The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(126)

“I see,” Wells said, not taking the remark personally.

“But, naturally, we don’t only deal with madmen,” Clayton added. “As I already told you, occasionally we also discover the impossible.”

With these words, Clayton glanced mournfully at a portrait hanging on one of the walls. Wells followed the direction of his gaze and discovered a painting of a beautiful, wealthy-looking lady in a finely carved mahogany frame. The young woman looked down on the world with a mixture of melancholy and pride. Her dark eyes glittered rapaciously, and an inscrutable smile, which Wells thought betrayed a hint of cruelty, played on her lips like a dewdrop on a rose petal.

“Who is she?” he asked.

“Countess Valerie Bompard,” the young man replied, trying unsuccessfully to disguise the catch in his voice as he uttered her name.

“A beautiful woman,” the author commented, unsure whether this was the word best suited to her.

“Yes, Valerie always had that effect on men: she made all who met her believe they were in the presence of the most beautiful woman in the world,” Clayton confirmed, in an oddly faint and weary voice, as though he were sedated.

“Did she die?” Wells asked, noticing that the inspector had referred to her in the past tense.

“I killed her,” Clayton replied in a cheerless voice.

Wells gazed at him in astonishment.

“It was my first case,” the inspector added. “The only one I solved with both my hands.”

Clayton let his gaze wander back to the portrait, as did Wells, vaguely disturbed by the inspector’s words. Had that woman been responsible for his losing his hand? Wells studied her more closely, and again he felt “beautiful” was not the best way to describe her. She was undeniably very striking, and yet her eyes gave off a kind of somber, animal glow that unsettled him. It was as though her pupils contained something greater than she, something elusive. Undoubtedly, thought Wells, if he had met her he would have found it hard to behave naturally in her presence. Much less woo her, he reflected. He had no idea what had gone on between this woman and the policeman, but whatever it was, the event had marked Clayton so deeply he had still not recovered from it, and doubtless never would. Wells toyed briefly with the idea of questioning him about it, because he thought Clayton might expect it. Perhaps he was longing to tell someone what had happened between him and the woman whose portrait he kept hidden in the cellar, especially since the world was about to end, and this was his clumsy way of saying so. However, Wells finally decided against it, because he did not want to risk the inspector humiliating him again by telling him there were things in the world he was not yet ready to know. This thought riled Wells somewhat, and he recalled how in the carriage on the way to Horsell, he had refrained from mentioning to Clayton his visit to the Chamber of Marvels, for fear he might be accused of trespassing. But things had changed so much since that distant morning, and all of a sudden it occurred to him that divulging this information was the perfect antidote to Clayton’s irritating qualms, the only way he could think of that would put them on an equal footing and enable them to conduct a balanced conversation.

“Yes, we live in a world full of mysteries,” he declared, smiling at the portrait, “but, then, you know them all, don’t you, Clayton? You even knew what Martians looked like before we stumbled on one at Scotland Yard, didn’t you?”

Clayton turned from the portrait, and as though emerging from a deep sleep, he gazed at Wells, slightly bewildered.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he said at last, coldly.

“Come now, Inspector, don’t treat me like a fool. I know perfectly well what you open with that little key round your neck.”

“Do you?” the inspector said, taken aback, instinctively touching it.

“Of course,” Wells affirmed, looking straight at him. “I’ve been in there.”

Clayton looked at him in amazement, then gave an amused smile.

“You truly are an intriguing man, Mr. Wells. So, you’ve seen the Martian and his spacecraft.”

“And all the other marvels hidden away from the world,” the author went on bitterly.

“Before you become so enraged that you hurl yourself at me, ruining our little chat, allow me to remind you what I told you the day we met: all that fantasy is in quarantine, so to speak. There’s no sense in announcing these marvels to the world when the majority will undoubtedly turn out to be fraudulent.”

“Really? Well, Inspector, the Martian and his spacecraft seemed real enough to me.”

“In that particular instance,” Clayton began to explain, “the government deemed it too dangerous to reveal to the world—”

“Well, perhaps if they had, this invasion would not have taken us quite so unawares,” Wells interjected.

“I’m not so sure . . . I’ve no idea how you managed to get into the Chamber of Marvels, Wells; what I do know is that you must have done so several days before I went to your house, otherwise you wouldn’t have seen the Martian, because it was stolen two days before the start of the invasion.”

“Stolen?”

“That’s right, Mr. Wells. In fact, the reason I went to your house in the first place was because I thought you might have taken it.”

“For God’s sake, Clayton! What the devil would I want with a dead Martian?”