The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(116)

After Murray’s astonishing intervention, thanks to which they found themselves alone once more in the corridor, safe from attack by any hideous creature, the group gradually recovered their composure. Everything had happened incredibly quickly; moments before they had been in mortal danger, and now, suddenly, they were not.

“I’m sorry I had to sacrifice him,” Murray lamented a few seconds later, “but it was his life or ours.”

“Don’t apologize, Mr. Murray,” Emma replied, trying to stop her voice from shaking and to appear as resolute as possible. “If that creature had completed its transformation, it would have killed us all.”

“Quite, Gilliam, you needn’t apologize,” said Wells, still a little pale, although unable to prevent a hint of sarcasm creeping into his voice. “And you needn’t make excuses for him either, Miss Harlow. Not on this occasion.”

They all shuffled over to the open window and found themselves gazing down at an alleyway piled with refuse. The man named Mike lay in a crumpled heap on the ground. Next to him, still attached by its monstrous tongue, the thing was sprawled in a pool of greenish blood.

The group raced downstairs and into the alley where the bizarre creature had fallen. But when they arrived, they found only the body of their former prisoner. All that remained of the creature was a big patch of greenish liquid on the ground.

“Curses! Where the devil is it hiding?” Murray declared, rubbing his shoulder, which had a small scratch, visible through the rent in his jacket.

“I don’t know. The alleyway appears to have no other exit,” Clayton replied, pacing around the group in circles. “But it was here only a moment ago!”

In his irritation, he kicked at the greenish puddle, causing the revolting substance to splatter in all directions. With a martyred look, Wells noticed that some of it had landed on his trousers.

“Do you think it had time to reach the main street?” asked the millionaire.

“It’s possible,” Clayton replied pensively.

“I doubt it,” remarked Wells. “There’s no trace of blood, or whatever it is the creature exudes, leading to the—”

He broke off as Clayton, oblivious to what he was saying, ran toward the street, swinging his head from side to side like a street sweeper’s broom. Suddenly, he stopped in his tracks, then, retracing his steps, he stood dramatically, arms akimbo, tut-tutting mechanically as he eagerly examined the fronts of the buildings facing the alley. Wells gave a sigh. He could not decide which irritated him more: the inspector’s supercilious attitude in moments of calm or the theatrical gestures with which he accompanied his deductions in tense situations.

“Do you think the creature can climb, or . . . fly?” Wells heard him ask.

“If he could fly, he would have done so before hitting the ground, don’t you think?” the author retorted.

“Perhaps the prisoner’s weight made that impossible,” Clayton surmised.

“Surely you aren’t serious?” Wells said scornfully. “That thing must weigh twice as much as—”

“Do be quiet!” cried Emma. Until then, although pale and trembling, the girl had managed to control her nerves, but now she seemed on the point of collapse. Murray gallantly offered her his arm, and the girl leaned on him like a delicate bird. “My God, didn’t you see that . . . thing? Garrett was turning into a . . . Oh, my God, it looked like a . . .” Her voice gave way suddenly, and Murray had to seize her to stop her from falling to the floor.

“Emma . . . ,” he whispered, holding her in both arms. “Emma, look at me. You can’t give in now, do you hear? Not now.”

“But what are we to do, Gilliam? What is that thing?” she said, gasping for breath.

“Calm yourself, Emma,” whispered Murray. “I won’t let anything happen to you, do you see? I swear on my life.”

The young woman looked at him in silence for a few moments. She gulped hard several times before replying in a faint voice.

“But Gilliam . . . How can I believe someone who swears on their life and yet has been dead for two years?” she replied, in an attempt to revive her beleaguered sense of humor.

“Emma . . . ,” Murray breathed, transforming her name into a vault in which the tumult of his feelings could scarcely be contained.

“Ahem . . .” Clayton cleared his throat awkwardly. “Clearly we shall gain nothing if we give way to panic. We must keep our heads and try to look on the bright side,” he suggested. “The fact is we are better informed now. We know the Martians can change into any one of us. And I’m sure knowing that will give us an enormous advantage over them.”

“We also know they aren’t merely out there, trying to invade London,” Wells said. “They’ve already infiltrated and are here among us. And who knows since when,” the author added, and, remembering the cadaver that had been lying in the basement of the Natural History Museum for the last twenty years, he glanced meaningfully at the inspector, who of course did not take the hint.

“Well,” concluded Clayton, “let’s not waste time speculating. We know what the situation is—or at least part of it. We must go to a safe place where we can consider what to do. We need to pool our information and devise a plan.”

“Didn’t you say your department was prepared for this kind of contingency?” the author asked dryly. “I thought you already had a plan.”