The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(127)

“Who knows, Mr. Wells. It is my job to suspect everyone.” The inspector grinned. “It also occurred to me that Murray might have stolen it to make it emerge from his cylinder.”

“If he’d known there was a real Martian in the museum basement, you can be sure he would have done so,” Wells could not resist commenting.

“But it’s clear neither of you took it. Still, I’m convinced there is a connection between the theft of the Martian and the invasion. I can’t believe it’s a coincidence.”

“I congratulate you on having reached that conclusion, Inspector. Perhaps if you’d confided in me sooner, I might have helped you to reflect about this, but your infuriating obsession for keeping things to yourself—”

“Apparently I’m not the only one with bad habits, Mr. Wells. If you’d been open with me about your visit to the Chamber of Marvels . . . Let’s not waste time quarreling. There’s a far more pressing matter we need to discuss, and I confess that your having been in there will make it a lot easier for you to comprehend what I’m about to tell you.”

“Another mystery, Inspector?” the author remarked dryly. “Haven’t we had enough for one day?”

“This one concerns you, Mr. Wells. And I suggest you calm down and listen to what I have to say. We’re on the same side now, in case you hadn’t realized it.”

Wells shrugged but remained silent.

“Good,” said the inspector. “You must be wondering, Mr. Wells, why I’m showing you all this, and even revealing aspects of my work to you, which my code of ethics prohibits me from discussing with anyone. And yet I’ve made an exception in your case. Have you any idea why?”

“If we assume it has nothing to do with my irresistible charm,” Wells said sarcastically, “all I can think of is that nothing matters to you now we are about to die.”

The author’s quip elicited a loud guffaw from Clayton.

When he had finished laughing, he said, “I assure you, even that would not induce me to breach the rules. We are only authorized to do so when in the presence of a magical being.”

With this, he fell silent, simply observing Wells, who quickly lost his temper.

“What are you getting at, Inspector?” he exclaimed. “Are you suggesting I’m a vampire? I assure you my sacrum is perfectly normal. Don’t make me undress in order to prove it to you.”

“I need no such proof,” the inspector said, without returning his smile. “I saw your reflection in the mirror in the chamber.”

“Good. Well, what am I, then?”

“You are a time traveler,” Clayton declared solemnly.

Wells looked at him uneasily, then burst out laughing.

“What the devil makes you think that? Is it because I wrote The Time Machine? You’ve been reading too many of my novels, Inspector.”

Clayton gave a chilly smile.

“As I told you, in my work I come across the impossible,” he retorted.

“And have you come across people who travel from the future in machines like the one I invented?” Wells chortled.

“Yes and no,” Clayton said enigmatically. “I’ve come across a few time travelers. Except that they prefer traveling by other means. The machine you described may be quite plausible, but I’m afraid all future scientific attempts to travel in time will fail,” he avowed. “In the future people will travel in time using their minds.”

“Their minds?”

“Yes. And I have had what we might call . . . contact with some of these future time travelers, enough at any rate to discover that in the future the human brain will be found to possess a kind of button, which when pressed, enables movement in any direction along the time spectrum, although, unfortunately, it is not possible to choose a destination.”

The author gazed at him in silent disbelief.

“Naturally, I’ve given you a very simplified explanation,” Clayton added. “But that is what it boils down to.”

“Assuming what you say is true,” Wells said, “what makes you think I can do it?”

“Because I saw you, Mr. Wells,” the young man replied.

“This isn’t funny, Inspector Clayton!” The author was becoming incensed. “I’m getting fed up with—”

The inspector interrupted him. “Do you remember our eventful stay at the farm?”

“Of course,” Wells muttered. “I shan’t forget that in a hurry.”

“Good. As you know, I woke up at a crucial time for all concerned. However, what you don’t know is that while I was up in the bedroom trying to listen in to what was happening below, you materialized asleep on the bed, despite being a captive of the intruders downstairs. That’s to say, you were in two places at once.”

“W-what . . . ?” Wells stammered.

“You can imagine how startled I was,” Clayton explained. “And from the way you tossed and turned on the bed, it was clear you were having a nightmare. It took me several minutes to realize what was happening, that you were traveling in time before my very eyes! I went over to the bed and tried to wake you by calling your name. But at that moment, you disappeared. And then there was only one Wells in the house.”

“I don’t understand,” the author said, shaking his head.