The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(128)
“I appreciate your confusion, Mr. Wells, but it is quite simple. As far as I know, time travelers can accidentally activate the button I referred to during moments of extreme tension. This is the usual way most people discover their, er . . . peculiar gift. I assume that while you were asleep on the bed next to me you must have had a disturbing nightmare, which caused you to press that button and travel at least four hours forward in time. That would explain why you appeared in the room while I was glued to the door, giving me the fright of my life because at that moment your future self was downstairs. Then you must have accidentally activated the mechanism once more, this time propelling yourself back into the past, back to the bed where I was still lying unconscious, probably only a few minutes after you had left it. There you went on sleeping, and when you woke up you had no memory of traveling in time, because it had happened while you were asleep, as I said, probably due to tension. Of course, the future time travelers I have come across don’t need to experience tension in order to travel in time: they have perfected their technique and are able to travel at will. The government of the future has set up a training program to help time travelers develop their skill. Unfortunately, you have no one to help you master yours. In fact, you’re the oldest time traveler I’ve ever met. But in the end, of course, that is logical . . .”
The author opened his mouth to blurt out the hundred questions that had formulated in his head, but this meant accepting that what Clayton said was true: that time travelers existed, and he was one of them. And in the first instance this was something he was not prepared to believe.
“I don’t believe you,” he said.
“Very well.” Clayton shrugged, as though what Wells chose to believe was of no consequence to him. “There’s no reason why you should. I’ve done my duty, which was to inform you. Confidentially.”
With this, the inspector left the room and headed back toward the chamber. Wells followed him, on the one hand perturbed by Clayton’s revelation (which had reduced his own confession about the Chamber of Marvels to a mere sensational turn), and on the other annoyed at his arrogant indifference. But suddenly he remembered the bad dream he had had when he dozed off at the farm. When he awoke, Wells had remembered nothing of the dream. His only recollection was Clayton’s voice whispering to him, “Wake up, Mr. Wells, wake up.” But Clayton had not come round until at least four hours later, so how could he have possibly heard Clayton’s voice? Wells remembered the words of Clayton’s superior, Captain Sinclair: “Read this carefully and tell me what conclusions you draw from it, no matter how far-fetched.” Wells sighed; he had to acknowledge that, impossible though it seemed, this could be an explanation, perhaps the only explanation. And what was the other thing Sinclair had told Clayton? “The impossible is sometimes the only solution.” Wells massaged the bridge of his nose, trying to dispel the headache growing behind his eyes. For the love of God, how could he possibly believe such a thing! Especially coming from that crank? He had written The Time Machine and then discovered he was a time traveler? He had written The War of the Worlds only to find himself fleeing from Martians? Would he become invisible next?
Fortunately, these thoughts that threatened to unhinge him subsided as they reached the chamber. There he beheld a scene for which he was unprepared. Had Captain Sinclair been present, Wells might have cited this as a far-fetched possibility. Yet love, too, was a magical sphere in which the impossible could happen. Ensconced in an armchair, a bandage round his wounded shoulder, Murray’s face was tilted toward the girl, who, her eyes gently closed, was perched on another seat waiting for their lips to touch.
Murray sat up abruptly in his chair, cleared his throat, and greeted Wells and Clayton in an irritated manner, trying to hide his embarrassment, while Emma did the same. Was Wells bent on foiling his every attempt to kiss the girl? Was this his way of getting back at Murray, by preserving his bachelorhood, making sure he remained chaste?
Oblivious to the romantic tableau he had just interrupted, the inspector glanced at his watch and announced, “It’s almost dawn. Mr. Wells and I will make our way to Primrose Hill in search of his wife. I think it’s best if we go through Regent’s Park.”
“Ahem . . . there’s no need for you to come with me, Clayton,” Wells said, unused to involving others in his private life.
“Are you joking?” the inspector declared. “God only knows what’s waiting out there. I don’t intend to let you go alone.”
“We’ll all go with you, George,” said Murray, rising to his feet. “Isn’t that so, Emma?”
“Of course, Mr. Wells,” said the girl. “We’ll all help you find your beloved.”
Wells gazed at them in astonishment. Very seldom in his life had he been on the receiving end of such a touching and selfless display of friendship, and it must be said he had not practiced it much himself either. So, was it true that the worst situations brought out the best in people? No, this sentiment couldn’t be genuine, he told himself. If he delved a little deeper, he would discover the real reason why each of them was willing to risk his or her life to accompany him. And there had to be another reason, he reflected, otherwise it made no sense, for it was inconceivable to Wells that someone could be capable of such an unselfish act, above all because he himself could never do so. But what if he was mistaken? What if they truly wanted to help him? Wells considered them one by one. He contemplated the arrogant Inspector Cornelius Clayton, who was willing to protect his makeshift flock with his life. He looked at Emma Harlow, who was confronting the situation with admirable fortitude: her eyes seemed to sparkle with a special intensity, like those dewdrops that sit patiently on leaves, waiting for the sun to make them glisten. Finally he contemplated Gilliam Murray, the Master of Time, the person he despised most in the world, whom a woman’s love had changed so utterly that even that man was now prepared to help him. Or perhaps he was right, he reflected. Perhaps none of them really cared whether he found Jane or not, but was it not wonderful to think they might?