The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(121)
“As you can see, we’ll be safe here until dawn,” Clayton said, after he had finished lighting the lamps.
“One could even spend one’s holidays here,” Murray quipped, examining the exquisite Louis XIV clock, which, from its wooden mantelpiece, was filling the room with its gentle ticktock.
The inspector chortled smugly.
“I didn’t build the house myself,” he explained. “It was confiscated from its owner, a man I apprehended in one of my most famous cases. The department was kind enough to award it to me for services rendered.”
“Who was the owner?” asked the author, surprised that jobs existed that could be rewarded with this species of villain’s hideaway.
“Oh, I’m afraid that I’m not at liberty to say, Mr. Wells.”
Wells had expected as much and nodded resignedly. Whoever had built the inviting chamber, they could certainly relax there safely, but he doubted he could sleep a wink knowing that Jane might be out there even now running through the streets amid the panic-stricken crowd. However, since for the moment there was nothing he could do for her, it was best if he took this opportunity to rest and have something to eat. Yes, they must recover their strength to confront whatever the day ahead might bring. The girl, for example, was already raiding the pantry, driven on by the forced starvation they had endured since the invasion began. But much to his disappointment, when she came back into the room, she was carrying only a small first-aid kit, apparently containing everything necessary to dress a wound in the millionaire’s shoulder made by the creature’s claw, which Wells had not even noticed. She asked the inspector’s permission to use it.
“Of course, Miss Harlow. Please, make yourselves comfortable,” Clayton replied, motioning to the armchairs. Then he looked at the author and said, “As for you, Mr. Wells, follow me. I want to show you something I think will interest you greatly.”
Wells followed him reluctantly, vexed because not only would he now be forced to conceal a need as pedestrian as hunger from those lofty souls, but because he was going to be obliged to endure another ordeal before he could rest his weary bones in one of those sumptuous armchairs. Clayton led him along a passageway flanked by doors on either side, until they reached a small padlocked iron gate. The inspector began fumbling with the padlock, clutching it in his battered metal hand, but Wells was in no mood to wait until he had succeeded in inserting the tiny key, and so he snatched it from him impatiently and opened the lock himself. Then he stood aside and ushered Clayton in with the theatrical gesture of a hotel porter. Slightly put out, the inspector stepped into the gloomy interior.
Once the two men had finally disappeared, Murray could not help feeling secretly pleased to be alone with the girl in these relaxed surroundings. Emma asked him to sit down on one of the chairs, which he did eagerly. They needed a moment alone together, in a place they did not have to flee from at any second. As he watched her open the kit and lay out bandages, dressings, and scissors on the nearby small table, Murray smiled indulgently, feigning a lordly indifference to the wound on his shoulder.
“You needn’t concern yourself, Emma, really,” he said affably. “I can scarcely feel it.”
“Well, it looks like a nasty wound,” she replied.
“How nasty?” Murray said, alarmed.
Emma grinned.
“Don’t worry, it’s only a scratch,” she assured him. “It won’t kill you.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” the millionaire replied, a mischievous smile on his lips.
“Or, should I say,” Emma corrected, suddenly serious as she began disinfecting the wound, “it won’t kill you a second time.”
The millionaire bit his lower lip and cursed under his breath.
“I suppose I owe you an explanation,” he acknowledged, sorry not to be able to spend this peaceful interlude discussing more intimate matters.
“Yes, that would be nice,” she said with a hint of sadness as she dressed the wound. “Then at least I won’t die with so many unanswered questions.”
“You aren’t going to die, Emma, not if I can help it,” Murray blurted out. “You have my word.”
“Don’t waste time trying to reassure me, Gilliam.” The girl gave a resigned smile. “We don’t have much left.”
“What do you mean, Emma? We have all the time in the world! Good God, I’m the Master of Time!” Murray objected fervently. “Besides, you and I are only just getting to know each other. We have our whole lives ahead of us!”
“Gilliam, the Martians are invading the Earth at this very moment, remember?” she said, amused by his na?veté. “Hasn’t it occurred to you that this might interfere with our plans a little?”
“I suppose it might, yes,” Murray admitted, vexed. “Now of all times, damn it.”
Murray was of course fully aware of the situation they were in. He knew the Martians were invading the planet, and yet it was as if, until this moment, that had not mattered. He was so overjoyed at their blossoming relationship that the Martians seemed like an annoying hindrance he would be able to deal with later. The importance Emma gave to the invasion bothered him. He realized then that if she had accepted his promises of salvation earlier, it was not because she believed in them, but rather because she wanted to please him, and this thought excited and distressed him in equal measure. But in the end he had to admit Emma was right: the invasion had thwarted everyone’s plans, including his, and he knew full well it would be difficult for them to come out of it alive.