they were in any real danger. Their cocksureness struck Wells as pitiable. But what could he do about it? Tell them about the terrifying destruction his group had witnessed? No, that would only cause panic to spread like wildfire through the restless crowd. They had no choice but to do as Clayton had ordered: head for Scotland Yard, where they would deliver the prisoner and pool their information, fully aware they were only pretending to carry on as usual.
On their way they stopped off in a side street close to where Westminster Cathedral was being built. It was the house of the friends Jane had been visiting the day before, and Wells thanked Clayton for allowing him to look for his wife, slightly uncomfortable because Emma would have to wait to do the same with her relatives, as Southwark was quite far out of their way. He descended from the coach, entered the building, and raced up the stairs to the Garfields’ flat, praying Jane would still be there. But before he could even knock, he found a message addressed to him pinned to the door. Recognizing Jane’s handwriting, Wells tore the note off. In it his wife informed him she was fine, but that they were leaving the house to try to find out what was going on outside the city, as not much information was coming through, and she was worried about him. She also told him she hoped he reached London safely and found her note, and ended by saying that, come what may, she would be waiting for him on Primrose Hill the following morning at dawn. Wells stuffed the note in his pocket and aimed an angry kick at the door, cursing the fact that she had left the house to try to find out whether he was still alive. Where could they have gone? He had no idea where to start looking, and wandering the streets calling her name seemed to him as pointless as it was impractical. He returned to the carriage disgruntled and relayed what was in the message to the others.
“Very well,” said Clayton, “in that case we’ll carry on with our plan until your meeting tomorrow. And don’t worry, Mr. Wells, I’m sure the tripods won’t manage to enter the city before dawn tomorrow. Your wife will be all right.”
Wells nodded. He hoped the inspector was correct, since it was plain that this calm would last only until the tripods succeeded in breaking through the lines of defense. When that happened, no one would be safe. He was about to thank Clayton for his reassurances, but the inspector had already turned away and was watching with interest a group of four or five men who were breaking into a bicycle shop at the end of the street. This was the first disturbance they had witnessed, and doubtless it would not be the last. However, what had attracted Clayton’s attention wasn’t this minor act of looting, but rather the three policemen watching the scene from the opposite corner without intervening. The only one not in uniform was a young inspector, a pale, skinny fellow whom Clayton appeared to recognize. He told the others to wait a moment and approached the trio, intrigued.
“Inspector Garrett?”
The young man swung round and looked at Clayton, surprised. For a few moments he simply gazed at him in silence, as he would a stranger.